Huu stared intently at the gun system blueprints spread across his desk. He was searching for the most strategically inept weapon, the smallest caliber gun system still kicking around in the Commonwealth military’s inventory. His eyes landed on it: the Two Pounder. Officially, the Ordnance QF 2 PDR Mk. IXA. This relic, conceived as an anti-tank gun by Vickers-Armstrongs, had seen service on tanks like the Crusader, Valentine, and Matilda, as well as a motley collection of armored cars and self-propelled platforms. It spat out a 40mm projectile with a maximum range of 1,600 meters, each round weighing roughly a kilogram, while the entire system tipped the scales at over 800 kilograms.
Alt text: A detailed blueprint of the Ordnance QF 2 PDR Mk. IXA gun system, highlighting its simple construction and components, an obsolete anti-tank weapon chosen for its inefficiency.
A staggering 12,000 of these units had been churned out by Britain, their sole manufacturer, only to be deemed outdated almost as soon as they rolled onto the battlefield.
“What an utterly useless weapon,” Huu muttered to himself, a grin spreading beneath his mask. “Perfect.”
Huu had struck gold, discovering an anti-tank system he could plausibly pitch as suitable for the Inner Sphere’s battlefields, yet not so laughably inept – unlike the ridiculous 1-pounder pom-pom – that his true intentions would be immediately obvious. He needed to tread a fine line, appearing just this side of competent while actually engineering a financial sinkhole. If he made it too obvious he was trying to lose money, or worse, defraud someone, he’d face public scrutiny, though thankfully, his sole investor was the System itself, shielding him from legal repercussions. The 2-pdr, teetering on the edge of ‘potentially’ useful yet fundamentally obsolete, was the ideal choice to maintain a veneer of credibility… just long enough to bleed funds effectively and consistently.
The 2-pdr was, in his estimation, sublime in its inadequacy.
The blueprints were remarkably straightforward, and the manufacturing process even more so. It was essentially a solid steel tube, hammer-forged for increased hardness, then bored out and autofrettaged to boost its structural integrity. This autofrettage process, pushing the inner layers beyond their elastic limit while the outer layers remained elastic, created a barrel that was both hard on the inside and resilient on the outside. Add some grooves, slap on a breech block, and the gun was essentially ready to go.
Compared to the intricate, almost mystical construction methods employed in the Inner Sphere for modern weaponry, this was child’s play. Especially given the 2-pdr lacked an autoloader, simplifying things even further. All he needed were a few skilled craftsmen to oversee the entire production line.
And that’s precisely what brought him to Lott’s Revenge, the bustling capital of the planet and home to a significant portion of its billion-strong population.
Within such a vast populace, on a world that once boasted substantial heavy industry, resided a deep well of artisan machinists. These were the remnants of a bygone era, before the easily accessible rare minerals had been depleted and before the devastating Combine/Bandit raids during the Second Succession War had crippled much of the heavy infrastructure. These machinists, headquartered here, were part of the Interstellar Association of Machinists, a powerful union with tendrils across the Lyran Commonwealth. They existed to safeguard the rights of machinists wherever they plied their trade within the Commonwealth. Even the mighty Defiance Industries had to tread carefully in the face of their influence.
Negotiating for master craftsmen was not on his agenda today. Huu was after journeymen and apprentices, perfectly capable of handling the rudimentary work required for his obsolete equipment. The beauty of outdated technology was its accessibility; nearly anyone with basic Lyran metalworking qualifications could manage its production. Modern equipment, in contrast, demanded what could only be described as technological sorcery.
Huu had meticulously crunched the numbers the previous night in his cottage. He needed workers, initial tooling – which he planned to lease from his parents, who had already agreed with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment – and land, which he intended to lease from the Duke, who also happened to be the headmaster of the Blackjack School of Conflict, the Commonwealth’s only privately run mechwarrior academy.
Raw materials were readily available. He required common metals like nickel, chrome, iron, and brass – nothing truly rare, abundant on virtually any planet in a solar system. Constructing the shed to house the manufacturing operation would be straightforward, barely more complex than erecting a large barn.
Alt text: The grand edifice of the Artisan Machinists’ Guild headquarters, showcasing wrought iron artistry and rockcrete construction, a symbol of skilled labor and industrial heritage.
Well, that and hiring the workers. That was the real financial drain in this endeavor.
Standard wages for a middle-class worker or journeyman hovered around 750 kroner a fortnight. Factoring that in, and with his initial budget of 200,000 kroner, hiring a single journeyman would cost 9,000 kroner for six months. Five would eat up 45,000 kroner. Lower-class workers, apprentices, commanded 500 kroner a fortnight, translating to 6,000 kroner for six months, and fifteen apprentices would cost 90,000 kroner. In total, his workforce for six months would drain 135,000 kroner.
That left a mere 65,000 kroner for materials and renting the vintage machinery from his parents’ museum. And then there were transport costs, food, safety measures, site preparation, and a host of other expenses lurking outside the direct labor costs. Quite a substantial undertaking… which would, gloriously, hemorrhage even more money!
It was crucial to maintain an air of legitimacy, to keep everything above board, even as he steered this enterprise towards financial ruin.
Negotiating with the craftsmen, however, required a delicate touch. His ever-present mask wasn’t exactly aiding interpersonal relations, but it was preferable to the constant nasal drip that plagued him, making him sound like a truffle-hunting pig in autumn.
Standing before the main office of the Machinists’ Guild headquarters, a magnificent structure, Huu took a breath. Wrought iron tendrils snaked around the rockcrete building, lending a harsh yet elegant beauty to the robust structure. The metal, heat-treated to display a spectrum of metallic hues, twisted and turned, forming a veritable forest of sculpted iron.
Even the front gate, modern with its glass paneling, couldn’t escape the artisan’s touch. The hand-beaten metal frame proclaimed the skill of those within. Assuming, of course, they weren’t all off-world on lucrative contracts.
Stepping through the front door, Huu was greeted by a receptionist. A burly young man sat behind a desk, clearly performing the ‘muckraker’ role, the first line of defense against unruly clients, a controlled environment for initial interactions. No doubt, these apprentices would look back on this task with fond, if slightly weary, nostalgia in their old age.
But for now, it was Ronaldo.
Huu carefully pushed aside the double doors, artisan-crafted panels of glass and iron. One simply did not disrespect an artisan’s skill or property.
The simple desk, again wrought from worked metal, shimmering with iridescent colors, provided a barrier for the young receptionist. Ronaldo looked up and offered a small wave.
“Huu! Here for the routine maintenance run?” Ronaldo called out, his dark skin appearing dull and lifeless under the office lighting. The receptionist’s life was clearly not his dream vocation. Also, Ronaldo wasn’t who Huu expected to see today. This task usually fell to Ronaldo’s more…assertive (a polite euphemism for rude) cousin.
“Ronaldo! No, I’m here on a private matter. I’ve just come into some cash from an investment… and… uh. Need a little help getting people to handle the work side of things.”
Ronaldo just stared at Huu, his eyes conveying a clear ‘right, go on, I’ve never heard that one before’ expression, albeit without sarcasm. Huu wasn’t known for flights of fancy. Something felt off, but social awareness was not exactly Huu’s forte.
“No, no, seriously. I’ve got a plan to help protect Blackjack from another raid like the one in ’83. See, the parents run a museum for old weapons… why can’t we use the tools they have to make more? Less effective than an autocannon, but there’s a billion people on this world. Enough guns and we can punch right through anyone that comes over!”
Huu was, of course, fabricating the notion that the 2-pdr would be genuinely useful for anything. But he’d gotten a little carried away at the end, a common hazard when he became too enthusiastic, causing words to gush out in an unstoppable torrent. Some had likened it to a sewage pipe. Huu considered it just as effective for conveying vital information as one would be for delivering clean drinking water.
“That sounds like a grand dream, Huu. Never thought I would hear something like that from you, of course. You’ve got some of your mother’s fire in you after all.”
Ah. It turned out Ronaldo wasn’t looking at him with ambivalence, but rather trying to appear engaged as his master entered. Master machinist Erwin Jaxon. The same height as Huu (which wasn’t saying much), Jaxon was a walking mountain of muscle. Not what one typically expected of a machinist. Erwin always maintained that the necessity of manually moving heavy equipment during breakdowns justified the effort he invested in building his physique. The master-apprentice lineage was evident in musculature alone, comparing Erwin and Ronaldo side-by-side.
Erwin’s dark skin glistened with sweat, his flowing locks tied into a man-bun behind his head. The shaved patch atop his head proclaimed him a mechwarrior as well as a machinist. Erwin Jaxon could have been a descendant of the original Black Muslims who settled in the Tamar Pact, escaping racial persecution and cultivating a deep-seated need for military strength and economic self-reliance. Erwin embodied both ideals in a package that could probably dismantle a Locust mech with his bare hands.
Turning, Huu beamed, or at least eye-smiled, given the rigid plastic shell and clip-on filters obscuring his face. All the better to keep plant pollen out of his nostrils.
“Master Jaxon! I was just telling Ronaldo I’ve gathered some kroner together. I’ve got a plan, some cash, and I need some help getting it all together.”
Erwin regarded him with a benevolent gaze, the kind older folks often bestowed upon outspoken, idealistic teenagers… which, in this moment, Huu effectively was.
“Right, Mister Eggers,” Erwin chuckled softly, “it does look like we need to have a talk.”
+_+
Emerging from the machinist headquarters, Huu wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. Clammy, despite the cool interior… but! He had successfully completed phase one of his operation. Engage with the machinists and hire a crew to kickstart the whole endeavor. Well, the second part of phase one, to be precise.
The initial stage was securing a construction crew to erect the shed that would house their rudimentary factory – a basic shed on hastily leveled ground, barely adequate for their purposes, a far cry from the climate-controlled laboratory environments demanded by modern manufacturing.
Leasing the vintage equipment from his parents, enlisting the machinists with the union to negotiate transport and provisions – these were all elements he had factored into his plan from the outset. Which, in a curious twist, simplified the negotiations; their needs conveniently aligned with what he was already prepared to provide. All of it, of course, funded by System funds, System funds he was diligently trying to squander!
Now, the task was sourcing materials, which shouldn’t pose a problem, and arranging storage.
Erwin, ever the pragmatist and former mechwarrior, had inquired about transport. Having assisted various militia units post-combat duty, Erwin understood that the bulk of the Lyran Commonwealth’s military strength lay in infantry and vehicles. Mechs were concentrated in mobile commands, bolstering the militia, but rarely permanently stationed on individual worlds, especially those far from the front lines.
Militia units were the permanent garrisons, and the ban on anything heavier than medium mechs for planetary defense forces left many militias woefully under-equipped. Particularly given the Commonwealth’s production focus on heavy and assault mechs. It was practically self-inflicted at this point, with three medium mech production lines repurposed to churn out heavies sometime in the recent past. So, he was dealing with infantry, and for infantry support, field guns were paramount, but so was their mobility. Asking infantry to manually haul an 800-kilogram gun around was a recipe for disaster.
Thus, Huu pondered transport. The solution he proposed, and Erwin readily accepted, was the Universal Carrier. Why not manufacture Universal Carriers alongside the guns, young Eggers mused to himself. They could transport the 2-pdrs, weighed a mere three tons each, were tracked, and boasted a 91-liter fuel tank for an operational range of 250 kilometers. Worse still, their top speed was a snail-paced 48 kilometers per hour.
In other words, utterly and unequivocally trash by modern standards. Who in their right mind would want a vehicle that topped out at 48 kilometers per hour, offered no overhead protection for the driver and passengers, was tracked – demanding constant maintenance – and whose sole purpose was to ferry soldiers, drag field guns, and little else?
Absolutely, unequivocally nobody. That’s who.
In the modern era, vehicles were multi-functional marvels. Even civilian trucks sported machine guns. Many boasted BAR10 armor, and some even ran on fusion engines. Who needed this specialized, obsolete garbage?
Yet another avenue to hemorrhage funds, Huu thought triumphantly.
As he settled into his car for the drive back to the cottage, eager to continue his plotting, he began to hum softly (once he was clear of the city limits, of course).
~Losing money, I’m gonna be losing money~
The drive was smooth in his Armasteel Docke, a second-hand vehicle his parents had gifted him years ago, the pinnacle of middle-class luxury. Windows down, radio blasting at full volume, Huu felt a surge of exhilarating success course through him.
The Docke could hit 150 kilometers per hour, weighed four tons, and offered a 400-kilometer operational range on a mere 30 liters of fuel. Ha! Who in their right mind would even consider a Universal Carrier when they had a Docke parked in their garage?
He was a genius!
