Looks like it is in process.

"Ain't" is tricky. According to Wikipedia, Despite its ubiquity, the actual meaning varies not only geographically, but temporally. In historical writings, the meaning may be different. I use it the way it was used in the land of my youth, but I only use it when trying to make a point. It's not in my daily vocabulary.

Clearly, it can. I don't assert that it's grammatically correct, merely that it's a commonplace vernacular. Besides which, "Hek knows?" isn't a pun.

It's not much of a pun, but it ain't no typo! Just a casual conversation, where Imp was asking "Does Hek know?" With the abbreviated name scheme I've used for this series, there are going to be opportunities for some pretty godawful puns. We'll see if I'm a disciplined-enough writer to avoid them...

I have the tools and the skills.

Molly’s - Chapter 18 Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii We stayed at Ted’s Titans for four days. Elsie and Shock completed the engine tweaks and mounted it in the chassis. They integrated the drivetrain and tuned the suspension, which Ted had (unsurprisingly) customized in interesting ways. Ted and I finished work on the turret. It was meticulous and exacting work; it required the highest degree of precision I’d ever had to work at by far. The weight distribution was so perfect and the bearings so fine that, at least in theory, a person would be able to rotate the turret by hand - i.e. disengage the gears from the traverse motor, put your hands on the barrel, and shove. It was engineering on par with things that get shot into space. When we left, all that remained was to install the pilot's capsule and place the turret. I wanted to see that done, but installing the capsule requires a Tanki-certified inspector to be on site, and Ted’s appointment was still a few weeks distant. I did resolve to watch Ted fight and see how his lovely armor performed. He and I had gotten pretty close, and I really liked the way he looked for engineering solutions to enhance performance. Elsie and Shock left me pretty much to my own devices as we drove to rejoin the caravan. Despite the nice accommodations, we had worked very intensely for four days and were mentally bushed. I watched the landscape scroll past my window in a sort of daze, when out of the blue, Elsie spoke. “So the release valve for those momentum banks, how is that triggered?” “It’s a mechanical release,” I heard myself responding. My brain still wasn’t engaged; it was almost like I was dreaming. “What makes it trip?” she asked. “Basically any angular motion,” I responded. “When the turret starts to move, the release valve trips, and the plunger shoots out, accelerating the turret. It’s really quite simple, and very bulletproof.” She snorted. “Are you sure?” Sigh. Ok, turn the brain back on. I’m supposed to be learning something. “Ok, maybe not literally bulletproof. If one of the devices got hit by shrapnel or something, it would certainly stop working.” “And?” Dammit. I was missing something. This had to be a follow-up to what she’d said the first day we arrived at Ted’s. “Can I have a hint?” I finally asked. “That turret spins pretty easily, doesn’t it?” asked Shock. “It should,” I answered. “I think he’s been working on that design for a couple of years. He claims you could turn it by hand.” “Mmm-hmmm.” they chorused. Which meant I wasn’t getting anything else. Fine. I let my eyes drift out of focus as pastures sped by. Where was there a flaw? The mechanical releases were reliable, and fast. Any movement outside of a very small tolerance would trip them, and help bring the turret up to speed. The incredible balance and bearings meant the turret would traverse easily, and quickly. How was this a problem? It’s not like anything else would be… “Oh,” I said out loud, which started them both laughing. Do you see it? It’s obvious, so obvious that it’s invisible. Any movement of the turret would cause the momentum bank to trip. Any movement. Such as, for example, being shot by an opposing tank. Imagine it, you’ve lined your sights up, are about to squeeze the trigger, the enemy shell hits your hull, and poof! Your gun suddenly twists several centimeters off target! And just as bad, if not worse, what if you try to make a subtle correction? You just want to tap the joystick, nudge the barrel maybe a degree to the left, but those momentum banks kick in, spoiling the whole shot. Oh! What about driving over rough terrain? For that matter, what about making rapid turns? Would that angular momentum be enough to trip the system? “The more I think about this, the worse an idea it seems,” I said, which only made them laugh harder. “I’ll bet you a week’s dirty dishes that we know how Ted loses his next fight,” said Shock, once his laughter had subsided. That’s a bet I’m not silly enough to take.

LOL! Oh, you got me! Well played!

Molly’s - Chapter 17 Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii Ted’s shop was like nothing I had seen before. It was large, the size of Molly’s entire bay section, but all for one tank. It was immaculate. Everything gleamed. Not a speck of dust, not a smear of grease, not a stain on the floor, not a discolored patch of wall. You could have performed surgery in that garage. And the tools! The equipment! The latest, greatest, bestest of everything. He had a plasma cutter mounted on a seven-joint articulated arm with Touring-3 AI! Seven-joint! That machine alone could have sculpted a tank hull from a solid block titanium, and done it in an afternoon. Everything was properly organized; the layout and design of the space was brilliant. Tools that were specialized for like components were grouped, and the arrangement of groups within the shop followed a logical flow. Centered in the bay, suspended from hoists that likely could have lifted a battleship, was his current project. The hull was mid-sized and sleek, floating over a largely-assembled drivetrain. The engine was on its own powered lift, sitting behind the chassis. And, higher up, hovered a turret with an obnoxiously large cannon. It looked to be a Thunder, but the largest I’d ever seen. Ted saw my stare. “The rules place limits on the interior diameter, but those limits are multiples of the actual projectile size. What I’ve done is sacrificed quantity for velocity. Believe it or not, that canon only fires five projectiles per volley. Each projectile is only 30 millimeters in diameter, but they are cased in 90 millimeter sabots. Using the maximum allowed charge of fast-burning propellant, I can get velocities approaching 2,000 meters per second. Nothing’s going to stand up to that!” I began to see what Shock and Elsie were talking about. Here, Ted had taken a gun that was designed to fire many projectiles at once, either hitting several targets, or distributing damage over a wider area on a single target, and converted it into a less-effective sniper weapon. His assertion was true; that gun would likely shred anything it hit, but less effectively than a real sniper gun, such as a Railgun or a Shaft. And certainly an unmodified Thunder would be better at engaging multiple targets. Shock and Elsie went to work on installing the engine and tweaking its performance. Ted asked me to help him with the turret ring. “What I’m working on here,” he explained, “is a kind of momentum bank.” “Momentum bank?” Ted looked at me. “What are the limiting factors on how fast a turret can traverse?” I thought about it for a moment, then started lifting my fingers. “The bearings in the turret ring. The torque of the traverse motor, and its gearing. The mass of the turret. The length of the barrel.” I paused to think, but Ted nodded excitedly. “Exactly! I mean, we could come up with some other minor variables, and we could argue about definitions, but it really boils down to a question of torque versus inertia, right?” I thought about it. “Sure, you could say that. It’s not the only thing you could say, but you could say that.” Ted beamed. “You’re quick! I like you.” He reached out to tussle my hair. Really? I’m fifteen! “If we focus on that relationship, though, we find that we have a love/hate relationship with inertia. Do you see that?” Ok, so Ted was playing teacher. I’m supposed to reach the conclusions he’s offering, or challenge him with my own. Clearly he’s excited by this, so I’ll start there. Thinking aloud, I started with “Inertia is clearly an enemy to getting the turret into motion from a stop. And it’s also an enemy of stopping the turret at a desired point. But while the turret is moving, inertia helps it along.” Ted’s head was bobbing up and down. “And we need two solutions to the problems, yes?” Well, duh! “Right. You need to apply energy to start the motion, and you need to apply brakes to stop it.” “So what,” he was speaking so rapidly now that he could scarcely form the words, “if, instead of braking, we could somehow just store that inertia, and then use it later to help get the turret moving again?” Woah. Would that work? Could that work? “If you could do that,” I began slowly, still thinking on my feet, “the turret would come up to speed more quickly, stop more quickly, and you would have more accurate control over the stopping point.” Can he do this? Ted was vibrating. “And how can we capture inertia?” The literal answer was that we can’t, but that wasn’t really what he was after. We can capture and store energy. Springs do this, and an assembly of springs could be used to do what he suggested, but it would be terribly complex and inefficient. Brakes create heat when they steal momentum, but again, I didn’t see any way to use that heat productively. Engineers have been fighting heat waste since the dawn of engineering. Cars do use brakes to help recharge batteries, but a few extra ergs of electricity weren’t going to change what the motors could do. Oh! What about some form of compression? “Compression?” I asked tentatively, after perhaps two minutes of pondering. “Compression!” He roared, leaping up and down like gravity had gone out of style. “Compression! Yes! Come here!” He ran over to a workbench. On it lay a small apparatus. “This is the unit in 1/10 scale. It’s mounted to the hull, but attaches to the turret ring here. When the turret brakes are engaged, the momentum drives this piston into a fluid reservoir, both damping the rotation and compressing the fluid. This assembly, here, locks the release valve as the turret stops completely. When the turret begins to move again, that valve is sprung, and the captured pressure drives the piston back out, which accelerates the turret’s movement.” It was genius. Genius! A series of simple ideas, artfully integrated. And they attached to the tank in such a way that, even if they failed, they wouldn’t impair the turret’s normal function. “How many...” I began. “Six,” he crowed. “I can fit six of them in this tank. I think it may reduce my traverse times by nearly a full second!” Walking me back to the tank, he showed me where his momentum banks were going to be placed. And as we began to install them, Ted kept pausing to show me the other tiny upgrades he had developed. Ted’s shop actually had a guest suite attached. He brought in travelling mechanics regularly, so had included accomodations for them. It was the first time in a few months that I’d slept in a private room. It was tiny compared to my bedroom at home, but compared to hot bunking in a bus, it was palatial. Each room had its own shower. Luxury! And there was a comfortable kitchen/dining area combination where I met Shock and Elsie the next morning. “Morning!” called Shock from the stove. It smelled like he was cooking his infamous huevos habeñeros. I loved them, but I’d regret it in a few hours. “So, seems like you and Ted got along famously,” commented Elsie from behind her cup of coffee. Elsie had to be approached cautiously in the morning until she was properly caffeinated. “He’s really got a lot of good ideas,” I said. “And this momentum bank he’s built, well, I can’t believe no one’s tried that before.” Elsie snorted. “Hang onto that thought, Tadpole. Hang onto that thought.”

Thanks! I'm trying to hold myself to publishing a story per week. My life's been quite busy for the last 4 weeks, though, and Chapter 16 was the last one I had in reserve. Chapter 17 may have to wait until after Thanksgiving comes and goes. But not wo worry... I have December and January's stories for the newspaper done already!

Molly’s - Chapter 16 Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii I imagine that someone enrolling in the military would have a similar experience. Olaf was a prophet: I did indeed spend the coming year tired and sore (and learning what those words actually meant!). I did earn a few scars, mostly from trying to help out in the kitchen. And what I learned, well, every day was dense. I tried my best to write things down as I learned, or sometime re-learned, them. I also had a lot of unlearning to do. Much like the interval between my 12th and 15th birthdays, I’m going to say “and a year passed.” Except there are a couple of stories I need to tell that are going to be relevant later on. First is the story of Ted, the TOSser. I mentioned before that Olaf booked jobs of all sizes, and would often send small crews away from the caravan to work small jobs. I also mentioned that I was surprised to have been included on one of those side jobs. It happened about three months after we left Molly’s; I found myself sent with Shock and Elsie to Ted’s Titans. Have you heard of the Titans? I never had. “Ted is rich,” explained Elsie. “As in, more-money-than-the-gods rich. He’s the sole heir to a technology fortune, and a brilliant engineer. He’s also the biggest TOSser you’re likely to ever meet.” “Tosser?” I asked. “He favors Technology Over Skill,” said Shock. “T. O. S. TOSser.” Elsie nodded. “Every year since he was a teenager, Ted has built a tank for the Regional Amateur division. Every year, he builds the best tank that money can buy, a tank right on the bleeding edge of legal. Every possible micro-upgrade, every possible technological edge. And more often than not, he wins his region. He’s won 14 times in the last 20 years.” I whistled, then thought a second. “Wait, he’s fought in the same amateur division for 20 years? How is that possible?” Shock laughed. “Because he gets promoted to the Talented Amateur division, and promptly gets poned by someone who can actually pilot a tank!” Elsie nodded. “Yep. Having the best tank when you’re up against people who are as bad as you are means you tend to win. Having the best tank in an arena where you are the worst driver means you get your ass handed to you, time and time again.” Shock found this absolutely hilarious, and threw himself back in his chair, laughing like a lunatic. Elsie merely smiled and shook her head. “The amount of money he’s spent on tanks over the last 20 years is probably more than the gross national product of many small nations. And each year, he makes design changes based on how he lost the previous year. But the one thing he’s never bothered to do is learn how to fight.” I thought this over for a while. True, I had a notebook full of ideas, sketches, and fragments that I thought could be used to give a tank an edge. A couple of them I was pretty proud of. But it never would have occurred to me that a skilled pilot would be optional. “So why did Olaf send me with you on this job?” Shock and Elsie looked at each other and shared a meaningful grin. Dammit! I wasn’t going to get anything more out of them on the subject. I just hated when they did that!

Cro waved cheerily at Hek. “Nice to see you. Thanks for dropping by!” Hek approached cautiously, squatting on the roots of the nearest tree. “Are you ok?” Cro shrugged, causing the mire around him to undulate. “I’m not sinking. Pretty sure I have several ribs bruised, maybe even fractured. It hurts a little to breathe. How about you?” He watched as Hek shifted around to sit on a root. Her right thigh sported a pressure bandage; she was favoring it pretty noticeably. She followed his gaze and nodded. “The leg is bad, but no arterial bleeding. Got caught on something when I bailed out. I put the bandage on, but haven’t had a chance to clean it or really take a look. Silly question: can you get out?” Cro patted his backpack, lying flat on the bog just in front of him. “I think I could probably get out by using that as a platform, but I’m pretty sure I’ll bury it in the process. I’m much less sanguine about being able to retrieve it afterwards. I heard from both you and Imp, so waiting here seemed the smart choice.” “Imp responded? I didn’t see that.” Hek was surveying the area. “Yes. I’ll need to send another pulse in a bit.” “Your thoughts on how I should get you out?” Cro nodded. “If you could make some form of mat, using limbs and fronds, then toss that out to me, I could use it to work myself free. If you have some any rope, you could toss an end over, and I can tie it to my backpack. You can pull that to safety while I get my legs out, then I should be able to roll across the surface to solid ground.” Hek looked up to where Cro’s ‘chute dangled. “You came in through a clearing. Doesn’t look like you broke any handy branches on the way down.” He chuckled. “Yeah, I aimed for the clearing. It didn’t really occur to me to wonder why there was a clearing, though. I wish I’d had that thought before I jumped down!” “Hindsight is 20/20,” grunted Hek as she stood. “I’ll be back.” She headed back into the jungle, pausing to twist back. “Hey, since you can see sky, can you get a GPS fix?” He nodded. “The accuracy isn’t great; there are only a couple of satellites in view, but I can tell you where in the middle of nowhere we are, give or take a hundred meters.” “Great,” said Hek. “Between that and my fix before penetrating the canopy, we ought to be able to get a good bearing on the transport.” She limped off into the jungle. Cro relaxed and waited, as he’d been doing for the last couple of hours. It turns out that being trapped in thick mud was actually fairly comfortable. It gripped and supported every inch of his submerged frame. So long as he didn’t move, it seemed happy to hold him. A tiny experiment with struggling had assured him that sinking deeper was still an option, so he relaxed instead, concentrating on regulating his breathing and keeping as still as possible. Time passed. His NetHand beeped, reminding him that another hour had elapsed, so he triggered an emergency pulse to help guide Imp. Being immobilized may not have been uncomfortable, but it surely was boring. Cro contemplated resting his head and arms on his backpack for a little nap, but this really didn’t seem like a good time for a snooze. He instead mentally replayed the last few moments before the transport incident, looking for a clue as to what happened. They had been in the crew area, just aft of the cockpit. Veteran soldiers all, Cro assumed that most had been asleep. He knew he had been. The warning claxon yanked him awake; the air was quickly filling with fumes from burning electronics. The transport shuddered violently, then the red lights signalling bailout strobed. Cro’s training had kicked in, and he had made straight for the nearest exit. Another violent movement by the transport had thrown him against a metal support; that was where his ribs had been injured. His next clear memory was free falling, the wind filling his ears and beating his face. The ground was far below, but getting closer in a hurry. Mac was right beside him, one hand gripping Cro’s harness, keeping him from tumbling. He must have blacked out and Mac had pulled him from the quad. He gave Mac a thumbs-up; Mac returned the gesture and released him. Talking during free fall wasn’t really possible; the noise from the wind was too intense. Cro signalled he was ready to pop his parachute. Mac gave another thumbs-up. Cro pulled the cord, and nearly passed out from the pain when his harness pulled tight against his side. When his vision cleared, he saw Mac plummeting below him, Mac’s pilot ‘chute trailing but failing to deploy the main canopy. Cro counted the seconds, per his training. At eight hippopotamus, he saw Mac’s emergency ‘chute deploy. Good. He had tried to follow Mac down, but with the smaller emergency ‘chute, Mac descended much more quickly, while Cro’s larger canopy was more susceptible to the directions of the wind. He’d taken some pretty good measurements with his NetHand, though, and knew that Mac was about two kilometers to the west. The fact that Mac hadn’t responded to any of the emergency radio traffic was worrisome; he should have been in range. “So you decided on a spa treatment?” Imp’s voice startled Cro out of his reverie. “Son of a,” exclaimed Cro. “You are one sneaky….” “Who else has been here?” “How did you… nevermind.” Cro had long since given up on understanding how Imp knew things. He was almost on the opposite side of the mire from where Hek had appeared, but apparently Imp saw enough to tell him that there had been another arrival. “Hek was here. She’s off in the jungle, looking for materials to rescue me. She’s been gone a little over an hour.” Imp sat down on an exposed root. “I’ll wait here and see what she comes back with. I passed some bamboo on the way if she doesn’t find anything else suitable. Who else have we heard from?” “No one yet. I’m worried about Mac. His primary didn’t deploy, so he rode the emergency ‘chute down. He landed about two clicks west of here, but he hasn’t responded to any of the emergency radio signals.” Imp frowned. “That is worrisome. Hek know?” Cro shook his head. “Didn’t come up. She was only here a minute before heading out. Her leg is wounded, by the way.” Imp nodded. “Ok.” Taking out his NetHand, he toggled the radio. “Imp calling Hek. Imp calling Hek. I’m here with Cro. What’s your status? Over.” “What are you doing?” exclaimed Cro. “We were sabotaged,” said Imp. “Whoever did it was on the transport, not hiding down here in the jungle. We don’t need to worry about being detected.” “Sabotaged?” Imp look at Cro, genuine puzzlement on his face. “You didn’t hear it? The ping of the stator locks engaging?” It was Cro’s turn to look puzzled. “What is a stator lock?” “A safety device used when performing maintenance on the engines. It locks the rotor to the stator, preventing the turbine from spinning.” He leaned forward, looking intently at Cro. “They make a very distinctive sound!” “And that means sabotage?” Imp nodded. “Most likely. To engage the maintenance system while the engines are in operation, you would have to hack the transport’s OS. While that may be possible from an external source, you would need a very powerful targeted RF beam and precision knowledge of the operating system and command structure. You would be hacking blind. No, it’s much more likely the hacker was on board.” While Cro contemplated this, Imp looked at the radio. “She’s not going to answer, is she?” “Hek, violate protocol? Not in this life.” Imp looked thoughtfully at the jungle. “You think she’s circled back to surveil us?” “Depends on how far out she was. I’m sure she’s on the way.” “Oh, she’s close,” said Hek, stepping out of the jungle directly behind Imp, who leapt to his feet, startled. Cro let out a whoop of laughter, then cringed as his ribs throbbed. “Looks like you’re not the only jungle ninja,” he groaned. Working together, Hek and Imp were able to strip several limbs, making serviceable poles. These they tossed to Cro, who laid them in overlapping triangles around himself. Once several layers of these poles were in place, he had a surface on which to push and begin the slow, painful process of prying himself free. Hek and Imp conversed, deciding on the best course of action. It was clear that Cro would need a couple of hours to get free, and that daylight would be in short supply by then. Mac’s situation was definitely a priority, but so was staying together. After several rounds of back-and-forth, Imp left to look for Mac while Hek stayed with Cro. As Cro continued his slow struggle, Hek began gathering more wood for a fire. The ground was quite wet, but she found a spot where the roots from several trees entangled to form a plateau of sorts. It seemed likely they would be overnighting here; a fire would bring at least the illusion of comfort. A little over an hour after he left, Imp checked in. The contact was worrisome, but not overtly alarming. He hadn’t found Mac, and was having difficulty proceeding. Hek pushed her concern to the back of her mind. Of the entire team, Imp was the best in the woods. He’d be fine. She needed to focus on herself and Cro. Cro finally crawled to solid land while the sun was still in the sky, but clearly on its way down. Hek used handfuls of leaves to help him scrape away a few layers of caked-on mud, then they took off most of his clothes and his boots, placing them on sticks near the fire to dry. Hek gently wrapped his ribs with an elastic bandage. “Do you want me to look at your leg?” Cro asked. Hek nodded. The bleeding had slowed quite a bit, but still oozed plenty once the compression bandage was removed. “This looks fairly clean,” commented Cro. “It happened on the quad, and I bandaged it while I was hanging in a tree,” responded Hek. “It didn’t have a lot of time to get dirty.” Cro pulled the auto-suture from his medkit. “I’m thinking about eight stitches. You?” Hek nodded. “Painkiller?” Hek shook her head. “I think I want my wits more than my comfort.” After washing his hands in a stingy splash of canteen water, Cro cleaned Hek’s wound with alcohol then wiped it with a sterile gauze, pretending not to notice the grimaces of pain on Hek’s face. The eight sutures clearly weren’t an enjoyable experience either. By the time he placed a new pressure bandage on her thigh, Cro was worried she may pass out. “It’s lumpy as hell,” he said, gesturing at the root-laced ground. “Still, I think you should lie down. I’ll keep watch until Imp comes back.” Cro spread a thin mylar emergency blanket on the ground to insulate against the moisture. Hek barely fidgeted before closing her eyes. Seconds later, her breathing slowed and deepened. Cro watched for a moment, then carefully reached to slip her NetHand from its pocket. Sitting down on a root, he pulled out his own, and began consolidating data. Hek didn’t have any imaging of the quad’s actual crash site; it had still been airbourne when she landed, albeit not by much. But its smoke trail was straight, and the rate of descent had looked pretty constant. He best estimate put the crash site a good 50 km east of them. Blazing a trail through the jungle was a difficult endeavor, and very slow. Both he and Hek were wounded, which would further reduce their rate of travel. And since Mac hadn’t responded but was nearby, Cro felt safe in assuming he would be more likely to be listed as a “burden” than an “asset.” So, pessimistically, assume an average sustained speed of one km/h. Hope for ten hours a day of actual travel. That would be five days before they had covered enough ground to begin searching for the transport. Plus whatever time they spent searching for Mac before they left. Plus any encounters they may have along the way. The standard supplies in their backpacks only had three days’ worth of full rations. They could maybe stretch that to five days, but traversing a jungle was hard work; they would need the calories and nutrition. Which meant scavenging. Which took time. So, add a day. Six days to reach ground zero for their search pattern. Plus the day they had already lost, so seven. And they hadn’t actually found Mac. Make it eight. Then, once there, how long to find the quad? There was no way to know. It was a large thing, and would have made quite a mess crashing down through the canopy. Maybe even started a fire. But it could still take them days to find it; more, since they were starting with spotty data at best, and would have to rely mostly on compass bearings instead of GPS for the trip. And still more, since at the moment, only Imp would really be doing much searching once they got there. So, call it another seven days. Two weeks from now, if all went according to plan, they would find the wreckage of the transport. And then what?

Molly’s - Chapter 15 Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii I spent most of the next six weeks not at Molly’s, which seems wrong. I met repeatedly with different teachers at the school as they scrambled to lay out a program of remote classes for the coming year. I hadn’t realized how much extra effort it would be on their parts, but they all seemed happy to do it. I tried to spend some extra time with my friends. That was actually kinda weird. I mean, we’d see each other at school all the time, and we’d hang out between classes, and we’d play on the network, and every once in awhile, we’d do something together. Maybe a movie, someone’s birthday, a camping trip. All that was normal. Trying to make opportunities to, I dunno, to store up companionship? Yeah, that got weird. Mom became obsessed with my packing. Olaf allocated me a truck with one-half cubic meter of storage, not to exceed 50 kilos. Mom set up a mock storage locker, made from old cardboard boxes, and began trying to exploit every cubic centimeter by using “storage solutions” from the local mall. Dad limited his contribution to buying me a top-of-the-line NetBook. “Whatever excuses you may have,” he told me, “you won’t be able to say your computer wasn’t good enough.” He also got me a credit card in my name. How cool is that? The last week, I stopped going to school and started living with Olaf’s crew. I still didn’t do much work for Molly’s; I was in deep training about how to live as part of a caravan. The inventory system, the schedules, getting used to a complete lack of privacy, the reality of sharing a bunk with other people… that one, especially, threw me. I had second thoughts. Lots and lots of second thoughts. But I was more stubborn than I was scared; having decided to go through with this, I was going to go through with this! The day was cut into four shifts of six hours each. I was assigned one sleep shift, two work shifts, and had two hours between each for eating, studying, napping, whatever I liked. Everyone had the same structure; each person’s day just started at a different time. When I came to bed, I had to kick Marc awake and wait for him to strip the bed. When my alarm went off, I knew I had five minutes to get up and out of the way before Jaxom would be there, ready to lie down. I had thought that Mom and Dad had been cruel getting me up in the mornings; the first day I overslept, Jaxom simply scooped me out of the bed and put me on the floor of the bus! I learned how to run the inventory system for the tools, how to check things in and out, and where everything was stored. I learned how to read the schedules, which is nowhere near as easy as it sounds. The locations, the job assignments, the estimated hours… I’d assumed that Olaf showed up and Molly just pointed at things to do. No, she had an ongoing list, which she updated daily. They’d been planning this visit’s jobs since last year! And I learned that six hours of personal time a day, when that includes eating and hygiene, is precious little time. It was simply impossible to think I would keep up with all of my studies. I could binge when we were on the road, but realistically, I was going to fall behind. Far behind. Realizing this, I decided to focus on my STEM classes. Literature, art, and the humanities would still be waiting for me when I got home. Olaf’s schedule for the coming year had 18 different locations for the main caravan. There were dozens of side jobs that only needed a small crew; I was surprised to see that I was assigned to one of those. There was one four-day window labeled “Festival;” there was a day off for New Year’s, one for Christmas, and one for Unification Day. Aside from that, every single day was either scheduled for work or travel. The crew could take sabbaticals. Depending on their seniority, each person could take several weeks off. Those tended to be scheduled when the caravan was working smaller yards. I, of course, wasn’t eligible. Looking at the schedule, I would be 1,000 kilometers away for Christmas; about the same for New Year’s; and almost 1,500 for my next birthday. We hadn’t even left yet, and already I wanted to cry!

Rats! I missed a real opportunity there!

Woah..... I am motivated to read more. So, write it! [edit] Please? [/edit]

I see what you did there!

I do have a Halloween story in the same edition. Is this something like what you wanted? http://en.tankiforum.com/index.php?showtopic=377344

Nope. That would be bad form.

;)

Molly’s - Chapter 14 Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii And so it went, for three years. During the school year, I spent weekends and holidays at Molly’s. During the summer, I was either in a scholastic program or at Molly’s. Once a year, Olaf would show up, and they would be around for six to eight weeks, depending on how many people were with him and what Molly had lined up. I suppose it’s cheating, in a way, to say “and three years passed” as if there were no notable stories. Of course there were notable stories! I could tell you about the time that we received a tank which still had a live incendiary round jammed in the loading mechanism.We ended up losing a perfectly good cannon after being forced to detonate it in place. I could tell you about the time I was taking a summer calculus class. We were presented with a formula that described a curve. We were to take a segment of that curve and rotate it about a set of coordinates, using the math to describe the resulting solid. I was looking at those equations, and suddenly realized it was a perfect shape for a turret. For someone facing a splatter-effect weapon, it would deflect most of the incoming energy regardless of the direction it came from. You can bet that went into my notebook of good tank ideas! It’s also a shame to skip over the various relationships that grew over those years. Twee and I, in particular, bonded. Nancy never warmed up to me. Molly, Maurine, Gran, Conrad, Glorinda, Matt; with a cast like that, you know there were dramas. Heartfelt moments. Sorrows. Spats. Laughter. Oh! The first time I got to drive a tank! It was highly unusual for Molly’s to receive a tank that was operational. The first time it happened, Molly had us leave the drive train intact for a few weeks. This was significant because the turret was smashed and much of the hull was messed up as well, so the only notable salvage was the drive train. She used the crane to set up an obstacle course of sorts, and each person was allowed half an hour per day to “practice.” Heck, I could probably come up with ten good stories just from that month! And there was my secret crush. Somehow, despite having so much to keep me occupied, I accidentally fell in love with someone who never knew I existed. Then there was the bottomless heartache when I finally gathered the courage to talk to her, only to learn that I “wasn’t her type.” As if gender were really that important. With three years of living, of course there were stories, but I don’t want to get too bogged down in the day-to-day. I mean, really, it all comes down to “there are circumstances, Tadpole either adapts or fails to adapt, and life moves on.” But, despite those three years being amazing and awful and fulfilling and frustrating and rewarding and disappointing, they really paled in comparison to what happened next. I turned 15. Do you feel cheated? Was that an anti-climax? Of course I turned 15. Everyone turns 15. It’s a pretty common event for most people. And, honestly, it was a pretty common event for me, for a while. I mean, there was a party. There were presents. I got my favorite meal. Maurine started me on welding lessons. And life went on for a couple of months. Then Olaf came into town. The first Saturday, my parents drove me out to Molly’s. I’d lost most of my dread about that; they did it every so often, usually when there was something a little special going on. Olaf coming to town certainly qualified as “special” in my book! I ran into the garage as soon as the car stopped, hugging my once-a-year friends. There were laughs and greetings and back-slapping and such. I made the rounds quickly, knowing they all had work to do, and wanting to make myself useful as soon as possible, but I couldn’t find Olaf. He was usually in the middle of everything, but today, he was nowhere to be seen. I wandered into the showroom. There, Olaf and Molly were talking with my parents. “Tadpole! Come on over,” he called. “We’re talking about you.” Oh, crap. The dread came rushing back. He saw my face and laughed. “Honestly, Tadpole, you have got to stop assuming the worst. Trust me, when the worst finally does happen, it isn’t going to start with a friendly meeting.” My mom put her hands on my shoulders and turned me to face her. “Honey,” (Oh gods! Don’t call me that here!) “Olaf and Molly tell us that you really have an aptitude for this work. And we know how much you like it. So we’ve decided to let him make you an offer.” Was she crying? “Tadpole,” said Olaf, “you’re 15 now. You can, with your parents’ permission, withdraw from school to pursue other routes of education, such as an apprenticeship.” He stopped speaking and watched me. I waited a moment for him to continue, then realized what he’d just said. My mouth fell open. I closed it. It fell open again. I closed it again. It fell open a third time. Fine. Leaving my mouth hanging open, I turned to look at Molly, who was also watching me intently, smiling. I turned to my parents. Mom was clearly crying now, holding close to Dad, who was beaming at me. Beaming! I completed the circle to look at Olaf again. “Hnmabuwa….” I said. He nodded. “Yes, it would mean traveling with us until we return here, for a year. It would mean you would need to continue your classes remotely. It will probably mean you’ll be delayed a year in graduating, but it will also mean you’ll be eligible to apply for a Journeyman’s slot with the mechanics guild when you return. Assuming you do well, of course.” “Imanumanuma?” I asked. “Don’t expect it to be easy,” he cautioned. “You’ve seen how we work. The days are long and the work is hard. If we’re not working, we’re on the road to the next job. It’s brutal, and not everywhere we visit is as much fun as Molly’s. You’re going to spend the year tired, and sore, and probably earn a few scars. But I guarantee, if you stick it out, it will be the most effective learning experience of your young life.” I looked at Molly. “Budwhadabowd?” “We’ll be fine, Tadpole. And your locker will still be here when you return, I promise.” “Mom? Dad? Whadamigaschool?” “We’ve already spoken to your teachers and to the principal. They all support this, if you want to go. Your maths teachers, in particular, are keen that you continue your classes online, Professor Highlins in particular.” “You don’t need to answer us today,” said Olaf, gently spinning me around with his huge hand. “We’re here for seven weeks. If you decide to come, just have a bag packed by then. If not, we’ll see you in another year.” He smiled at me, then turned and headed into the garage. Molly patted me on the head then followed him out. “Honey? What do you think?” Mom put her hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I know it’s a lot to…” “Yes!” Finally I found my tongue. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” I was jumping up and down to punctuate each word. “YES!” Me, an actual apprentice! Can you imagine it?

So glad these little tie-ins get noticed!

Molly’s - Chapter 13 Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii Molly had grown up playing in, and helping out around, Molly’s. Her own parents had owned it; her mother had been chief mechanic, and her father ran the business side. They had inherited it from her parents, and so on up the line for five generations! Or is it six? I get confused. Anyway, Molly can trace her ancestry back to the Peace Broker herself! Seriously, Nienna Muñoz is Molly’s great-great-great-great (I think that’s the right number of greats) grandmother. Muñoz’s third child, Georgina, founded the business after retiring from a very successful career doing reparation work for what was then the Federated States. She named the business after her first-born, Molly. Molly, my Molly, is only the second Molly to own Molly’s. There have been several other Mollys in her family tree, to be sure! Apparently it’s a family name, only slightly less popular than those of the Great Loyalists. I’m sure there’s a story to be told about how the name Molly became included, but so far, it’s not a story that anyone has shared with me. Great-great-great grandmother Georgina founded Molly’s as a way to continue reparations after the Last War. Most of the materials she trafficked in were either military hardware or construction debris. There were lots of both lying around at the time. As this was pre-Tanki, most of her clients were either government or municipal; there wasn’t any market for private armor, and not too many individuals needed recycled steel or bulk rubble. Molly (the first of her name) oversaw a transition to include archaic vehicles. She had the good fortune to be in charge as the world abandoned fossil fuels en masse. She was farsighted enough to realize that a future market was bound to exist, for collectors and special applications, and leveraged (whatever that means) all her money to gather gas-powered cars, trucks, tractors, airplanes, and whatevers; all that she could afford. Great-grandmother Nancy apparently almost lost the business. Molly’s investment in internal combustion never paid off like she anticipated (which explains the mountains of cars on the property today!) Were it not for the first annual Unification Games, and the initial trials of armored re-enactment games, likely Molly’s would have failed. Suddenly, there was a blossoming market for archaic armor, something G^3 Georgina had stockpiled a lot of. The Unification Games were the start. Suddenly, everybody had a national history to celebrate, or an axe to grind, or a point to prove. Armored leagues exploded (see what I did there?) across the continent and the world. Molly’s was a unique place then; there were very few places where old armor was sitting around waiting to be remade. As great-grandmother Nancy handed the business over to grandfather Fred (the only male owner), business took an all-new direction. I wonder if Fred blew it. I mean, with this new sport growing so rapidly, and Molly’s being one of the only places to supply the demand, why isn’t Molly’s the biggest? Why is it that everyone who follows Tanki knows the name Performance Armour, a company that’s barely forty years old, but nobody knows Molly’s, who was there at the beginning? That’s another thing I mean to follow-up on, the next time my Molly is in a talkative mood. Which is about never. Anyway, during grandfather Fred’s watch, Molly’s became about what it is today. The various armored leagues expanded, collapsed, merged, split, evolved, devolved, and shifted about until Tanki won out as The League, at least in this part of the world. Fred’s daughter Nancy was actually a Tanki competitor, a famous duelist. The two tanks parked outside, the ones in operating shape, are from earlier in her career when she participated in team sports. Once she got accepted to the unlimited solo events, she built her own tank right here. Remember when I stuck that black pin in the map on my bedroom wall? It had been a reference to her tank that brought me to Molly’s! She did pretty well throughout her Tanki career. She survived three seasons of duels before having her tank destroyed; after that, she retired from Tanki and focused on Molly’s. When her first (and only) daughter was born, she named her Molly, and weaned her on axle grease and bore solvent (Ok, I heard Olaf say that once. I didn’t make it up). There are pictures of Nancy’s tank all over the warehouse. They even have the original plans. Nancy made some pretty bold choices in its design. The chassis was far wider than it needed to be for its weight, but she took advantage of that extra volume to lower the overall profile. It was short and fat, which is to say, it was pretty stable. She engineered a custom recoil system that allowed her to mount a Shaft in a low-profile turret, then she offset the turret towards the front left corner of the tank. She used an offset engine mount to counterbalance the load and put in ridiculously heavy-duty suspension. In an arena with cover, she could blaze away with that canon while presenting less than 15% of her tank as a target! While it may have been hard to hit from the ground, it was a pretty tempting target for attack from above. When she got taken down, it was by a skilled pilot with a Magnum, lobbing hundred-kilo high-explosives onto her fat tank’s top. It took them nearly a day to cut her pilot’s capsule free from what was left. To hear her tell it, the worst part of the whole ordeal was that she ended up peeing herself while waiting to be rescued. Yes, Nancy is still alive, and is probably the toughest person I’ve ever met. She visits once a month on Wednesdays (We don’t get much work done on those days). She still has some pretty radical ideas about tank design! I could listen to her talk for hours! Ok, actually, I do listen to her talk for hours. I’m collecting ideas for when I design my first tank. Anyway, that’s Molly’s. It started as a reclamation facility (junkyard) in the middle of nowhere. As the world changed around it and a town grew to swallow it, Molly’s evolved. Molly, my Molly, has no children. I wonder what the next stage of evolution will be?

Nailed it!

I mean that parkour is an art of vectors. The name you've chosen here, and the subject matter itself, are intrinsically entangled. 11 inherent metaphoric parallels already there.

That was quite a necro!