NationStates Jolt Archive

Orbiting satellites were an amusing thing. Many of them were designed to blast the ever loving hell out of people, others for communication, and still others as relays. With the proper application of encryption and signal strength, it was possible to make use of other people's satellites to transmit your own messages. It was dangerous, of course -- people had a strange sense of propriety over these things -- but it was, usually, cheaper than sending your own satellites into orbit.

Over the years, an impressive database of 'friendly' satellites had been created. 'Friendly', of course, simply meant: 'We haven't been attacked for borrowing them yet'. However, since the satellites were simply being used as a glorified orbital mirror to bounce signals, people didn't usually complain. A few quick clicks and the message was relayed (hopefully) to any nation interested in unsolicited calls.

Greetings Sir and/or Ma'am and/or Other,


The Illuminate Erisian Commune of Hagbard is pleased to announce that our ocean-based platform has been constructed and is now open and ready for operation!

While you normally wouldn't care about such an insignifigant event, we are here to inform you that this is a tourist opportunity that you don't want to miss!

"Why," you ask, "Would I want to go to an off shore platform?" Good question!

This is no oil rig or military base, this is the pinnacle of tourist opportunities. You see, the platform is the beginning of your vacation, not the destination!

Have you ever wanted to see a gladitorial battle? The ancient rites of Eris? A Shakespearean play directed by ol' Bill himself? Well, then we've got a vacation package for you!

Our prices are unbelievably low*, so why not book your very own Temporal Vacation? It's something you'll never forget!

We also have package deals available for research teams, should they wish to quit guessing and know just what the hell really went on in that aeons-old ruin!

Contact us today to book your trip! Or, if you prefer, call us yesterday!

Trips can be booked on our website: http://www.sacredchaotrips.23 or by calling (800)555-ERIS!


A public advertisement from the Hagbard Compartment of Tourism

* For reasons our lawyers forbid us from revealing.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v209/Dionysus777/5Btag5D.jpg

:eek: Jaysus, but that's a disturbing image...

Earth Orbit

The CRD (Communications Relay Drone) floated in orbit (Well, it was all it ever did, really) as the transmission got through, annoying as usual, but not particularly dangerous, and CRD 06/ 229 tended to allow it, simply because it liked to listen in to what others had to say. Besides, Hagbard, being as odd as it was, was also a rather interesting nation, and CRD 06/ 229 could afford wasting a bit of available bandwidth for this 'hijacks'.

Of course, times had changed. Semi-sentience had turned into full sentience. Tools had turned into citizens. Nowadays, CRD 06/ 229 was backed up on three different servers throughout sol, had three different mindstate-compatible bodies available in base reality, and kept its old minispaceship/ satellite crossover running on a subroutine extracted from its actual mind, ninety percent of the time.

On the plus side, this allowed for diversions and loads of free time, and as the message was relayed through it (For once having its entire mindstate located in the actual commsat-equivalent), it wasn't hard for it to pick it up.

A quick check with a friend in base reality, its former operator, to be correct.

<CRD 06/ 229> [Hagbard Communications File Attached] Can you come?
<Agnes> I'm cooking...
<CRD 06/ 229> Not yet, in a few hours!
<Agnes> Oh. Ok. Well... You pay?
<CRD 06/ 229> Sort of.
<Agnes> Eh?
<CRD 06/ 229> 'Yes.'
<Agnes> Ah, ok. Well, then it's done, I'd say. You take care of the flight.
<CRD 06/ 229> Why, sure. Say, is there anything else you'd like to have me pay for?
<Agnes> Now that you mention it-
<CRD 06/ 229> *Sighs* Forget it.
<Agnes> ^_^ But I'll be there.

Well, so far, so good. Now, to make the trip a little cheaper.

Checking http://www.sacredchaotrips.23 ... Ah, there.

Dear Sir/ Ma'am,

I'm of course very interested in booking Temporal Vacations, as I'm sure that they'll be an exceptional experience, an experience neither I nor my friends will want to miss.

However, I've noticed that Hagbard has in the past used a Communications Relay Drone that happens to be my working place to transmit data, including, but not limited to, the advertisement you've sent with regards to this exceptionally interesting 'Temporal Vacations' offer.

So far, the bills for bandwidth usage and data traffic at the time each transmission was sent have not been paid for by the respective users from Hagbard, and I'd humbly suggest that said costs are to be substracted from the price for booking one of your temporal vacations.

Sincerely, and eagerly awaiting confirmation,

~ CRD 06/ 229

That cheap, cheeky, son-of-a-bitch... George couldn't believe what he was reading. He pulled out a pocket calculator and tried to figure out just how much he probably owned Der Angst; not that he recorded which satellite he pirated.

"Oh, fuck me running..." he muttered, punching the keys with his slightly pudgy fingers, "We barely charge anyway, cheap bastard..." He paused. He pulled up a copy of his last transmition and slowly grinned. After all, he never actually said how much the trips cost.

CRD 06/ 229,

We are absolutely thrilled that you are interested in one of our vacation packages. We are, understandably, less than thrilled that you chose to bring up our... ah... liberal use of certain assests that, aparently, you have ultimate control of.

We are more than willing... "glad", even... to reduce the price of your package. By our calculations, a standard tour package would run... um... 5 Flax ounces... which is... roughly... $2 per person...

I hope this is acceptable?

~ George Dorn
Compartment of Tourism
The Illuminate Erisian Commune of Hagbard

George sighed as he sent the message. On the plus side, two bucks was enough to bet on the horses, so he'd be able to make up the loss, but it still hurt.

George Dorn,

Perfectly acceptable. I'll organise the proper transfers immediately. And if the standard tour package is as interesting as I imagine it, I wouldn't put it past me and my friend that we'll go for a more specialised, and for you, more profitable, trip, next time around, anyway.

~ CRD 06/ 229

<CRD 06/ 229> Done
<Agnes> Ah, perfect, just finished food. Hrm... What to wear...
<CRD 06/ 229> If it will be as varied as I suppose it will be, I'd suggest buying from the locals. I don't think Mademoiselle has the fashion from 100 A.D. available.
<Agnes> Good point. Well, I'll see. You took care of the flight?
<CRD 06/ 229> As good as done.
<Agnes> ... Lazy as usual. Just like back when I still had control of you.
<CRD 06/ 229> Who was the one running me of a subroutine, hrm? Anyway, should be interesting. Hummm... I don't think a floaty machine is appropriate for this kind of trip, I guess I'll go with my near-baseline body.
<Agnes> ^_^ It's properly equipped, too.
<CRD 06/ 229> ... And possibly the taser.
<Agnes> ;_; Anyway. See you at the port.
<CRD 06/ 229> In the pacific, more likely. My body in question is stored on Earth.
<Agnes> Bah. Ok, so I'll have to endure half an hour of utter lonelyness in transit? Meh.
<CRD 06/ 229> You'll survive. Over and out.

Hrm. Could buy her a few flowers, too...

Well, that would come later. For now, he had to think about a few other things. Like, looking up when the tour he was booking would actually start, and paying for Agnes' flight.

Ewww. Work. I thought 'Holidays' were supposed to be relaxing.

CRD 06/ 229,

Excellent! I look forward to your arrival!

I'll meet you in person at the off-shore rig at $time, $date!

~ George Dorn
Compartment of Tourism
The Illuminate Erisian Commune of Hagbard

He was still a little miffed that he was being charged for pirating satellites -- the nerve! -- but he'd still be able to turn a profit on the money he was getting. He supposed that placing small, long-shot bets was less likely to be noticed any way. It was just that converting into old currency was such a pain in the ass.

With any luck, he'd be able to gouge them at the gift shop. Hey, business is business.

Low Priority Communiqué

Guffingford is, as always, suspicious about this temporal technology. We do not trust it, but we find this kind of vacation a refreshing new theme in a cliched and sometimes downright boring anual happening. Before we are going to sound our hapless - sometimes dumb - rich tourists to your most exclusive vacation resort, a state funded group will be sent forth to inspect your construction whether it is safe to visit. The usual government big brotherness, always checking and certifying one's safety and health. These are all standard procedures, nothing to worry about. They do not know the content of this message, and this is completely off the record: make them feel comfortable, give them some of your best food and they'll recommend it to the Guffingfordian population with an triple A status.
As always, all costs made are covered by the Guffingfordian Treasury, just send them the bill and they'll take care of it.

- State Dept. of Tourism & Entertainment Representative.

Off-shore rig at $time, $date

CRD 06/ 229 didn't feel particularly well, standing near the port where it expected Agnes to arrive, a bunch of flowers in its left hand (Not a serious romance, but still a nice little game it liked to keep up, that). It had been born a satellite mind, had slowly grown used to the small, yet somewhat bulky floaty-drone model that was so common among DAs newest citizens, but this almost-entirely biological entity its mind was presently located in just felt... Awkward.

It'd never get used to it, nor to this awkward clothing it considered a rather unnecessary tradition.

Well, for now, CRD 06/ 229 would have to cope with this particular body, anyway. It watched a few birds fly past, checking the time. Hummm... She should be here any minute now...

'Any minute' translated closer to 'a little longer than half an hour', though, and CRD 06/ 229 experienced the annoyingly uncommon sensation of its legs tiring.

Still, as Agnes entered the rig, the flowers were right there. "Long flight, I take it?"

"Meh." Her look was certainly not expressing pleasure. A most common start of vacations, all things considered.

Whoops. Must have been mildly unpleasant. "Well, anyway... I believe our... Errr... Guide, I think, is already waiting. May I?" It offered its arm, and Agnes took it, a little reluctantly perhaps, but still.

A few moments later, they could already see George Dorn, waiting. Ok, so they were a few minutes late, but still... The two comparatively small, but vaguely good- (Well, average) looking and in Agnes' case relatively exposed (The seawind quite capable of matching her short, light-blue dress. Not that anyone would mind...) clients approached their contact/ guide. "You're George Dorn, correct? CRD 06/ 229 and Agnes Willinger." Both bowed, and CRD 06/ 229 continued. "A most intriguing place. Oh, and good morning. Well, near afternoon. I believe you'll have to explain the next few steps to us..."

Reply to Guffingford State Dept. etc. etc.

Well... I suppose that's okay. Of course, the... ah... technical details of our methods are classified, but if you want to send a few people to check out the rig, I see no real reason to complain. Attached are coordinates so you can find us and suchwise.

~ George Dorn
Compartment of Tourism
The Illuminate Erisian Commune of Hagbard

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


The rig looked like something one might expect from a bunch of Discordians (who were quite different from Anarchists, mind). It looked as if much of its components were scavenged from oil rigs, defence platforms, so on and so forth. It was, however, in quite good condition, and seemed perfectly sturdy -- as sturdy as such a thing could be. Much to most people's relief, there were no rust spots; it might be salvaged, but it looked new(ish). There were several pods of dolphins playing around it as well. They didn't seem to care about vehicles coming or going, and almost looked bored at the humans' presence.

George was an overweight, middle aged man who looked nervous in his own skin and more than a little twitchy. His sad, half-hearted attempt at a comb-over was utterly destroyed by the whipping wind, making him look even more pathetic than he usually did. Clearly, this was a man who was used to dealing with people through a computer screen, not in person.

He nodded, his flabby head bouncing as if it was on a tired spring, "Oh yes, yes, welcome to Hagbard! Well, not so much Hagbard as our rig... there isn't really a Hagbard, per se, you see, but, well, we do own this... as much as anyone can own anything..." He paused to take a breath when the woman coming out from a little shelter cleared her throat loud enough to be heard over the wind.

"That's quite enough George, take your payment and I'll see to our guests." This woman was as attractive as George wasn't. She looked like a sculpted goddess and she wore a rather tight silver jumpsuit. Written across her (impressive) breast was her name: Mavis. She smiled pleasantly at CRD 06/ 229 and Agnes as CRD 06/ 229 paid George his four dollars, "If you two will follow me, we can see about getting you into more proper attire." George, for his part, whimpered softly and gave Mavis a look equal parts lust and resentment as he took the payment.

The interior of the rig looked like something out of the Golden Age of Science Fiction; it was really shiny. Really, really shiny. Pipes of dubious necessity ran along the hallways, and all the doors were impressive pressure doors. There were digital clocks and displays everywhere, showing various bits of information that might be important, but probably wasn't. Still, it looked really shiny!

She lead them down a few hallways to an equally shiny elevator which hummed softly as they went down a few levels. When the doors opened, they were lead into the most shiny room of all. And the weirdest, too.

Dominating the middle of the room was a large structure shaped like a Golden Apple. Hoses, wires, and other technical things led from it and plugged into various consoles, terminals, and scientific apparatus. She pointed a well manicured hand towards a small pair of changing rooms off to the right, "If you'll step in there, you'll find proper Erisian Suits. They provide appropriate cover for whatever period you select, as well as provide translation services, so on and so forth." Her gesture was slightly vague, though. Clearly, she didn't much care if they chose to share a room or even get up to something other than changing; hell, she probably wouldn't object to being invited to join (perhaps she had some Angstian in her). She smiled warmly, "And don't worry about being 'late'. We have all the time in the world."

Low Priority Communiqué

If the technical specifications of the vacation rig are classified, we shall no longer trouble you with the bureaucratic requests to disclose the information in those files. We will send a detachment of inspectors as soon as possible, the weather conditions at this moment do not allow us any outgoing vessels, out team has to wait until the storm dies. Until then, a warm thanks on behalf of vacation-loving Guffingford, and our government.
PS: If the conditions on the rig are in a way that pleases us to the full, we won't hesitate to open up a few financial development channels.

- (The laid back) Guffingfordian State Dept. of Tourism & Entertainment.

*****

"Damn the weather! Why do we always have these kinda things when we are about to inspect a new vacation spot!" The inspector, a young bright chap named Ronald Bloise stood on the marble balcony of the ministry, overlooking the foam-capped waves beneath him. The Ministry of Tourism & Entertainment was the ministry of the least possible importance, and only state officials who can only handle the least possible amount of responsibility are allowed to work there. Ronald Bloise was one of them. He is lazy, he is laid back. He never seems to worry about anything. His colleagues are all the same.
A women, old and unattractive (her colleagues scoffingly call her "The hag") was loafing around the office - empty and too well lit. With a voice that sounds like charcoal being grinded to dust she said: "Goddamn, always the same old story. We finally get an assignment, the weather turns foul." She probably got her voice because of her drinking habit, and too much cigarettes. She has an ugly face people just want to punch out of spite, a face that doesn't go without an eternal cigarette between her wet red lips.
"Probably God who's playing tricks on us... Or something..." He wasn't in the mood for a conversation, and was moving around insecure, hoping she takes the hint.
"Ronald I'll see you tomorrow." With a naughty look in her eyes, and also a little bit of contempt, he was off. Damn that 'women'! She has nothing that makes a women female. No hips, no brests, nothing.
"Yeah whatever." he mumbled softly.
Finally! At last! The hag was gone, her clothes, her voice. Everything was repulsive about her. Ronald couldn't stand her, her smell of perfume, toxic fumes more like it. But now, he just has to wait.

Agnes was getting seemingly happier as they walked through the corridors, definitely enjoying the designs all around her, occasionally probing them a little, checking where currents were flowing and where displays were mere decoration.

<Agnes> Hrm. A little pointless, the architecture. But it fits the mood. It looks all so, I dunno... Perry Rhodanesque ^_^
<CRD 06/ 229> Hrm. Yes. Although... nevermind. Apparently that one was connected to a water cooler.
<Agnes> Heh. Hrm... I feel a little sorry for George. Life must be a pain with Mavis as his superior. He acted almost like a child.
<CRD 06/ 229> Well, at least he has something nice to look at.
<Agnes> Hrm?

In reality, Agnes eyes narrowed.

<CRD 06/ 229> Well...
<Agnes> ...

Narrowed until they were just two thin, menacing lines.

<CRD 06/ 229> You have to admit, she's a sizeab- I mean, a good look-
<Agnes> Oh, shut up. Two sizes. Big deal.
<CRD 06/ 229> 'Big' sounds about right...
* Connection terminated by Agnes (Bah.)

On the plus side, the two menacing lines were now deliberately looking elsewhere. Apparently it would take a little time until CRD 06/ 229 could get her to accept the flowers.

Arriving at the golden apple, Agnes (Having recovered from her short period of baguely menacing frustration. She was a little impulsive, sure, but she also tended to change her mood almost at will and almost certainly certainly on a whim) giggled. "Oh, I'm sure we'll take our time, then..." She winked, dragging CRD 06/ 229 with her towards one of the changing rooms.

CRD 06/ 229 used his chance. "Oh, right. Ahem. Here, for you..." He gave her the flowers, sighing with relief as her hands let go of his arm. "Well, that one's yours, doubtlessly... I'll be over there, then."

He saw Agnes' expression change to sort-of-concealed frustration, but was already out of her range. He'd always considered it a game, nothing serious... The sheer idea of going any further creeped him out (Despite the rather encouraging symptoms his present body lived through, much to his distress), yet the thrill of risking to get this close to it excited him.

Well, he had won, again, this time without engineering for a vase to 'accidentally' break of Agnes' head... He vanished into the other changing room, quickly.

For a few moments, Agnes looked at him (Or rather, at the door behind which he'd just vanished), trying to control her growing frustration, then entered the room in front of her, quickly going through the whole process of getting changed.

Halfway at least. Then her tiny head with its relatively short, brown hair peeked out from the room, smiling in Mavis' direction. "Ahem... This suit of yours... Could you help me for a moment?"

She was a curious woman, and after this most recent disappointment with CRD 06/ 229, she simply needed some comfort.

For the Attention of: Hagbard Compartment of Tourism,
Complaints Department

Whilst naturally the thrill and adventure of temporal tourism sends a shiver of anticipation up my spine, there are one or two minor, nigglingly small issues that I feel would have to be addressed before allowing myself to take part in such a laudable scheme.

You see, here in the Blackfoot Barrens we conducted some extensive research to determine whether what you offer could possibly be... possible. And the results were far from reassuring. We discovered that for all your bluster, spurious claims and offers of time-travelling excitement, the past does not exist. Allow me to explain.

We placed a number of Blackfoot Cheesecakes in a carefully constructed stone cell, along with a substantial quantity of dynamite. After allowing the nature of the dynamite to run it's course, we re-entered the cell and, after careful examination, discovered that there was no longer any trace of the Cheesecakes!!!!!

I'm sure you see the implications to your program. The Cheesecakes, having been introduced to the dynamite, are clearly an element of the past. However, their absence from reality shows that they do not exist. By simple logical conclusion, the past does not exist and your travellers will be catupulted into a vortex of swirling energy that will destroy them in every way possible, including some ways that are essentially, impossible.

Please get back to me soon, the program sounds absolutely spiffing,

Regards,

From the desk of Baron Steeplechase of the Kingdom of Blackfoot Barrens