Who: Jack O'Neill
When: After the ship left
Where: Colony compound, center area.
Invited: Molly, Bobby, Valerie, anyone
Status: Complete
Once the spaceship darted off and 'left', well, presumably 'left', Jack nodded in tacit acknowledgment and dismissal of the Captains, foregoing the salute, simply because he really hated them... on occasion. It
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"I'd love to say you didn't have a choice, but since you said it for me," Jack looked pleased with his choice, though for any student of the general, he was simply 'marking time' while Molly went through the verbal maneuverings of getting her mind around the topic. "I see you've got an idea on how to start--" and if he was asked to repeat it? He wasn't a quartermaster... and while he had experience running a base, he had people under him to do all -that- sort of work.
Okay, good choice.He stopped short, however, at Molly's request. His brows rose, his head cocked a little and his mouth ( ... )
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She knew people who had RUN old presses. She gave Bobby a grin, "Besides, it will happen eventually. Better sooner than later. And some might consider it a worthwhile hobby to build one. But reporters would be a start. Even some large community bulletin boards at first, with the news stuck up on it would be an improvement on rumor and speculation. Besides, it'll make it easier for me to post what's needed from time to time."
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He nodded though, and straightened before exhaling, politely refraining from looking at anything but her face as she unzipped and wriggled out of her cover-alls.
"Right. Now that we've got that cleared up, I'll leave you to it, Sergeant." Sarge. Fitting, to him. They were the ones who made the world go round; the real keepers of, well, everything. He'd learned their value and quickly a few years back and he never forgot the lesson.
"Feel free to leverage what you can when you can. As for what people can get for offering trade goods? A shot at trade. And don't forget man-power. I understand an ally of ours... elsewhere..." The Athosians.. in another galaxy. "... used to offer their own people at harvest time. We've got skills ( ... )
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(Nothing like Charlene,) Bobby mused. Although fifteen years had dulled the regret, it was still there. Bobby pushed it aside with practiced ease.
Bobby flipped the wrench in his hand. "Well Sergeant, if ya need a hand lemme know." Then he nodded at O'Neill. "General." He ambled back to the Jeep he'd been working on. That rusted bolt was coming out if he had to gnaw it out.
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