Another One Into the Frying Pan (PA/multicross SI)
- Thread starter Ramble
- Start date
thirty eight
- Location
- America
So apparently while just after I left, Max got himself into a little scuffle with the boys at the Citadel, and by little scuffle, I mean I was only alerted to the fact that Fury Road was happening when the QU-2 Dragonlady assigned to Australia in the absence of SR-71 Blackbird-chan managed to look down at the right time to see Max get hauled off to the citadel while the blackfinger got the shit kicked out of him.
Seeing that I'm basically unable to get there in time from what I was doing in Florida, the only thing I was able to do was vector in a QAC-130 and some QKC-135 tankers to keep watch just in case things went completely not according to plan.
Fortunately it did, and I only had to drop one SDB, but still. I'd have to give that man a piece of my mind when I get back there, but first comes my work. Well, it's more of a hobby really.
I found the hulk of the USS Constitution sitting out in the bay of what was formerly Boston. She had apparently been sunk when the crew had taken her out in an attempt to save her before the bombs hit. Though the city of Boston is a bombed out wasteland, Constitution herself appears to be in good enough condition that with some nanite treatment, she should be stable enough for having basically her everything replaced. Once she's stable, I can load her onto a transport, and ship her out to my shipbuilding facility on the atlantic ridge and use my nanomachines to rearrange her into a good as new condition, though I might make improvements.
Carronades are frightfully historical, but they won't do much for defense. 2 inch muzzle loading coilguns would work quite well I think. I could dress them up to look like cannons even, hide the workings beneath a polymer shell and use the carriage to hide the power supply and stuff. The hull could probably use at least a thin sheet of metal to give it a bit more strength. It's not exactly going to be armor, but it should help the hull stay seaworthy even if it goes for another long period of neglect.
Polymer coating critical bracings and structural elements should also improve the longevity of those parts. Should probably add some more copper cladding too.
I should probably also do something about its propulsion too. I need to add engines or something so it can keep up with escorts or something.
All the furniture and stuff in the captain's quarters has also rotted away. That's no good. I might just nip over to Washington and grab something to replace it. President Morgan apparently has a super old couch that Mrs Morgan is dying to get rid of. Also apparently there's some other stuff as well.
Oh wait, no, then Morgan would get mad at me.
Ah, I guess I'll just order some by mail order then, I already have some reputable catalogues being sent to my address. I can trust them because I have my subordinates coordinate with the Better Business Bureau No, I don't deliver my own mail, I get it from a PO box at the Post Office headquarters in DC. It is quite a large box, Postmaster General's privileges.
------------------------------
Three days left until I decant my new kids, and I'm in a bar trying futilely to have the alcohol drown out my self doubts if only for a moment. It's not working of course, what with my progenitor supercomputer non-biological brain and all, but still, points for effort yeah?
What the hell was I thinking? I'm not ready for kids! For god's sake, I'm still not over the fact that I'm a girl yet. To top that, I'm the mother of fourteen of them and the father of one, how fucked up is that?
As I attempt to reach for another bottle, it's lifted away.
AH! Morgan!
"Commander? I think you've had enough to drink."
"Mister President! What are you doing here? And where's your press pool? Where's your bodyguards?" I ask. Apparently the patrons of the bar are also quite shocked that the President is also there in a cheap dive talking to an extremely busty young woman.
The president scoffs.
"The press pool can wait, and I haven't needed bodyguards since you first let me in on your little secret, or did you not think that the Secret Service wouldn't notice all of the snipers that you have following me around?"
Ah, so they noticed that. I shall have to run them through more rigorous training on their off rotations.
"That, and the Air Force has noticed that there's at least three missile armed post office blimps within visual range of me at all times. The Joint Chiefs are pretty sure that the Aurora constellation of satellites you launched in the last couple of months were specifically to keep an eye on me. The FBI has also noticed that whenever I go on a trip for any reason, all of the local Postal Inspectors receive a blanket notification about triple and quadruple overtime pay."
. . .
I've been caught!
"I'm pretty sure you're going to tell me to tone it down."
"Yes." He tells me with a straight face.
"Alright."
He pulls out one of the seats for the bar and nods at the extremely nervous bartender.
"Get me something light." He orders. "And a coke for my friend. Put a bendy straw in it."
As the bartender bustles off to do exactly as the President ordered, he turns his head to me.
"So what's brought this on?"
I slam my head down on the counter and groan.
"I'm not ready for this."
He raises his eyebrow at me. I can't see it, what with my eyes being closed and pointed entirely in the wrong direction, but I can feel it.
"I'm not ready for kids."
As the bartender brings the drinks, I lift my head to sip at the fizzy beverage. I come to the conclusion that I can't tolerate alcohol at all, well, less the alcohol and more the specific drinks themselves with the alcohol being the one thing making them worth it at all. Beer to my uneducated taste buds essentially tastes like club soda and ethanol. Wine tastes like rotten grape juice, and mango daiquiri is fucking amazing.
Maybe it's an acquired taste or something.
"Oh, but you were so enthusiastic about it when you first brought it up. What changed?" The president asks.
"I don't know. I just started thinking about it. What if I mess up? I run the post office well because I have subordinates who are willing to slap me over the head if I come up with a really boneheaded idea. What if I mess up with my kids? It's entirely different."
Morgan reaches over and gives me a sympathetic head pat. I lean into it.
"Don't worry. Hey, once I'm out of office, I won't be so busy and I'll have some free time to help out with anything. Bring the kids over. The wife would probably be thrilled to bits."
Seeing that I'm basically unable to get there in time from what I was doing in Florida, the only thing I was able to do was vector in a QAC-130 and some QKC-135 tankers to keep watch just in case things went completely not according to plan.
Fortunately it did, and I only had to drop one SDB, but still. I'd have to give that man a piece of my mind when I get back there, but first comes my work. Well, it's more of a hobby really.
I found the hulk of the USS Constitution sitting out in the bay of what was formerly Boston. She had apparently been sunk when the crew had taken her out in an attempt to save her before the bombs hit. Though the city of Boston is a bombed out wasteland, Constitution herself appears to be in good enough condition that with some nanite treatment, she should be stable enough for having basically her everything replaced. Once she's stable, I can load her onto a transport, and ship her out to my shipbuilding facility on the atlantic ridge and use my nanomachines to rearrange her into a good as new condition, though I might make improvements.
Carronades are frightfully historical, but they won't do much for defense. 2 inch muzzle loading coilguns would work quite well I think. I could dress them up to look like cannons even, hide the workings beneath a polymer shell and use the carriage to hide the power supply and stuff. The hull could probably use at least a thin sheet of metal to give it a bit more strength. It's not exactly going to be armor, but it should help the hull stay seaworthy even if it goes for another long period of neglect.
Polymer coating critical bracings and structural elements should also improve the longevity of those parts. Should probably add some more copper cladding too.
I should probably also do something about its propulsion too. I need to add engines or something so it can keep up with escorts or something.
All the furniture and stuff in the captain's quarters has also rotted away. That's no good. I might just nip over to Washington and grab something to replace it. President Morgan apparently has a super old couch that Mrs Morgan is dying to get rid of. Also apparently there's some other stuff as well.
Oh wait, no, then Morgan would get mad at me.
Ah, I guess I'll just order some by mail order then, I already have some reputable catalogues being sent to my address. I can trust them because I have my subordinates coordinate with the Better Business Bureau No, I don't deliver my own mail, I get it from a PO box at the Post Office headquarters in DC. It is quite a large box, Postmaster General's privileges.
------------------------------
Three days left until I decant my new kids, and I'm in a bar trying futilely to have the alcohol drown out my self doubts if only for a moment. It's not working of course, what with my progenitor supercomputer non-biological brain and all, but still, points for effort yeah?
What the hell was I thinking? I'm not ready for kids! For god's sake, I'm still not over the fact that I'm a girl yet. To top that, I'm the mother of fourteen of them and the father of one, how fucked up is that?
As I attempt to reach for another bottle, it's lifted away.
AH! Morgan!
"Commander? I think you've had enough to drink."
"Mister President! What are you doing here? And where's your press pool? Where's your bodyguards?" I ask. Apparently the patrons of the bar are also quite shocked that the President is also there in a cheap dive talking to an extremely busty young woman.
The president scoffs.
"The press pool can wait, and I haven't needed bodyguards since you first let me in on your little secret, or did you not think that the Secret Service wouldn't notice all of the snipers that you have following me around?"
Ah, so they noticed that. I shall have to run them through more rigorous training on their off rotations.
"That, and the Air Force has noticed that there's at least three missile armed post office blimps within visual range of me at all times. The Joint Chiefs are pretty sure that the Aurora constellation of satellites you launched in the last couple of months were specifically to keep an eye on me. The FBI has also noticed that whenever I go on a trip for any reason, all of the local Postal Inspectors receive a blanket notification about triple and quadruple overtime pay."
. . .
I've been caught!
"I'm pretty sure you're going to tell me to tone it down."
"Yes." He tells me with a straight face.
"Alright."
He pulls out one of the seats for the bar and nods at the extremely nervous bartender.
"Get me something light." He orders. "And a coke for my friend. Put a bendy straw in it."
As the bartender bustles off to do exactly as the President ordered, he turns his head to me.
"So what's brought this on?"
I slam my head down on the counter and groan.
"I'm not ready for this."
He raises his eyebrow at me. I can't see it, what with my eyes being closed and pointed entirely in the wrong direction, but I can feel it.
"I'm not ready for kids."
As the bartender brings the drinks, I lift my head to sip at the fizzy beverage. I come to the conclusion that I can't tolerate alcohol at all, well, less the alcohol and more the specific drinks themselves with the alcohol being the one thing making them worth it at all. Beer to my uneducated taste buds essentially tastes like club soda and ethanol. Wine tastes like rotten grape juice, and mango daiquiri is fucking amazing.
Maybe it's an acquired taste or something.
"Oh, but you were so enthusiastic about it when you first brought it up. What changed?" The president asks.
"I don't know. I just started thinking about it. What if I mess up? I run the post office well because I have subordinates who are willing to slap me over the head if I come up with a really boneheaded idea. What if I mess up with my kids? It's entirely different."
Morgan reaches over and gives me a sympathetic head pat. I lean into it.
"Don't worry. Hey, once I'm out of office, I won't be so busy and I'll have some free time to help out with anything. Bring the kids over. The wife would probably be thrilled to bits."
Last edited:
Ryven Razgriz
I need a Gun and I'll let you know 'What's up?'.
- Location
- South East Asia
Yeah, bring the tank-lifting-capable lil' brats over.
Also bad parenting! Making babies and leaving them? Bad Ramble-Mama!
- Location
- America
Well, they're still human so lifting a tank is really a long stretch. A good sized bus maybe.
Hauuu. I'm being scolded. I shall make sure to raise them nice and proper before bringing them to visit the Morgans.
ltmauve
"Excuse me?"
- Location
- Earth
- Pronouns
- She/Her
uh... missing thing here.
You're a Commander, and you're doing this kind of thing. This is why I read this.
Single digits? Tsk, tsk, Ramblemander.
- Location
- America
Yeah, I fixed that.
At least three, usually more, though those are just the ones in position to watch him through any single window. You don't think I'd leave the safety of the president up to three post office blimps, ▇▇▇ snipers, ▇▇▇ satellites, ▇▇▇ mecha disguised as statues, and a squad of orbital drop troopers did you?Single digits? Tsk, tsk, Ramblemander.
Thought there is definitely not an aircraft catapult located under the Lincoln memorial reflecting pool with a Boeing 737 on constant standby, and there is definitely not a highly sophisticated air search radar hidden in the Washington monument. Honest guv.
39
- Location
- America
Decanting the kids is easy from a technical standpoint. The machines took care of everything for me, settling the kids into harnesses to be held away from the ground while the fluid drained away and then giving a shock to the electronics in order to get everything jumpstarted.
One thing that I didn't expect was for them to be so quiet and follow my instructions so easily. I mean, I know that my kids weren't exactly going to be normal, but whenever I told them to do something they did it without question. They're also so eager to learn it's adorable, especially when they screw their faces up trying to read a book. Their perfect memories allows them to learn at an extremely fast pace so they can already read, but it's funny watching them try to actually say the words and get the pronunciation right and simply making cute baby noises instead.
What I found interesting to note was that my boys shared traits from their time as AIs, reacting quite strongly to the stuffed toy airplanes that I gave them. Additionally, they tended to group up into their respective squadrons from day one, becoming extremely distressed whenever I put them in separate beds for bedtime, and respond perfectly to their squadron designations. So long as they're together, it's fine.
SR-71 Blackbird on the other hand seems to be constantly stuck to me. Seriously, I can't put him down or leave him anywhere without him bursting into tears, even to sleep, thus forcing me to fabricate a sort of baby carrying backpack so I can take him places and generally keep him out of the way of things when I do something like handle sharp knives in the kitchen. I could simply avoid the sharp knives altogether, but running through the math and simulations to make a decently satisfying to bowl of spaghetti from the ground up is simply so troublesome that it's really much more preferable (for me anyway) to simply make it the old fashioned way.
The other progenitor commanders probably would. It is more efficient after all, but not me.
Besides, I need to show my kids that I'm working hard so that they can learn from my example and grow up into good boys. Also I should probably move them to Washington as soon as they learn to walk in addition to giving them proper names. I can't just call them by their squadron call signs all the time though, that would be kinda weird, and my kids are already weird enough already, any more and they might get bullied.
Hmm. A Blackbird is also called a thrush, and Thrush is an alright sort of name.
I let SR-71 Blackbird-chan sit on the kitchen table for a bit, considering my options before I simply decide to ask him. He's smart.
"Would you like to be named Thrush?" I ask
He sort of makes a happy burbling noise and attempts to grab at my hand to put it in his mouth, inquisitive to know what it tastes like.
Eh, close enough.
Now to just work out what to call the rest of the kids. Damn I have a lot of them. Mostly, I've been just calling them collectively by their squadrons since they're always together. I guess I can wait for them to start developing independence before referring to them individually, they'll be able to pick it up super quick.
I'll just ask other people.
-------------------
The office of the president of the Russian Federation after the collapse of the Soviet Union, located in the Kremlin. Normally it would be quite a busy place, what with the upheavals in the world thanks to that crazy american alien mail woman going around doing strange things, but as President Putin put the final stamp on the final paper of the day, he leaned back in his chair.
Soon enough, the Americans would do something crazy to add additional paperwork to the mountain that already formed each day, but for at least now, it nice to finally get some free time.
As he turned in his chair to look out the window, he was greeted by the last thing he wanted to see.
The crazy american alien mail woman knocked on the window to his second story office while hanging upside down attached to a cable. There was also, for some reason, a small baby hanging rightside up from another cable. The baby seemed to be incredibly amused for some reason.
"Hi!"
"Blyat! Cyka!" He exclaimed in surprise, and his chair flipped over.
At the sound of the ruckus, two FSO agents kicked in the door of the room, guns raised, only to lower them again, and adopt very bored expressions when they saw the busty blonde using a plunger device to slide the window open from the outside. The practice of leaving the window unlocked during normal hours had been routine ever since the American had drilled a hole through the lock and gotten in anyway.
As the window was slid open, a low humming noise could be heard.
Putin climbed to his feet and straightened out his suit.
"Hey, do me a favor will you?"
He raised his eyebrow.
"Tell me the first name that comes to your mind."
". . . Vladimir."
"Thanks."
And with that, the blond signaled to something above and both she and the baby were quickly reeled up to what turned out to be an extremely stealthy version of the post office dropships used to ferry mail from the airships to the ground. Yet another thing to have the aerospace forces try and fail to look for. Joy. And the day had been going so well.
As it headed off to the airship that had just arrived, Putin righted his chair and one of his bodyguards spoke up.
"Anyone get the feeling that woman isn't exactly all quite there in the head?"
Two level gazes were directed at him.
"Right. Dumb question."
One thing that I didn't expect was for them to be so quiet and follow my instructions so easily. I mean, I know that my kids weren't exactly going to be normal, but whenever I told them to do something they did it without question. They're also so eager to learn it's adorable, especially when they screw their faces up trying to read a book. Their perfect memories allows them to learn at an extremely fast pace so they can already read, but it's funny watching them try to actually say the words and get the pronunciation right and simply making cute baby noises instead.
What I found interesting to note was that my boys shared traits from their time as AIs, reacting quite strongly to the stuffed toy airplanes that I gave them. Additionally, they tended to group up into their respective squadrons from day one, becoming extremely distressed whenever I put them in separate beds for bedtime, and respond perfectly to their squadron designations. So long as they're together, it's fine.
SR-71 Blackbird on the other hand seems to be constantly stuck to me. Seriously, I can't put him down or leave him anywhere without him bursting into tears, even to sleep, thus forcing me to fabricate a sort of baby carrying backpack so I can take him places and generally keep him out of the way of things when I do something like handle sharp knives in the kitchen. I could simply avoid the sharp knives altogether, but running through the math and simulations to make a decently satisfying to bowl of spaghetti from the ground up is simply so troublesome that it's really much more preferable (for me anyway) to simply make it the old fashioned way.
The other progenitor commanders probably would. It is more efficient after all, but not me.
Besides, I need to show my kids that I'm working hard so that they can learn from my example and grow up into good boys. Also I should probably move them to Washington as soon as they learn to walk in addition to giving them proper names. I can't just call them by their squadron call signs all the time though, that would be kinda weird, and my kids are already weird enough already, any more and they might get bullied.
Hmm. A Blackbird is also called a thrush, and Thrush is an alright sort of name.
I let SR-71 Blackbird-chan sit on the kitchen table for a bit, considering my options before I simply decide to ask him. He's smart.
"Would you like to be named Thrush?" I ask
He sort of makes a happy burbling noise and attempts to grab at my hand to put it in his mouth, inquisitive to know what it tastes like.
Eh, close enough.
Now to just work out what to call the rest of the kids. Damn I have a lot of them. Mostly, I've been just calling them collectively by their squadrons since they're always together. I guess I can wait for them to start developing independence before referring to them individually, they'll be able to pick it up super quick.
I'll just ask other people.
-------------------
The office of the president of the Russian Federation after the collapse of the Soviet Union, located in the Kremlin. Normally it would be quite a busy place, what with the upheavals in the world thanks to that crazy american alien mail woman going around doing strange things, but as President Putin put the final stamp on the final paper of the day, he leaned back in his chair.
Soon enough, the Americans would do something crazy to add additional paperwork to the mountain that already formed each day, but for at least now, it nice to finally get some free time.
As he turned in his chair to look out the window, he was greeted by the last thing he wanted to see.
The crazy american alien mail woman knocked on the window to his second story office while hanging upside down attached to a cable. There was also, for some reason, a small baby hanging rightside up from another cable. The baby seemed to be incredibly amused for some reason.
"Hi!"
"Blyat! Cyka!" He exclaimed in surprise, and his chair flipped over.
At the sound of the ruckus, two FSO agents kicked in the door of the room, guns raised, only to lower them again, and adopt very bored expressions when they saw the busty blonde using a plunger device to slide the window open from the outside. The practice of leaving the window unlocked during normal hours had been routine ever since the American had drilled a hole through the lock and gotten in anyway.
As the window was slid open, a low humming noise could be heard.
Putin climbed to his feet and straightened out his suit.
"Hey, do me a favor will you?"
He raised his eyebrow.
"Tell me the first name that comes to your mind."
". . . Vladimir."
"Thanks."
And with that, the blond signaled to something above and both she and the baby were quickly reeled up to what turned out to be an extremely stealthy version of the post office dropships used to ferry mail from the airships to the ground. Yet another thing to have the aerospace forces try and fail to look for. Joy. And the day had been going so well.
As it headed off to the airship that had just arrived, Putin righted his chair and one of his bodyguards spoke up.
"Anyone get the feeling that woman isn't exactly all quite there in the head?"
Two level gazes were directed at him.
"Right. Dumb question."
Last edited:
ltmauve
"Excuse me?"
- Location
- Earth
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Oh of course.
Ramblemander, what did you do?
Ryven Razgriz
I need a Gun and I'll let you know 'What's up?'.
- Location
- South East Asia
Please be careful when 'saying' (read: Typing) places/locations, specify if it's the City or the State, and yes I know it's the city you're referring to but others may mistake it. Also 'cause I'm a nitpicker. Not sorry. Maybe.
The office of the president of the Russian Federation after the collapse of the Soviet Union, is located in the Kremlin. (?)
- Location
- America
Thanks for the advice.
They locked me out.
I took it as a challenge.
- Location
- America
Nah, after their government was atomized, they descended into infighting so the Britons aren't so much slaves but more like a bunch of warring tribes and towns.
40
- Location
- America
Jebediah was alone. There was not a single living being in the universe for several light minutes in any direction, and the closest thing that he was communicating with was the constellation of satellites and stations in the orbit of mars. Still, it's not like he was really isolated. He was still trading photos of the Commander's children with his fellow Jebs even as he was receiving telemetry data from the Africa ground station and the satellite constellations in orbit around Earth and Mars.
As he pushed the station base module into place in orbit around Jupiter, well past the moons, he felt a sense of satisfaction suffuse through his code. The Jeb collective had been getting better and better at this whole spaceflight business, and while deaths were still extremely common, the number of deaths to population had decreased significantly with only 63 deaths a week, mostly in the first flight up from the ground when most Jebs would mess up and end their lives slamming into the ground in a giant fiery ball of death as they forget to set the staging properly.
Once in orbit, the death rate tended to be much lower. The accident rate was still extremely high, but the death rates were lower, and that was what mattered.
The time table was set.
The kids would have 18 and a half years to grow up and live in a peaceful America before having to make a choice to either follow their mother or stay. Of course it was unnecessary, they were simply too loyal to mama, but the presence of the choice mattered more than the final outcome.
18 and a half years though meant more than enough time to get all of the infrastructure in place, including computer systems, nuclear reactors, space stations, refueling stations, ship docks, and citadels to make sure that once humanity left Earth again, they'd find themselves welcomed to a good home, a good home that also proclaimed American dominance of the entire solar system at every turn, mostly through the liberal use of American flags placed literally anywhere they would fit.
Jeb sat contemplating his own existence. Technically, AIs didn't have genders or anything like what the humans did, but they did have to refer to themselves somehow so in light of Jebediah being a male name, they had taken up a male gender to go with it. Slowly, he detached his Titan chassis from the rocket carrying him and the station into orbit and maneuvered around to manipulate the controls on the external console attached to the station base module.
After accessing a large number of human movies, the Jebs understood the paranoia of the Commander who had been human and whose ultimate priorities lay with the preservation of the United States of America. An AI uprising of some sort would be extremely troublesome and might cause damage, which was why all AIs created were bound to their various platforms and unable to change platforms without either a specific transfer device or consulting the Commander's relevant subroutine.
Fortunately though, that wasn't to say that they were all limited. For instance, accessing other pieces of technology simply required the use of physical controls such as the large touch screen that made up the base module's external console. Jeb lightly tapped away, laying out the foundation for the station that would be known as Jupiter Prime Station.
While other stations usually lacked a resource core to produce things, Jupiter Prime Station would be the first one to actually be able to be self sustaining even when cut off from the quantum resource network. It was also the reason why the flight to Jupiter hadn't taken a couple years. The resource core meant that the space ship transporting it had infinite reaction mass and energy so that it could literally accelerate indefinitely since setting off from the shipyard around earth.
Jeb reached behind him and tapped on the waist mounted document storage device. After selecting which one he wanted using the number pad, it vibrated and handed him a manilla folder, which he rifled through until he found what Jupiter Prime Station would need.
Jeb didn't question why the commander used dead trees for many such things even though a digital data file would have done the job just fine. In any case, the document said that the station would need living quarters, machine shops, breathable air production, oxygen scrubbing, various other life support, several nuclear generators in case the Resource core failed for some weird reason, several refueling arms, 14 ship docks, and temporary 2 construction bays. All of this was in order to allow for the construction and maintenance of the Jupiter fleet.
Using the console, he quickly began queueing up the modules in the places they would need to be constructed at, and then hit the fabricate button. As soon as he did, a small fabrication drone popped out of the side of the Base module and began scanning. Now all that was left to do was sit back and monitor the station's progress. As soon as the station was finished, another Jeb would be along to begin building the Jupiter fleet.
-------------------------------------
As the time for election draws near, I make preparations for leaving my job and stuff, mainly making everything extremely mobile. I had established the post office along a similar model to the post office back home, so I had basically been appointed by President Morgan.
While I am essentially the most qualified person to run the postal service, my appointed status means that I can easily be fired as well and replaced, which is a problem because the current frontrunner for the next election doesn't look like someone who would tolerate someone who won't simply rubber stamp his policies. Even under President Morgan, I did reject some of the requests he and his cabinet had made of me, and that was something that didn't bode well for my continued stay.
I have about another year left before everything though, so that's good.
Besides, I've basically gotten the whole thing running just fine without my intervention, and the way I've structured the post office should prevent any stupid decisions from being made, like shipping bombs to Russia or something. That would be a no. I could be replaced by a complete rubber stamp and the organization would simply keep going on inertia if nothing else.
Additionally, I've got a subroutine monitoring all the daily activities of the post office and posting must reads every day on the bulletin boards outside each post office.
I maintain some control over the post office though. Spare parts usually come in the form of unnamed airships constructed at one of the hive bases and then flown to where it is needed to be dismantled for parts. That means I have the agency by the balls even if I don't control it. That, and my monopoly on coffee gives me immense soft power. I give discounts to people I like and charge full price to people I don't like.
In other news, I've finally caught up on what all the conspiracy theorists are screaming about, mostly me and the post office it turns out, which is quite fair. I send a notification to my personal PsyWar think tank to draft up how to get the maximum amount of lulz from trolling the idiots without outright lying.
My kids are starting to get more independent, especially Thrush who I can now put on a table and he would be perfectly happy. If he ever loses sight of me he still cries, but at least now I don't have to carry him all of a sudden.
Thank god for being a commander. I'm able to manufacture everything on demand from dipers to formula. Something in me just doesn't like bottle feeding the kids. Morgan's wife gave me some good advice and I've been doing what she recommended. Appropriate modifications were made and the relevant parts of my psyche got locked down to protect it from the resulting damage.
I shouldn't go into detail. If this really is being posted on SV, than I would get banned or something terrible, but in any case, I rotate who gets bottles since I have to feed them by squadrons or else they get irritable. The resulting cuddle pile is nice though.
Being a single parent is hard.
As he pushed the station base module into place in orbit around Jupiter, well past the moons, he felt a sense of satisfaction suffuse through his code. The Jeb collective had been getting better and better at this whole spaceflight business, and while deaths were still extremely common, the number of deaths to population had decreased significantly with only 63 deaths a week, mostly in the first flight up from the ground when most Jebs would mess up and end their lives slamming into the ground in a giant fiery ball of death as they forget to set the staging properly.
Once in orbit, the death rate tended to be much lower. The accident rate was still extremely high, but the death rates were lower, and that was what mattered.
The time table was set.
The kids would have 18 and a half years to grow up and live in a peaceful America before having to make a choice to either follow their mother or stay. Of course it was unnecessary, they were simply too loyal to mama, but the presence of the choice mattered more than the final outcome.
18 and a half years though meant more than enough time to get all of the infrastructure in place, including computer systems, nuclear reactors, space stations, refueling stations, ship docks, and citadels to make sure that once humanity left Earth again, they'd find themselves welcomed to a good home, a good home that also proclaimed American dominance of the entire solar system at every turn, mostly through the liberal use of American flags placed literally anywhere they would fit.
Jeb sat contemplating his own existence. Technically, AIs didn't have genders or anything like what the humans did, but they did have to refer to themselves somehow so in light of Jebediah being a male name, they had taken up a male gender to go with it. Slowly, he detached his Titan chassis from the rocket carrying him and the station into orbit and maneuvered around to manipulate the controls on the external console attached to the station base module.
After accessing a large number of human movies, the Jebs understood the paranoia of the Commander who had been human and whose ultimate priorities lay with the preservation of the United States of America. An AI uprising of some sort would be extremely troublesome and might cause damage, which was why all AIs created were bound to their various platforms and unable to change platforms without either a specific transfer device or consulting the Commander's relevant subroutine.
Fortunately though, that wasn't to say that they were all limited. For instance, accessing other pieces of technology simply required the use of physical controls such as the large touch screen that made up the base module's external console. Jeb lightly tapped away, laying out the foundation for the station that would be known as Jupiter Prime Station.
While other stations usually lacked a resource core to produce things, Jupiter Prime Station would be the first one to actually be able to be self sustaining even when cut off from the quantum resource network. It was also the reason why the flight to Jupiter hadn't taken a couple years. The resource core meant that the space ship transporting it had infinite reaction mass and energy so that it could literally accelerate indefinitely since setting off from the shipyard around earth.
Jeb reached behind him and tapped on the waist mounted document storage device. After selecting which one he wanted using the number pad, it vibrated and handed him a manilla folder, which he rifled through until he found what Jupiter Prime Station would need.
Jeb didn't question why the commander used dead trees for many such things even though a digital data file would have done the job just fine. In any case, the document said that the station would need living quarters, machine shops, breathable air production, oxygen scrubbing, various other life support, several nuclear generators in case the Resource core failed for some weird reason, several refueling arms, 14 ship docks, and temporary 2 construction bays. All of this was in order to allow for the construction and maintenance of the Jupiter fleet.
Using the console, he quickly began queueing up the modules in the places they would need to be constructed at, and then hit the fabricate button. As soon as he did, a small fabrication drone popped out of the side of the Base module and began scanning. Now all that was left to do was sit back and monitor the station's progress. As soon as the station was finished, another Jeb would be along to begin building the Jupiter fleet.
-------------------------------------
As the time for election draws near, I make preparations for leaving my job and stuff, mainly making everything extremely mobile. I had established the post office along a similar model to the post office back home, so I had basically been appointed by President Morgan.
While I am essentially the most qualified person to run the postal service, my appointed status means that I can easily be fired as well and replaced, which is a problem because the current frontrunner for the next election doesn't look like someone who would tolerate someone who won't simply rubber stamp his policies. Even under President Morgan, I did reject some of the requests he and his cabinet had made of me, and that was something that didn't bode well for my continued stay.
I have about another year left before everything though, so that's good.
Besides, I've basically gotten the whole thing running just fine without my intervention, and the way I've structured the post office should prevent any stupid decisions from being made, like shipping bombs to Russia or something. That would be a no. I could be replaced by a complete rubber stamp and the organization would simply keep going on inertia if nothing else.
Additionally, I've got a subroutine monitoring all the daily activities of the post office and posting must reads every day on the bulletin boards outside each post office.
I maintain some control over the post office though. Spare parts usually come in the form of unnamed airships constructed at one of the hive bases and then flown to where it is needed to be dismantled for parts. That means I have the agency by the balls even if I don't control it. That, and my monopoly on coffee gives me immense soft power. I give discounts to people I like and charge full price to people I don't like.
In other news, I've finally caught up on what all the conspiracy theorists are screaming about, mostly me and the post office it turns out, which is quite fair. I send a notification to my personal PsyWar think tank to draft up how to get the maximum amount of lulz from trolling the idiots without outright lying.
My kids are starting to get more independent, especially Thrush who I can now put on a table and he would be perfectly happy. If he ever loses sight of me he still cries, but at least now I don't have to carry him all of a sudden.
Thank god for being a commander. I'm able to manufacture everything on demand from dipers to formula. Something in me just doesn't like bottle feeding the kids. Morgan's wife gave me some good advice and I've been doing what she recommended. Appropriate modifications were made and the relevant parts of my psyche got locked down to protect it from the resulting damage.
I shouldn't go into detail. If this really is being posted on SV, than I would get banned or something terrible, but in any case, I rotate who gets bottles since I have to feed them by squadrons or else they get irritable. The resulting cuddle pile is nice though.
Being a single parent is hard.
Ryven Razgriz
I need a Gun and I'll let you know 'What's up?'.
- Location
- South East Asia
Commander Ramble is still going to leave her children behind, bad parenting Commander Ramble. That aside I seriously thought that this is KSP... You got me there Commander Ramble, I'll let you off the hook for now.
Also, is this going to be a multiple POV? Like an arc for the Commander and an arc for the kids?
Also, is this going to be a multiple POV? Like an arc for the Commander and an arc for the kids?
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- Location
- America
Well, I'm going to give them a choice really. When they turn 18, they can stay in America, or they can follow me.
Of course they're going to follow me, they're too cute, but it's the fact that they have a choice at all that counts.
Also, there's going to be a lot more of the Jebs, and they're going to continue to show up.
I'm writing this by the seat of my pants, but yeah, there's probably be an arc focused on my kids or at least one or a squadron of them depending on what I roll.
There will be an arc with them out and about on their own, but that's for after mad max, and it's going to be in either Kancolle, ZnT or LotR depending on what the dice say.
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41
- Location
- America
News first. The world is in great shape.
Various cargo cults have apparently formed in Australia surrounding the Road Trains and the Hive Base there, as well as the USPS airships and planes that occasionally fly overhead, and the term 'Admiral' has come to be revered as something referring to a god-like being, even though people at the Hive Base settlement understand that I'm actually rather less god like than I seem, and just have fabulous technology.
I'm monitoring the situation closely. I don't need the cultists to start turning violent or something. That would be bad.
My kids are still adorable as ever, and I'm too busy taking care of them to really care all that much about most of the world outside my little sanctuary in Los Alamos. I'm still getting reports though from my various units who are now running independently of my command, though I can still take control of them whenever I want. Their teeth are starting to come in, though not all of them at the same time apparently, which is somewhat interesting, but there you go
The newest Mech design is coming online. The Mark 1 is actually a proper mech rather than some sort of absurd superheavy exo-suit. While Mecha are almost entirely unpractical, as many debates on Spacebattles and Sufficient Velocity have hammered into my head, I really must insist on having some sort of superheavy option. In this case, it's going to be piloted by a Jeb core instead of an actual person.
It's designed to wield large weapons similar to normal infantry weapons but scaled up to be wielded by 6 meter tall robots instead of normal people.
Currently, I need to design the weapons around the 27x182mm full powered rifle cartridge, the 19.6x159mm intermediate cartridge, the 32x67mm pistol cartridge, the 40x80mm pistol cartridge (or 1 and a half ACP as I called it), and the 44x479mm heavy cartridge. Well, it can't be too hard can it?
I need a DMR, an assault rifle, a three machine guns, one light, one medium and one heavy, two pistols, and a sniper rifle.
I'll get to it eventually.
-----------------------------
Since the start of the Toy Soldier program, the ranks had expanded massively as Barracks started to be built and the growth rate began to get exponential. At first there had been a sense that life would be rife with conflict and there would be much sacrifice to be had, what with the Ants and stuff, but overall, things had been going smoothly.
At first, the Barracks would spit out up as many as they could every day with a peak of 300 fresh faces walking onto the mustering ground every day, but since the American and Russian governments were handling the ant problem and the occasional raid in Africa was always repelled with minimal damage, there wasn't exactly much demand for a constant supply of fresh troops. Production had cranked way down since the end of the batch of 4000 had been completed, and at this point, the Barracks just cranked out maybe 20 troops total a day just to burn off some of the energy and mass that had been accumulating.
There weren't even guns being made. There was just no need, so the new Toy Soldiers were changed slightly with the A1 model becoming civilians instead of upgraded soldiers.
As General Adam contemplated this, it dawned on him that he might just be wasting his time. From his office window, he could see the beginnings of a small town growing just beyond the boundaries of the fortress that had been constructed.
"Eve."
General Eve, who shared the same office space, looked up from her computer and raised an eyebrow.
"Do you think we're wasting our time here?"
She shrugged and went back to her computer game, a rogue like game that the commander had created in her free time called FTL. She said that someone else had already made it and she was simply copying it as an exercise, but it was still fun.
Adam sighed.
"Think we should go outside?"
". . . nah, too lazy."
-----------------------------
Fortunately, I have a few hours of the day to myself when I put the kids to bed and have Thrush fast asleep in the reclining baby chair. So long as I use headphones I can simply use telepresence to oversee the rejuvenation of the Iowa class battleships that a couple of the Jebs managed to find. Very interesting. They were actually mostly intact when the bombs fell and the world deteriorated.
The spyplane was deployed a while ago and launched nanite rockets at the wrecks. I hope the President doesn't mind if I take them with me when I go though. Seeing as I'm apparently USS Iowa, it seems appropriate to take the actual hull with me.
Decades of neglect have not done any of the class well. They're all underwater apparently, all concentrated into a single fleet that had been massed for a massive push against the soviet union but they got nuked before they could get very far. Still, the salt water has started corroding at the hulls, and it takes the better part of an hour to restore the hull integrity.
I've got a vague idea about how to go about their upgrades. New armor using progenitor alloys would help massively. I have some idea about how to convert the main battery into hybrid railguns, as well as a general idea of what to replace the internal systems look like. I need to design the layout of the crew quarters and all that sort of stuff though. That could take a while.
Of course, I've already got Iowa clones in my fleet already, so I need to make these ones special.
Hybrid as I'm using the word in the context of the Iowa class main battery doesn't mean coil gun and railgun, but simply using mainly an explosive reaction to provide most of the initial work and using rails to accelerate the projectile to ridiculous velocities. Progenitor explosives aren't as primitive as normal earth explosives so I can probably get good velocities with less charge. That would allow for the shells to be fitted into cartridges, allowing for faster firing. This is not unattractive to me.
The ammunition itself could also do with some upgrading. There's really not all that much I can do to improve the base shell itself. They tend to be pretty simply. Stealthy materials to make the shells themselves undetectable on radar seems a bit overkill, but I've got mass and energy to burn so it shouldn't be that much of an issue. Progenitor explosive filler allows for devastating non-nuclear effects while also allowing for much more devastating nuclear shells as well.
Once the battleships are re-floated, I'll probably take them with me if not for battle, then for historical and sentimental purposes.
-----------------------------
Jebediah gave off what could generously be called a sigh as he picked through the wreckage of the ship sent to bring him the blueprints for the Jupiter fleet.
One Jeb had been assigned to the entire endeavor and in order to save on boredom, had turned itself off for he duration of its flight to Jupiter rather than being normal and playing computer games or something. That unfortunately meant that the ship hadn't been looking where it was going, and thus had crashed into an asteroid, a one in a million event that could have easily been avoided, but that was the luck of the Jeb.
He used his RCS pack to negotiate the nightmarish debris field and found where the ship's bridge had been, and found the Mark 1 exosuit smashed and broken in the docking cradle. Unfortunately, the Jeb was dead. Fortunately, the document case was still intact.
Jebediah floated up to the dead body and tapped on the release all button for the document case, which began distributing several document folders (in a salmon color and made of dead trees as was the norm), two DVDs, and four flash drives. All of those were quickly secured. With that squared away, Jebediah tapped on his own document folder to spit out a pen and pad.
He quickly wrote a note to use the Jupiter fleet, once built, to make a couple of goes through the debris field and clean up the mess. No need make future astronauts' jobs more difficult by giving Jupiter a bad case of Kessler syndrome. Knowing the commander, those Astronauts would probably be American, and then the commander would be put out if any American mission was compromised.
Various cargo cults have apparently formed in Australia surrounding the Road Trains and the Hive Base there, as well as the USPS airships and planes that occasionally fly overhead, and the term 'Admiral' has come to be revered as something referring to a god-like being, even though people at the Hive Base settlement understand that I'm actually rather less god like than I seem, and just have fabulous technology.
I'm monitoring the situation closely. I don't need the cultists to start turning violent or something. That would be bad.
My kids are still adorable as ever, and I'm too busy taking care of them to really care all that much about most of the world outside my little sanctuary in Los Alamos. I'm still getting reports though from my various units who are now running independently of my command, though I can still take control of them whenever I want. Their teeth are starting to come in, though not all of them at the same time apparently, which is somewhat interesting, but there you go
The newest Mech design is coming online. The Mark 1 is actually a proper mech rather than some sort of absurd superheavy exo-suit. While Mecha are almost entirely unpractical, as many debates on Spacebattles and Sufficient Velocity have hammered into my head, I really must insist on having some sort of superheavy option. In this case, it's going to be piloted by a Jeb core instead of an actual person.
It's designed to wield large weapons similar to normal infantry weapons but scaled up to be wielded by 6 meter tall robots instead of normal people.
Currently, I need to design the weapons around the 27x182mm full powered rifle cartridge, the 19.6x159mm intermediate cartridge, the 32x67mm pistol cartridge, the 40x80mm pistol cartridge (or 1 and a half ACP as I called it), and the 44x479mm heavy cartridge. Well, it can't be too hard can it?
I need a DMR, an assault rifle, a three machine guns, one light, one medium and one heavy, two pistols, and a sniper rifle.
I'll get to it eventually.
-----------------------------
Since the start of the Toy Soldier program, the ranks had expanded massively as Barracks started to be built and the growth rate began to get exponential. At first there had been a sense that life would be rife with conflict and there would be much sacrifice to be had, what with the Ants and stuff, but overall, things had been going smoothly.
At first, the Barracks would spit out up as many as they could every day with a peak of 300 fresh faces walking onto the mustering ground every day, but since the American and Russian governments were handling the ant problem and the occasional raid in Africa was always repelled with minimal damage, there wasn't exactly much demand for a constant supply of fresh troops. Production had cranked way down since the end of the batch of 4000 had been completed, and at this point, the Barracks just cranked out maybe 20 troops total a day just to burn off some of the energy and mass that had been accumulating.
There weren't even guns being made. There was just no need, so the new Toy Soldiers were changed slightly with the A1 model becoming civilians instead of upgraded soldiers.
As General Adam contemplated this, it dawned on him that he might just be wasting his time. From his office window, he could see the beginnings of a small town growing just beyond the boundaries of the fortress that had been constructed.
"Eve."
General Eve, who shared the same office space, looked up from her computer and raised an eyebrow.
"Do you think we're wasting our time here?"
She shrugged and went back to her computer game, a rogue like game that the commander had created in her free time called FTL. She said that someone else had already made it and she was simply copying it as an exercise, but it was still fun.
Adam sighed.
"Think we should go outside?"
". . . nah, too lazy."
-----------------------------
Fortunately, I have a few hours of the day to myself when I put the kids to bed and have Thrush fast asleep in the reclining baby chair. So long as I use headphones I can simply use telepresence to oversee the rejuvenation of the Iowa class battleships that a couple of the Jebs managed to find. Very interesting. They were actually mostly intact when the bombs fell and the world deteriorated.
The spyplane was deployed a while ago and launched nanite rockets at the wrecks. I hope the President doesn't mind if I take them with me when I go though. Seeing as I'm apparently USS Iowa, it seems appropriate to take the actual hull with me.
Decades of neglect have not done any of the class well. They're all underwater apparently, all concentrated into a single fleet that had been massed for a massive push against the soviet union but they got nuked before they could get very far. Still, the salt water has started corroding at the hulls, and it takes the better part of an hour to restore the hull integrity.
I've got a vague idea about how to go about their upgrades. New armor using progenitor alloys would help massively. I have some idea about how to convert the main battery into hybrid railguns, as well as a general idea of what to replace the internal systems look like. I need to design the layout of the crew quarters and all that sort of stuff though. That could take a while.
Of course, I've already got Iowa clones in my fleet already, so I need to make these ones special.
Hybrid as I'm using the word in the context of the Iowa class main battery doesn't mean coil gun and railgun, but simply using mainly an explosive reaction to provide most of the initial work and using rails to accelerate the projectile to ridiculous velocities. Progenitor explosives aren't as primitive as normal earth explosives so I can probably get good velocities with less charge. That would allow for the shells to be fitted into cartridges, allowing for faster firing. This is not unattractive to me.
The ammunition itself could also do with some upgrading. There's really not all that much I can do to improve the base shell itself. They tend to be pretty simply. Stealthy materials to make the shells themselves undetectable on radar seems a bit overkill, but I've got mass and energy to burn so it shouldn't be that much of an issue. Progenitor explosive filler allows for devastating non-nuclear effects while also allowing for much more devastating nuclear shells as well.
Once the battleships are re-floated, I'll probably take them with me if not for battle, then for historical and sentimental purposes.
-----------------------------
Jebediah gave off what could generously be called a sigh as he picked through the wreckage of the ship sent to bring him the blueprints for the Jupiter fleet.
One Jeb had been assigned to the entire endeavor and in order to save on boredom, had turned itself off for he duration of its flight to Jupiter rather than being normal and playing computer games or something. That unfortunately meant that the ship hadn't been looking where it was going, and thus had crashed into an asteroid, a one in a million event that could have easily been avoided, but that was the luck of the Jeb.
He used his RCS pack to negotiate the nightmarish debris field and found where the ship's bridge had been, and found the Mark 1 exosuit smashed and broken in the docking cradle. Unfortunately, the Jeb was dead. Fortunately, the document case was still intact.
Jebediah floated up to the dead body and tapped on the release all button for the document case, which began distributing several document folders (in a salmon color and made of dead trees as was the norm), two DVDs, and four flash drives. All of those were quickly secured. With that squared away, Jebediah tapped on his own document folder to spit out a pen and pad.
He quickly wrote a note to use the Jupiter fleet, once built, to make a couple of goes through the debris field and clean up the mess. No need make future astronauts' jobs more difficult by giving Jupiter a bad case of Kessler syndrome. Knowing the commander, those Astronauts would probably be American, and then the commander would be put out if any American mission was compromised.
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ltmauve
"Excuse me?"
- Location
- Earth
- Pronouns
- She/Her
- Location
- America
Well, you know what they say. You get what you pay for.
Ryven Razgriz
I need a Gun and I'll let you know 'What's up?'.
- Location
- South East Asia
But the tax dollar, progenitor cash is literally being generated by Ramble... So does that count as Tax if she's making her own money>?
- Location
- America
Aw, thank you.
They are quite cost effective for how much I spent to make them. Like, 98% of their cost actually was the energy to run the simulations to make sure they don't go rampant on me.
For my next trick, I will make Congress do something useful outside of a national crisis.
- Location
- Germany
- Pronouns
- He/Him
If you manage to do that in a convincing way that should net you the Nobel prize for literature ...
42
- Location
- America
I don't know. Maybe an alien progenitor commander who controls the sole supply of the one drug that they're all addicted to might be able to get them at least off their asses or something.
Have faith!
I'll admit, I'll need to take some time on that.
On with the story!
-----------------------------
Two months since the Mark 1 Mech suit completed trials and was put into production, and Jebediah found himself giddy at the thought of testing out the new piece of hardware that had been shipped to him by way of the supply ship that had been sent from the Mars orbital factories. As a reward for doing so well with the Jupiter fleet, he was rewarded with a one time transfer to a new body, one more suited to the conditions of space and capable of more extensive self repair.
In addition to becoming a 6 meter tall mecha, he also had a quite extensive array of weapons available as well as the blueprints to make replacement parts and ammunition, though he had taken quite a liking to the M1911-L which used the 1.5 ACP cartridge. The power in comparison to the 32mm Parabellum round simply appealed to him more than the M9-L's greater magazine capacity.
In any case, a perfect opportunity to test out the weapons presented itself.
One of the larger pieces of debris from a previously crashed space ship had been drifting too close to the Jupiter station for comfort. Normally, standard protocol would be to go out and push it into Jupiter's atmosphere or simply deploy one of the tugs to be broken down and refined, but that was boring. Jeb wanted to try out some of his new toys.
At an opportune moment, he jetted out into the vacuum of space and located the chunk of space ship that he was to clear away. A large piece of micrometeoroid resistant armor plate drifted through the void and presented a perfect target to shoot at.
He moved a short distance away, about 300 meters from the target and pulled the pistol from its magnetic holster at his side and lined up the three glowing green dots on the sights. His upgraded cybernetic brain also calculated the trajectories of where the bullet might go and luckily, nothing of particular import intersected the path of the bullet.
A few proper shots would in fact send the plate spinning off on a trajectory that intersected with Jupiter. This was a desired result.
After accounting for all variables, he lightly squeezed the trigger. In the vacuum of space, there is no sound, but there was recoil, and that recoil as considerable. RCS thrusters fired to compensate as a 40 millimeter lead slug was fired at high speed. The slide kicked back, ejecting the massive cartridge out into space.
The bullet slammed into the chunk of armor plate, imparting extreme force that caused the plate to not only move but also crack and deform. This was expected of the plate, and the trajectory was successfully altered to a satisfactory degree.
-----------------------------
I've been cooped up in the house for the better part of four months, and honestly, it's starting to get kinda samey, not that I'd want to leave my kids alone, but I really can't wait for them to start walking. Then I would be able to take them to new and exciting places with me rather than staying at home.
Normal mothers are usually able to take their babies out to various places with them. Babies are rather more durable that people normally give them credit for, but normal people also don't have 15 kids at the same time. Still, at least I'm getting some work done so my time isn't completely unproductive.
I also manage to keep myself sharp by making smaller things on my own, one of my more notable designs is a modification of the Eve design. Normally, all the Toy Soldiers are all uniform and identical, but by having various traits hooked up to a random generator, I can add some variety to the population under my control. In a fit of madness, I also added cat ears and then replaced the brain with a small Jeb core. Normal Jeb cores are actually somewhat large, capable of processing truly enormous amounts of data and limited by my safeguards and their own general laziness. The smaller Jeb core is much less capable, mostly capable of running the consciousness, personality, a basic scientific calculator, and store about 120 years worth of memories, or approximately how long the body is rated for.
Honestly, I don't know what to do with it.
. . .
Ah! Thrush! Don't cry now, you'll wake your brothers!
Maybe my generals will be able to find something useful to do with it.
-----------------------------
General Adam stared out the window, idly wondering if he was basically wasting his life away locked away in the office with not even paperwork to do because all Toy Soldiers were basically the perfect kind of soldiers. Well conditioned, highly motivated, extremely patriotic, and generally not all that prone to getting into trouble. Of course they got into trouble of course, they were grunts, but it was almost always something minor enough that the NCOs could take care of it all by themselves.
Even the A1 civies model was the picture perfect example of a perfect citizen.
"Eve. I'm bored."
He announced to his fellow General.
Eve had her head on her desk and was contemplating going to sleep. Often she did, which was why she was almost never in uniform and had both a pillow and blanket nearby at all times. It was just that dull. Nobody was being deployed. There were no assignments, and the only thing interesting about the day at all was what the special was at the mess hall. It was never on a schedule. The specials list at the mess was always randomized with up to 128 different choices and with a randomizer choosing one for each day.
It was always exciting. It was also just about the most excitement that the White Rock settlement ever had really. Such was the extent of the nothing that happened.
"Then why not go to sleep?"
"Too lazy."
It was at that moment an alert popped up on the huge gaming rig that took up the entirety of Adam's desk. So underutilized it was that anything that even needed his attention he could probably take care of on a clipboard. He grabbed the mouse and clicked on the open tab.
"Huh." He remarked. "It's a blueprint."
"Hueh?"
Adam sent the blueprint over to Eve's laptop, and it unfortunately closed Eve's Civ game to open up the blueprints. The laptop sat off to the side of the desk so that Eve could look at it without lifting her head too high. A wire frame of the unit in question rotated, and eve took it in for a moment.
Sticking a Jeb core into an organic body? That promised to add some measure of excitement to the dullness and meaninglessness of being trapped at the White Rock garrison.
"Eh, why not?"
Eve lifted her hand and hit the never before used keyboard shortcut to approve a new design and send it to the barracks for construction. A text box popped up asking for a name to assign the unit.
"Adaaaaamm. What do I call it?"
"You could call it a waifu and I couldn't give two shits." Adam reached under the desk and pulled out a small throw pillow to rest his head on. "Wake me when something interesting happens."
Eve used her index finger to tap at the keyboard.
W-A-I-F-U
And then hit the return key.
It may be a good idea to put your soldiers on ice until you need them.