8am, Narda 17th Watery, 1010ALB
Iron Girder huffed with frustration at the newspaper held in his field, prompting his wife to look up from her breakfast porridge. "What's the matter, darling?"

Iron huffed again and gestured at the paper. "Just listen to this: The War Office has released a statement that, as of late last night, Tall Tale is now under complete Changeling control. Fighting began for the city late on Curda and in spite of fierce resistance, by the next afternoon beachheads were secured on the southern banks of the river Tall by elements of the Heer as a firestorm devastated the city centre. Though the majority of the civilian population of the city was evacuated at the beginning of the moon and the War Office insists that the retreat of army units from the city was performed in good order and that severe losses have been inflicted on Changeling forces in the city, they admit that this has come at the cost of 'a lot of good mares'. Princess Celestia will address the nation on EBC at sunset tonight."

There was a pause, then somewhat stiffly, Iron's wife rose and rounded the small table to rest her neck over his, mostly-red on black. "You can't keep carrying the world's weight on your back dear, one day it'll break."

"I know Quill, but the company needs me." Iron said wearily, this wasn't the first time they had had this conversation.

"She is," Iron agreed, "but you know that's not the problem, love. This isn't the time for a change in the wheelhouse. Besides, what would I do with myself?"

Quill looked conflicted for a moment. "I do worry you're working yourself into an early grave. Could you at least pass some of it off, please?"

Iron hesitated, but ultimately relented. "I'll see what I can do. I really ought to get going though, or I'll be late." He added, rising and giving Darting Quill a farewell nuzzle before heading for the door. "Span! Bring Bessie around, would you?"

It was yet another clear, mildly chilly morning in Buckcastle. Ponies and the occasional Griffon, the latter largely thanks to the growing demand for enchanters across industrial sectors the world over, were stolidly plodding their way to their various places of work with the collective resignation of creatures who know that the weekend is mere hours away and would rather skip the faff in between if given the choice.

Bessie was the only car on the road that morning. Precious few of those workers would ever drive one, except in employ of another. That was why, back when Iron was a young stallion on the up and up, he had taken more than a little pride in being able to own an automobile and had had every intent to make the most of it from behind the levers. Being ferried about seemed such a waste from that perspective, and that was something which had stuck even as Bessie aged with him, such vehicles had begun to gradually seep into the wider middle classes and the statement of exclusivity had faded.

But Iron had been one of the first to experience that thrill and no chauffeur-shaped prestige statement could take that away from him, at least not in the eyes of any with enough sense to have an opinion that mattered.

The gate guard touched her cap as Bessie puttered past and onto the grounds of the industrial heart of Buckcastle; Coltden-Loyal Tractors Ltd. Smoke belched from the chimneys of large brick buildings that loomed over the river Suthende, itself clogged with barges loading and unloading at the factory complex's docks amid the mingling of morning river mist and smog. All across the wide open courtyards, dozens of workers were removing tarps from equipment that had been left out overnight and beginning to move the final finishings of yesterday out to the docks to begin their journey downriver to Mareway.

Before heading to his office and the usual paper-paved slog that entailed, Iron took a few minutes to plod around the compound, speaking with a few supervisors along the way to make sure the morning was spinning up smoothly. A slim majority were veterans of the company's early days working out of a glorified shed in Coltden, back when Iron still had a personal role on the factory floor. Today, they each greeted him with a familiarity born of that long relationship, the confident assurance which can only be brought on by extended normalcy.

Iron's route brought him at last to the main building, best known as Whitehall to everyone working on-site thanks in part to its distinct plaster (not that much of that could be seen under the inevitable filth of industry), but also to the renowned music hall in Canterlot, owing to its hosting of the annual workers' dance.

The factory floor was already clanging, banging, clattering and even blattering with activity as Iron Girder crossed it, heading for the offices. Normally, tractors in various stages of construction would have dotted the place, many destined for shipping overseas to Aquileia, New Mareland or Talouse (of all places) thanks to the growing demand in recent years. That had changed first with the Dotted Line Reforms, which had seen the company take the opportunity to dabble away from its roots, then the outbreak of war, when the army had begun placing orders with anypony who looked even remotely involved in vehicle manufacture. For a while last year, there had hardly been a tractor to be seen in the factory. Since then, the Coltden-Loyal Tankette had retreated to a lesser building, largely abandoned in favour of Stallion Limited's heavier Breezie and Cerberus models, but the factory had remained dominated by work on the tankette's successor.

Up the long flight of stairs at the back of the building, things were quieter. Most of the office staff were still out in the grounds getting their mandatory daily dose of 'down to earth'. There was no point in running a business one did not understand the function of, after all.

Not that such a policy didn't have its drawbacks of course. It could be terribly hard to find an accountant willing to get up to her hocks in engine grease from time to time.

"Good morning, Mr. Girder." Iron's secretary greeted him a couple of seconds after he passed her desk.

"Good morning, Mrs. Files. Did anything come in overnight?" He asked the mare, who had the air of one who had a complicated relationship with time, and not just because it seemed as though she had been born elderly and just gone from there.

The secretary took a moment to respond. "Yes sir, there's a telegram from Slick Deal. It arrived just a few minutes ago, I left it on your desk."

Iron's tail flicked agitatedly as he moved to the door to his office, for that could just as well have been good or bad news. "Thank you, Mrs. Files."

An hour later, most of the managerial staff were gathered in the boardroom. This not being some savage land of the south, a round of tea was forthcoming before things proceeded.

"You're probably wondering why I've moved up next week's meeting." Said Iron once he had sufficiently lubricated his throat. "I'll get straight to the point; this." He held the telegram up in his russet field for all to see. "I'm sure all of you are aware of recent events, in light of which the War Office have put out a requirement for a new cruiser tank to replace the Breezie by the end of the year that can both penetrate the latest Changeling Panzer model and resist a PaK 07 on its frontal armour. We're going to win that contract."

A yellow Earther mare dropped the cigarillo she had been smoking and coughing, hastily stamped it out.

She wasn't alone in her shock, more than a few disbelieving expressions shot back and forth across the table.

"Sir, are you sure that's a wise commitment?" The mare asked after a few seconds. "We're talking about a year not only to design and test a whole new tank, but also to replace the whole fleet. That's just not possible. The Universal Carrier's taken that long just to put into full production, and we based that on the tankette chassis and suspension."

"No, Gear Ratio, it's not. If they actually meant a year." Iron replied. "But you know the bartering buggers up at the War Office. They tell us a year, we say we need two and end up doing it in one and a half."

Another mare spoke up after a moment. "Actually, it doesn't really have to be, does it? Can't we just uparmour a Universal Carrier and mount a cannon on it? We'd be giving up on cargo space for a loader and ammunition, but if it's going to be a tank that's not an issue anyway."

"We can't possibly stick the sort of armour we'd be looking at to resist a 38 cinlesthae cannon on our current chassis Smog, even just on the front." Said Gear Ratio. "The bogies would buckle under the weight or the transmission would collapse, or both, and if we somehow fixed that it'd still drive like a pig. At the very least we'd be looking at an upscaling, which means all our current machining equipment would need changing too unless we want to buy in parts. Not to mention designing a new engine block to actually drive the thing."

"Which would stretch our logistics even more... Hmm." Smog Cloud ruffled her wings. "What about buying a licence from Stallion? With the way the Breezie drives, I'm sure the Heap suspension could take more weight without too many problems."

"We can worry about that later." Iron broke in. "The War Office want initial design blueprints in a fortnight. Do you think we can come up with something in that time?"

"The problem's actually turning that into a working machine in time." Gear qualified. "But with the way the army's been paying us so far, the orders will make up for any overtime we need to pay out to get that done, if it can be done."

"Excellent, I'll deal with the engine problem personally." Said Iron. "Just strap three Kessler engines together for the initial blueprint, it ought to be plausible enough for the time being. I suspect we might end up having to go up to an Equestrian Electric or AEC model though, so bear that in mind when you're laying out the compartment."

Iron shrugged with a smile. "What can I say, my Mark's itching me to do my bit. Now let's get a move on, Changie's not going to wait for us."

When Iron Girder looked back on that day, even only weeks later, it all seemed a flurry of papers and filing cabinets in equal measure. But as with all days, it came to an end and found him back in his office overlooking the factory floor, where the last of the workers were packing up to go home and a couple of cleaners began their shifts. Somepony - one of the cleaners, Iron suspected - had taken to hooking up a radio to the tannoy in the evenings, which was currently blaring an echoy reprise of a rather jolly tune over the main hall. Technically it was a misuse of the system, but it didn't do morale any harm in what must have been an otherwise rather dull job in an unsociable shift, so he wasn't about to get them to stop.

We're going to hang out the washing on the Dieter Line,
Have you any dirty washing, Mother-dear?
We're going to hang out the washing on the Dieter Line,
'Cause the washing day is here!
Whether the weather may be wet or fine,
We'll just trot along without a care.
We're going to-

"I've been trying to catch you in private all day." The young Unicorn mare paused and looked nervously at the blueprint-strewn desk. "You really shouldn't do this. You've been taking on more and more work since the war..."

"It's not just Quill then." Iron sighed. "I know I've been doing too much. But it's what I can do. Thirty years ago, I'd have signed up so fast they thought I teleported to the recruitment office."

"I know, Dad, but you really do need to ease off or you'll have a crash." Rivet replied. "Remember your heart."

"Your mother said as much this morning. That's why I've decided to work on the project personally. In the meantime, I want you to look after the shop. It's a good opportunity for you to try your hoof at the rudder while I'm still around to help if you need it." Iron lit his horn and tugged a draw open on the desk and floated a fat ring binder over. "I've been keeping notes on everything you should need in case anything happened to me. Ongoing deals, licences that look promising to acquire, personnel information, contact details, a few ideas I've had about how to turn the Universal Carrier into the base for a new tractor model once the war's over to save on retooling costs or losses on cancelled orders... That sort of thing."

Rivet looked bot surprised and a little relieved as she took the folder in her field. "Oh, um, thanks. What are you still doing here, by the way? It's half an hour past closing."

"Not working, if that's what you're worried about." Iron said. "I don't want to miss the Princess' announcement, it'd be a toss up if I could get home in time, so I was listening in here in case Bessie breaks down or what have you."

"There's an announcement? When's it due to start?" Rivet asked, setting the folder down and moving to the window so as to hear better.

Iron looked toward the gloaming light filtering through the skylights. "Just a few minutes now." After pause in which he hummed along with the radio, he added; "You really ought to look at getting somepony in to look at the tannoy, I'm sure the distortion is getting worse."

Teething Troubles

by The Great Scribbly One

Chapter One: Gaining Traction