NationStates Jolt Archive

History is not some dry, dusty thing moldering on forgotten bookshelves in university libraries nor a finely polished delicate artifact pretending to be a toy as it sits on the desk of some wealthy dilettante with a passing hobby in the past. No, history is very much a different thing from the bones in the sand waiting for explorers to dig them out, dust them off, and categorize them in whatever way suits their mood or ideology best. It's the reason why one tribe will take hostages from another tribe to get concessions, the reason why good people can spew anger and hate at people of a certain differing creed or foreign civilization. History explains why people now do the things the way they do; how they think, how they act and react, the hows of the whys behind their actions and their reactions. A living, breathing force hiding under the skin of things, making the muscles move according to a will not entirely their own.

But a will? A true consciousness, guiding them as the cells in a greater body? Or simply a construct from chaos, an emergent principle of simplification due to the infinite interactions between people every day? A mixture, perhaps. Minds of will to power, ultimate power, have gripped the reins of history before; analyzed the forces, projected the outcomes, presented concepts of cause and effect. Psychohistory from the fictional Seldon to the very much real Tolstoy. 'Great' men gripping the reins of history, driving armies and nations over and through and along one another, causing that great demon (or simply natural fact of life) Change to become all too obvious to the commoners below, who wait excitedly for the next thrilling chapter or bemoan the coming of the end times as foretold by the prophets. Will becomes action, action becomes deed, deed becomes story, story becomes legend. The shaping will fades, is amplified by ardent followers who create stories of fingers in dikes and cherry trees and flag-sewing--either intentionally or unintentionally creating the mythology of peoples and nations--and denegrated by revisionists of flavors ranging from idealistic seekers of truth to the disenfranchised (in their own minds at least) trying to wreck a system they hate. The will fades, but history moves on, forever on.

But all history is merely the highly imperfect flow of information from one generation to the next. Things become confused depending on who's telling the story. Did the evil imperial soldiers fire first, or were they merely protecting themselves from the dangerous colonial stone-throwing? Were the students shot in premeditated cold blood, or was it just that a nervous teenager with a rifle got spooked by the burning buildings and thrown bottles and twitched his right index finger? Was it a plane or a missile or a planned demolition? Religious extremists or our very own government? One can see how confused it all gets, which explains why things are the way they are.

"The history books are written by the victors," so they say. Control of history has always been one of those selfsame reins of history commanded by the will to power. But who says they need be victors? Given that it's all information in the end, certainly one can control history through disinformation, and not necessarily the sort of official disinformation that comes from ministers and history books?

Enough question marks. There are those who will, and then those who will more generally. Inspired by the horrors of the past and fueled by their own hatred, they seek revenge... but a special sort of revenge. They have their own interests, and it is best if these are not harmed. They don't wish to be known for their vengeance; they don't want to spit in the eyes of those they hate, to let their victims see those who they oppressed for so long. That would in some way lessen the desired effect. No, they have no ideology. No great struggle. Merely a burning desire to sow discord and disruption as was sown upon them in years past.

Proper nihilists and anarchists, the ones who believe in nothing but the breaking of tablets and the all-consuming fire, have always been feared.

This is why.

History is not some dry, dusty thing moldering on forgotten bookshelves in university libraries nor a finely polished delicate artifact pretending to be a toy as it sits on the desk of some wealthy dilettante with a passing hobby in the past. No, history is very much a different thing from the bones in the sand waiting for explorers to dig them out, dust them off, and categorize them in whatever way suits their mood or ideology best. It's the reason why one tribe will take hostages from another tribe to get concessions, the reason why good people can spew anger and hate at people of a certain differing creed or foreign civilization. History explains why people now do the things the way they do; how they think, how they act and react, the hows of the whys behind their actions and their reactions. A living, breathing force hiding under the skin of things, making the muscles move according to a will not entirely their own.

But a will? A true consciousness, guiding them as the cells in a greater body? Or simply a construct from chaos, an emergent principle of simplification due to the infinite interactions between people every day? A mixture, perhaps. Minds of will to power, ultimate power, have gripped the reins of history before; analyzed the forces, projected the outcomes, presented concepts of cause and effect. Psychohistory from the fictional Seldon to the very much real Tolstoy. 'Great' men gripping the reins of history, driving armies and nations over and through and along one another, causing that great demon (or simply natural fact of life) Change to become all too obvious to the commoners below, who wait excitedly for the next thrilling chapter or bemoan the coming of the end times as foretold by the prophets. Will becomes action, action becomes deed, deed becomes story, story becomes legend. The shaping will fades, is amplified by ardent followers who create stories of fingers in dikes and cherry trees and flag-sewing--either intentionally or unintentionally creating the mythology of peoples and nations--and denegrated by revisionists of flavors ranging from idealistic seekers of truth to the disenfranchised (in their own minds at least) trying to wreck a system they hate. The will fades, but history moves on, forever on.

But all history is merely the highly imperfect flow of information from one generation to the next. Things become confused depending on who's telling the story. Did the evil imperial soldiers fire first, or were they merely protecting themselves from the dangerous colonial stone-throwing? Were the students shot in premeditated cold blood, or was it just that a nervous teenager with a rifle got spooked by the burning buildings and thrown bottles and twitched his right index finger? Was it a plane or a missile or a planned demolition? Religious extremists or our very own government? One can see how confused it all gets, which explains why things are the way they are.

"The history books are written by the victors," so they say. Control of history has always been one of those selfsame reins of history commanded by the will to power. But who says they need be victors? Given that it's all information in the end, certainly one can control history through disinformation, and not necessarily the sort of official disinformation that comes from ministers and history books?

Enough question marks. There are those who will, and then those who will more generally. Inspired by the horrors of the past and fueled by their own hatred, they seek revenge... but a special sort of revenge. They have their own interests, and it is best if these are not harmed. They don't wish to be known for their vengeance; they don't want to spit in the eyes of those they hate, to let their victims see those who they oppressed for so long. That would in some way lessen the desired effect. No, they have no ideology. No great struggle. Merely a burning desire to sow discord and disruption as was sown upon them in years past.

Proper nihilists and anarchists, the ones who believe in nothing but the breaking of tablets and the all-consuming fire, have always been feared.

This is why.


OOC: I've got to be honest, I don't see what your going for... some strange monologue RP?

President Matthew Jamison of the Opatian Federation was pacing in his office looking at the latest memo from his generals. He had been waiting for something like this to happen. The loyalists had become even more violent. They wanted to use nuclear weapons on large groups of them. It was the worst thing he could hope for.

The Federal Senate was giving a speech from the Capitol Building today. He had no power over the bill if the Senate approved it. It would go right by him once it was approved. He went to his telephone, and pressed '7' on speed-dial. It would direct him to a random nation that may be able to help with his problem. Matthew picked up the phone, and awaited the response that would greet him. He was directed to an automated system. The only nations available was an enemy nation, and one he had never communicated with. He pressed '2' on the speed-dial, and was directed to the nation's leader.

bump, though I have no idea why

From manufacturer, to distributor, to customer. It's been like this for over ten-thousand years, since the early neolithic, at that time involving individuals or small groups of people wandering between early villages, transporting amber or particularly nice-looking pottery between them.

The means of transportation have changed, from the ruined shoulders of homo sapiens specimen to fusion-torch driven multi-gigaton freighters with FTL-capabilities, but the principle behind it all - from manufacturer, to distributor, to customer - still applies.

Something else still applies, too. Ever since people realised the danger of their products, they've tried to restrict trade with them. Be it bronze- or iron weapons, gunpowder, missiles tipped with thermonuclear warheads or self-replicating machines one could dump into the Oort cloud to churn out a few million FTLing continent crackers - there was always an interest in keeping the proliferation of a society's most advanced products restricted, whenever this products could be turned against said society.

Of course, the market for this products still existed - and indeed, continues to exist to this day, with no end in sight -, and so did people who were willing to provide said products, unconvinced that restricting the trade in such goods was against their personal interest, as the state would've liked them to believe.

Unfortunately, in an age that involves Hiroshima-scale explosives fitting into a purse, the security measures available to any given society have evolved into rather paranoid and invasive mechanisms - far too paranoid and invasive to try and smuggle this kind of thing.

Unsurprisingly, the brokers on the black market were somewhat unwilling to give up their profitable profession, irregardless of their profit spans being reduced to a negligible nothing by the state and the security measures it employs.

Fortunately, there were - and are - still markets remaining for them: One of them consists of trading knowledge, rather than products - a profitable business, highlighted by the success of industrial espionage -, and another one consists of distributing products - products considered perfectly legitimate by the authorities - from source (No longer identical with manufacturer) to customer, at extremely competitive prices, whilst ensuring plausible deniability throughout the whole chain of distribution.

Which was both, the tricky, and the profitable part of the whole business.

It was this latter kind of business that Josef Lenniere tended to run every once in a while.

Imagine, if you will, a simplistic-looking 'Office', offering the necessary means of communications, as well as the means to make sure that this communications remained reasonably safe. Nothing too stereotyical in there - Josef Lenniere is a reasonably wealthy and reasonably respected businessman, and keeps his furniture as simplistic as his clothes. Which means very simplistic.

His customers rather prefer it if the people they ask favours of keep an inconspicuous, almost petty lifestyle that wont attract undue attention.

Not that the kind of customer you never, ever meet is his only kind of customer - Lenniere Logistics & Brokering is dealing in perfectly respectable, small-scale logistics and, well, 'Establishing Contacts'. Ninety percent of what it does is so legitimate as to be boring in the extreme.

The remaining ten percent are still boring in the extreme, but not necessarily entirely legitimate.

The reasons are manifold. There's of course the element of money - that the living standard of basically everyone is secured, even if they're spending their days drooling in a corner, is one thing. But for luxuries, one still has to be a part of the active workforce. And for even more luxuries, the not-quite-legitimate offers its opportunities.

There's also the element of a 'Good Conscience' - fencing, say, restricted technologies into other societies, where they might eventually do some good, can give one surprisingly nice feelings.

The most important element however, is that of thrill. Of succeeding in out-thinking the security of the high-level sapients that restrict business in their own ways - not through laws, but through interference, through small pats on one's back, 'Don't do that again, or we'll have to delay your transport via a corrupted computer core... Again.' The aura of the forbidden, or at the very least of the discouraged.

It feels good to be an 'Outlaw'.

And this was pretty much his mood when the call came.

A smooth, vaguely sicilian voice, radiating confidence and control.

"Yes?"

"Ah, I see. Well..."

"Oh. Of course, of course. Yes, that'd work. Certainly... Economicdisasterstan’s hardly common for this kind of transfer, but… Ah, now I understand. Yes, this can be arranged easily."

"Absolutely, I agree. Well, neither of us is really at risk, I suppose, but... Yes. Exactly. Well, Mister Vendetti, that can certainly be arranged. Once your representative arrives... Yes. Well. Alright then - Hear you... Or more likely, not."

Maybe an hour later, a cheap suit filled with a person of indefinable ethnicity and radiating an aura of confidence not unlike Bonsignore Vendetti’s own – well, more professional-businessesque, rather than jovial-authoritative - entered Josef Lenniere's office. The conversation was pleasant, if less than straightforward - talking about their respective families (But not their occupations), and drinking reasonably priced wine took its time. Nonetheless, eventually, the reason for the visit was brought up, and about five minutes later, the financial and geographical aspects of the deal had been negotiated. Timeframes remained objects to discuss - largely due to the inherent problems such deals involved -, but were doubtlessly within acceptable limits.

It had been a pleasant visit, and the transfer of monetary resources taking place throughout non-disclosure accounts soon afterwards cements the deal.

What remains is Josef Lenniere doing a few calls with ‘Business Partners’ in ZMI, involving considerable monetary incentives to ensure that a number of geological probes are lost in the byzantine bureaucracy of the megacity.

To eventually resurface in one of the very useful warehouses he keeps running in Bigtopia, and from where they may eventually be transported to their ‘Final’ (As far as Josef is concerned, that is) destination, Economicdisasterstan.

Whether they intend to find some oil there, or whether it’s just another destination on a longer journey doesn’t particularly concern him.

The frieghter, an old fusion torch hauler manufactured in Sunset with crude registration codes indicating Jovian registration stencilled on the hull, nudged up to one of the numerous docking sleeves hanging off the station. A final burn of it's manuvering thrusters and the magnetic clamps on the sleeve latched on with a clang that reverberated through the hull.

Captain Summersett swivelled in his chair to face the communication console and punched up the short range systems. It was strictly a two-man operation aboard the Clarence Witmore the Third and Summersett's former partner had been in cold storage for the last six months. Some impromptu systems reconfiguration and running out of bipolar medication had solved that problem as well as doubled his potential profits.

"...too bad I gotta split them with that Steve guy..."

The screen lit up as the connection went through. A tired looking reptilian biped looked up from something and hissed at him.

'Yesss?'

"...he'll get his. Yeah, I've got a load of collector grubs waiting. Invoice number... five seven nine twelve. For Golden-Ring Mining."

The lizard looked down at his displays for a moment.

"Fifty seven nine twelve? Ah yess. Model eighty five ninty ones. I've got them all packed up and ready. When I get my credits."

The order wasn't a large one compared to their normal jobs but Golden-Ring wasn't a large operation according to the routine credit check. The supplier liked to make sure someone wasn't trying to run a con on him.

On the outer hull of the Clarence Witmore the Third an ancient communications laser nestled between a cargo arm and one of the transmittion booms for the BK faster-than-light unit came to life and swiveled into position. Accounts and passcodes streamed towards the reciever on the station, slowly but securely, until the reptile grunted and nodded.

"All right. I hope that hunk of junk has an automated cargo handler or else you are loading these yourself."

"Don't worry... If it fails Steve will load them..."

Summersett cut the transmission and turned to look into one of the external windows where his crazed reflection stared back at him.

"...without a space suit! Steve? Steve? I see you..."

----

With the cargo loaded the booms for the Black-Knight drive began to extend as the Clarence Witmore the Third floated away from the station. once they were fully extended and the ship far enough from the station Summersett engaged the drives and tore a jagged hole in reality. The next stop was Luna and the normal Luna-Earth trade lanes to a corporate cargo terminal in Moneylaunderingstan. From there they would presumably be shipped to the companies mining operatings outsystem.

----

Presumably.

Sometime earlier, an associate of something called DiBeSeCo picked up a payphone in Menelmacar and put in a call, posing to be a Scolopendran partner of the Sunset 'merchantmen' paid handsomely to carry the goods thus ordered. The fact that this associate was not what he, or she, or it said it was is of course a matter of fact and should come as no surprise. The conversation with the Augmented went something like this.

"Hello, Augmented automated factory systems? I'm Leoben Doral, part of a little Sunset-Scolopendra startup mining firm. Do you happen to sell universal constructors?"

"Of course we do, sir! We sell better stuff than anyone else and our constructors are top-notch, but the blueprints for 'em cost a bit."

"If I need blueprints for universal constructors, they're probably not what I'm looking for. The entire idea of universal constructors are that they build more universal constructors. And quality isn't so much a concern as temperature and pressure resistance."

"Oh, you want replicators then. They're cheap as dirt and about as useful."

"Yes, I do believe that's the newfangled term for the old Von Neumann machine concept."

"We save 'constructor' for the more versatile versions."

"Right. How much would, say, a ton of them go for? And can I get them so they're non-networked? Well, lemme rephrase that. I want them to be able to communicate to each other but not on a command level."

"Do you want to be able to give them orders? And what kind of scale are you looking for? Microscopic or no?"

"'Resources here' 'This thing is hurting me [with some technical data]' 'I'm lonely,' that sort of thing. And no, not orders as such. I just want them to basically concentrate resources to make them easier to scoop up."

"Ahhh."

"Microscopic would be preferable, though I'll go for 'grain of sand sized' if need be."

"So you want to use them on a resource deposit and then just scoop 'em up and reprocess them into elements?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"And you want them to be able to coordinate themselves, and be confined to a given area, right? So they don't go eating your buildings?"

"Err, not coordinate so much. I want them to be able to communicate and simply act on that communication, sorta like ants or schools of fish. Nothing so complex as coordination. I'm thinking of dead-rock stripmining so confinement isn't the biggest issue, although I'll take it as an on-off option. Preferably modular so I don't have to buy both 'on' replicators and 'off' replicators."

"That's what we meant by coordination. OK, so we can give you a simple strain of paste that can process most anything into more paste and be triggered on and off by small injections of superheavy isotopes- would that suffice?"

"Hmmm... the amount of superheavy isotopes is probably directly proportional to the population of the swarm, neh? So each little replicator gets an isotope and thus shuts off?"

"No, the little replicators get an isotope, shut off, and pass it on to the nearest active replicator so you don't need a one-to-one isotope-to-replicator ratio."

"Hrm... no, that's communication on a command level and I don't want that. I don't mind inertizing nanites in batches."

"Mmm, well we can downgrade them to a 1:1 system if you like then."

"That'd be excellent."

"Alright."

"Before I get myself in trouble with these things, what's their maximum population?"

"We can't implement a limit unless they have some kind of command system keeping track of the number." Slight sense of a sneer.

"'Watch carefully.' That's fine; caution is what being on a budget is all about."

"We can make it so that they require a 'on' isotope to be present for them to replicate. That way you can limit the number to the number of 'on' isotopes."

"Well, I'm assuming that the initial batch is shipped 'off' and thus needs to be turned 'on' somehow. Maybe those need 'on' isotopes and then they build 'unlocked' replicators that don't need the isotopes? Or perhaps make it some stupidly common isotope like carbon-14? I mean, it'd suck if these things are chugging along and then hit a particularly pure vein with no isotopes and just stop."

"No, no, it would be a limiting mechanism. If you want a billion replicators, you add a billion atoms of isotope."

"Hmm... if I'm going to be using nanites on a budget I'll be damn sure to watch them carefully. The limiting agent should probably be the 'off' isotope. I.e. 'Okay, that's big enough. Click, scoop, repeat.'"

"Uh... Not sure what you're getting at there."

"Basically there shouldn't be a need for built-in limitation."

"Alright, so no built-in limitations... the problem that arises, though, is if you end up with more nanites than you have isotope because you need to deactivate them before you process them."

"Right. That's where bits of gravywank for isolation and deactivation comes in. The nanites will eventually be broken down for the resources anyway and only a few will be left over when the job's done to act as the seed group for the next. If we goof up, well, that rock's nanited so we'll just finish the haul and our profit margin will be reduced by the necessity to buy a new seed group."

"They're mechanical. Keep in mind EMP might fuck up some of them but not all. Alright. So what changes do you want?"

"Righto. I'm seeing some replicators that communicate but not on a command level (think animal howling) with simple internal algorithms for listening to each other but no sort of real networked organization. Shipped off, turned on (probably by mild EMP for a shock of life), turned off using that isotope idea."

"Right. So you want a different activation method, that's it?"

"Yeah. Probably just requires some simple input of energy, either by heating them up or jolting them with some electricity or something. Oh, and of course the high temperature/pressure resistance. I may do some gas giant mining and grabbing globs of goo is a bit quicker than doing the whole siphoning-gas bit."

"Would a specific frequency of microwave be suitable?"

"Sure."

"Alright. I can do that then."

"Excellent."


"At maybe fifty-kay USD a ton, which is cheap considering that it self-replicates."

"Hmmm... alright. I'll take a ton, then."


"Thanks for doing business! I'd like to note that our rogue-replicator cleanup services are top of the line as well."

"We'll keep that in mind. Perhaps set up a bronze-level contract for a service agreement, just in case?"

"Oh, we charge on a per-incident basis. First 500 tons is free if it's our nanites."

"Fair enough. Looking through the Galactic Exploration Command survey there's a few uninhabitable planets with active vulcanology but plenty rich in minerals I'd like to use these things on. Think they could make it to or past the moho, perhaps internally programmed to seek heat/pressure first (where all the riches are) up to their limit? Yeah, I know extracting such things would be interesting. I'll figure something out."

"I haven't pressure tested them for borehole mining they'd probably freak out a mile or so past the crust."

"Hm. Fair enough. Still, pretty warm and dense there. Should work out just fine."

"You'd be better off getting a core mining strain, and even those freak out about three to four miles past the crust."

"Hmm... core miners work just fine in the mile region too, neh? No need to get both kinds then?"

"Yeah."

"Excellent. We'll take those then instead."

"Alright, but they're almost twice the price. You will have to pay extra."

"Hundred-kay for a ton? Still worth it."

"Alrighty then."

And thus is business done. The order is paid with money at first filtered through good old Moneylaunderingstan but actually paid out from a secure Bigtopian bank of good repute. The goods are shipped via Sunset to the same patch of drought-blighted desert that the goods from ZMI brought via Angstian shipping end up in. From there, someone who has the same pitch-black complexion of the locals and a sort of strange cough directs a gang of locals, paid in gold chits, to pour the dust from the barrels in one crate into the blocky metallic things in the other crates while he unscrews the front of the blocky metallic things and swaps out some iridescent cubes. That all being done, everything is boxed right back up and the crates--empty and full-- are buried beside an outcropping of rock.

Then a call goes out to a freelance freighter captain flying the flag of ElectronX. Rumors circulating around places due to recent purchases suggest the possibility of synergy in plans, and synergy is for good reason one of the buzzwords of modern business. The captain is given specific directions, and told that if these directions could in any way aid any previous plans he has or is privvy to, that he has the freedom to act on it as he will. Of course, full payment--the large majority of the independently wealthy sum offered--will have to wait until confirmation of package delivery, a confirmation that is by need and plan somewhat more subtle than a simple signed-off receipt.

Just move the goods where they need to be moved and how they need to be moved, and you can buy your own island somewhere.

The freelance captain apologetically hands over the goods, saying that the destination has somehow fallen off the face of the universe and thinking about it makes his brain hurt.

Damn. So many plans, foiled by such simple things.

Another target presents itself. An obvious set-up, a poor attempt at wool being pulled over eyes only allowed to succeed because no one is willing to do what it takes to stop it. So in a few months or years the same old thing can happen again.

But we have something to combat this. A proper punishment. The same idea, simply applied to a smaller scale. Survival demands action in such a case, and it is just the trigger necessary. If they continue to hem and haw and look the other way, the problems simply visit to themselves. No, this is a basic animal threat to the existence of meat. Survival itself will demand action.

It harms our interests.

No, it merely puts them at threat. They are our interests because we believe at least in part of their goodness. They are inferior, yes, but they are willing to work with us and were we to cast them like wheat with chaff we would be no worse than the murderers of old. We are greater. We are superior. Our actions have reason.

Our actions are vengeance.

Against those like those who harmed us. We do this so what happened to us may never happen again--clearly the self-appointed legal defenders have no interest in stopping it. We are above the law, and beyond it; we've crossed that philosophical strand of gold separating the base individual to what that individual can become.

Nietzsche? Thus Spoke Zarathustra?

Yes, and Beyond Good and Evil applies as well. We do this for our survival and the survival of those like us. Those who were bullied almost to extinction when they simply wanted to live their own lives. It is time the bullies got a taste of their own medicine, that we push back. We are not limited by ideology, of inconsistent 'right' for which we do 'wrong'--we merely want revenge. This will be the first step in our great revenge.

Revenge against those who deserve it... who are gone. We are revenging against like.

But not innocent.

Yes. But not innocent. We trust our friends for a reason. So let it be done.

Another shell game happens, this time with a cardboard company headquartered in Bigtopia. Suggestions are planted and their goods shipped to the unwitting. The stage is, once again, set.

[OOC: Tag 'cause I'm indirectly involved. That's it.]