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This shift in the way things were named by the management was what really pissed Frank off.
Frank’s full name was Franchild Shinemount Iffens. He was a decorated field general. He’d earned his medals and his scars on the battlefields of Jerrytown, Hansfield, MoorShire and Cockswain’s Jut years ago before Victory Day had been declared.
Not like the virtual medals being handed out in today’s unified world. Now, the strictly hypothetical battles were fought on computer and the winners were sent their medals in the mail with online ceremonies being held in situ-cam so that no one need leave their houses.
Oh, we the conquerors. It made Frank sick. To the victor went the spoils. That was true. The subjugated foes were dead or slaves. Those that wanted to join were accepted after a drawn-out acceptance process.
The world was united. The hunger for battle that still existed was fed only by the computer sims.
Peace reigned and it made Frank want to puke.
He was down in a mech-making facility overseeing the refit process. The huge bipedal machines were being retooled now for construction instead of war. The missle-bays and armament housings were unbolted and stacked in corners. They were stripped of their military green or beige and repainted a bright yellow with black stripes.
Frank’s huge moustache twitched.
The thing that bothered him the most was the renaming.
Right now, he was looking at a Pomma Politica ‘Fisherman’ Class Whorebringer being bleached and setup for repaint. She had giant, round shoulder casings and a flared waist-chassis for a wider turning radius. Must have been forty years old if she was a day. The marks of the last firefight she was in were still evident. She stood there, naked without her offensive weaponry and defensive shielding.
She was ready.
He felt like he was watching a friend die.
The yellow paint sprayers started up with a hiss and twenty minutes later, the glorious war machine was standing, looking bright and new with her identity erased. Soon, she’d be outfitted with grapples, welders, up-to-date construction programming and safety harnesses.
The identification tags came down and with a burst of black molecular bonding paint through the stencils, the Pamma Politica ‘Fisherman’ Class Whorebringer became a brand new DB-765.
DB-765.
Frank’s eyes glittered. He’d been overseeing this for months. Once or twice, he’d even recognized machines that he’d used or fought against. Gorgeous graffiti, paintings, sunsets, winking women, kill notches, all of them stripped, bleached and repainted.
And given a number.
There were collectors of these things. Collectors that were rich beyond the grasp of a field general like Frank. Frank wished, sometimes, that he could buy one or two and have them set up in his back yard like those collectors did.
Pipe dream. Never happen.
Instead Frank idly wondered. He daydreamed of being called into a room after his job here was done. He dreamed of being stripped, painted and tattooed.
He dreamed of his passport and ID tags being changed from Franchild Shinemount Iffens to DB765.
tags
Frank’s full name was Franchild Shinemount Iffens. He was a decorated field general. He’d earned his medals and his scars on the battlefields of Jerrytown, Hansfield, MoorShire and Cockswain’s Jut years ago before Victory Day had been declared.
Not like the virtual medals being handed out in today’s unified world. Now, the strictly hypothetical battles were fought on computer and the winners were sent their medals in the mail with online ceremonies being held in situ-cam so that no one need leave their houses.
Oh, we the conquerors. It made Frank sick. To the victor went the spoils. That was true. The subjugated foes were dead or slaves. Those that wanted to join were accepted after a drawn-out acceptance process.
The world was united. The hunger for battle that still existed was fed only by the computer sims.
Peace reigned and it made Frank want to puke.
He was down in a mech-making facility overseeing the refit process. The huge bipedal machines were being retooled now for construction instead of war. The missle-bays and armament housings were unbolted and stacked in corners. They were stripped of their military green or beige and repainted a bright yellow with black stripes.
Frank’s huge moustache twitched.
The thing that bothered him the most was the renaming.
Right now, he was looking at a Pomma Politica ‘Fisherman’ Class Whorebringer being bleached and setup for repaint. She had giant, round shoulder casings and a flared waist-chassis for a wider turning radius. Must have been forty years old if she was a day. The marks of the last firefight she was in were still evident. She stood there, naked without her offensive weaponry and defensive shielding.
She was ready.
He felt like he was watching a friend die.
The yellow paint sprayers started up with a hiss and twenty minutes later, the glorious war machine was standing, looking bright and new with her identity erased. Soon, she’d be outfitted with grapples, welders, up-to-date construction programming and safety harnesses.
The identification tags came down and with a burst of black molecular bonding paint through the stencils, the Pamma Politica ‘Fisherman’ Class Whorebringer became a brand new DB-765.
DB-765.
Frank’s eyes glittered. He’d been overseeing this for months. Once or twice, he’d even recognized machines that he’d used or fought against. Gorgeous graffiti, paintings, sunsets, winking women, kill notches, all of them stripped, bleached and repainted.
And given a number.
There were collectors of these things. Collectors that were rich beyond the grasp of a field general like Frank. Frank wished, sometimes, that he could buy one or two and have them set up in his back yard like those collectors did.
Pipe dream. Never happen.
Instead Frank idly wondered. He daydreamed of being called into a room after his job here was done. He dreamed of being stripped, painted and tattooed.
He dreamed of his passport and ID tags being changed from Franchild Shinemount Iffens to DB765.
tags