Qooi
23-11-2007, 10:34
le 23 novembre—Three years ago
Nothing was out of the ordinary that morning. People woke, ate breakfast, commuted to work. Deals where made, chemicals mixed and consumer goods where peddled.
Even lunch, a great Qooi tradition in itself went by smoothly. Slices of pickled vegetables where placed on smoked meats and chewed thankfully. From the boardrooms of the financial district, to the dusty construction sites of one of the many Nouvelles banlieues people took a few moments to honour the Great Cult, and consume some tasty morsels.
Then, back to work.
le 23 novembre—Today
Three years had passed. The visible signs of what had happened where long gone; replaced by construction crews funded from public money. The only trace really lived on in peoples' minds and hearts. The very atmosphere of the nation was sodden with melancholy and depression.
Everyone shared it. Shops which where normally filled with loud customers where still and calm. Some shop keepers didn't even bother opening up; but those where rare indeed. Qooians where a fiscal people; where money existed to be made, they wanted to make it. So the beat of the nation's economic heart continued, but subtly. It was more about the subtle changes; the First Chairmans tie was a deep navy. School children, instead of conducting noisy mock commercial exchanges copied down formulas for optimal investment in variable-asset liquidity situations.
Three Years Ago
This would have never happened in the Old Country. Sure, the price of complete security was an utter loss of privacy and any semblance of civil or political rights. Most people, though, eventually got used to paying the price, and could enjoy life. There is a certain freedom that comes from knowing you can leave your keys in the engine at all times.
Qooi had strayed from the path. It had offered people rights that where unthinkable. Those old enough to remember the Old Country—good and bad—where either shocked or strangely attracted to the new model.
Yet, a longing for the old ways hit the country in the days following today. And over time there would be changes; democracy would be replaced by a sort of meritocratic oligarch centered on the enigmatic First Chairman. Citizens could technically vote, but the nature and purpose of voting was almost forgotten.
Today
"Thank you all for coming. I appreciate today is difficult for each of you, but it is difficult for all of us." Sitting, the First Chairman unbuttoned his jacket, and motioned for the 6 other man to sit. The conference room was devoid of anything remarkable; indeed the walls where raw concrete, and the floor was nothing more than a thick vaguely blue carpet/fibrecover. The table looked like it was from Ikea; curved vaguely European lines. Normally they'd meet in one of the opulent meeting rooms of Government Palace; but today it didn't seem right.
"We have wasted this opportunity. We are three years into the great-plan, and yet key milestones are still hauntingly far away. This is beyond acceptable. Where is the satellite network? Neither of the two options have been achieved. The attempts to break the encryption of locked down Imperial system have failed, as have attempts to create our own."
Someone looked like that where going to speak, but than thought better of it.
"Our defensive and offensive forces are still laughable. We are buying weapons designed ten twenty years ago? What happened to the bold promise of caseless weaponry in at least 60% of the force? This is an Imperial technology that if only we could unlock we could utilize."
Pausing, he sipped some water. The Executive Council had seen the First-Chairman angry, but this cold intense rage was something else.
"Why do we still struggle to communicate with the outside world. An ambassador is left sitting a dingy airport because our systems can't cope? We are meant to be a modern nation! We are meant to be more than that."
Three Years Ago
One explosion. Than two explosons. Than four explosions. Each minute bought the next stage of geometric progression. Before long, thousands upon thousands of explosions where ripping through the countries schools, hospitals and workplaces. They explosions where caused by little more than a grenade with a timer. Yet for all their limited size, they where placed for maximum strategic effect.
The explosions stopped, and then the fireworks started. The brand new SilverCloud Tower; meant to be one of the worlds tallest new buildings was oblitrated in what many suspect was a low yeild nuclear explosion. The offical reports suggest only it was a high grade explosive; but offical reports seldom supress wagging tongues.
Chaos reigned, yet it seemed the madness had stopped for now.
Today
"I am frustrated gentleman. Above all I need to know why we can't find the lost lands. I do not care what manner of temporal science is hiding the lost lands, if that indeed is the theory of the week to cover your stunning lack of progress. I will not threaten you; I know you share my goals. Instead, I plead to you. We must make progress. Accelerate our economic growth; it is only through the powers of a booming economy that I suspect we will make real progress towards rediscovering the homelands."
He sat back in his seat, looking worn-out. He waved and his Chief-of-Staff, who was standing quietly behind him stepped forward.
"The rest of the meeting will concern specific modifications to the roadmap. We not longer feel it is possible to maintain a military force capable of anything other than self-defense. Thus, the external defense committee will receive punitive budget cuts for the next two years, or until a viable model for maintaing at least a minimal external offense force is created. The funds will be re-diverted to the space program, and the decryption efforts. If we can unlock even one of the minor Imperial codes we can make huge progress into piecing together the puzzle."
The External Defense Committee chairman looked ill.
"Now, if you'll turn to the first page of the blue booklet in-front of you, you'll see some new KPIs for all committees..."
Three Years Ago
A mutative virus was released into the water supply. The amalgamation of Qooian water companies, while saving money, had resulted in a few key targets that once compromised would effect almost the entire national water system. Of course, by the time the virus was discovered it was too late; and almost everyone had contracted it.
It was not a deadly virus; there where no noticeable symptom and in most cases the host was unaware of even having caught it. It baffled scientists, and it was only after the completion of the second stage of the Qooian Genome project that the virus' effect was known; a specific gene of unknown purpose was simply, yet permanently, deactivated. The mutation was passed on; eventually no one had an active form of the gene. The general public was never told the purpose of the gene; the offical story was that the creators of the virus had stuffed up somehow, and created a virus that did nothing.
After years and years of failure to decrypt even the simplest Imperial code, researches where starting to wonder if perhaps, just maybe, this gene had something to do with it.
Today
The meeting was over. Everyone left quickly, leaving the First-Chairman alone.
He knew something that no one else in the room knew; the gene, called WC-47 amongst the scientists was not gone. It still existed. One person, and one person only held an active version. Despite millions of dollars on covert operations, he was no closer to discovering the identity and location of this person.
Every now and again a letter, normally written on fine paper and with a distinctive purple ribbon affixed to the letter would appear on his desk. To this day his own private security devision was unable to say how the letter got there.
Stifling a yawn he wondered who he could turn to. He wasn't sure if he could trust any nation with the truth. Although it was cliche, he wanted a friend–or at least an ally–to turn to.
Three years ago
As night fell thousands lay dead. Emergency services would be stretched to breaking point. And somewhere someone congratulated themself on a job well done. The plan was in motion.
Nothing was out of the ordinary that morning. People woke, ate breakfast, commuted to work. Deals where made, chemicals mixed and consumer goods where peddled.
Even lunch, a great Qooi tradition in itself went by smoothly. Slices of pickled vegetables where placed on smoked meats and chewed thankfully. From the boardrooms of the financial district, to the dusty construction sites of one of the many Nouvelles banlieues people took a few moments to honour the Great Cult, and consume some tasty morsels.
Then, back to work.
le 23 novembre—Today
Three years had passed. The visible signs of what had happened where long gone; replaced by construction crews funded from public money. The only trace really lived on in peoples' minds and hearts. The very atmosphere of the nation was sodden with melancholy and depression.
Everyone shared it. Shops which where normally filled with loud customers where still and calm. Some shop keepers didn't even bother opening up; but those where rare indeed. Qooians where a fiscal people; where money existed to be made, they wanted to make it. So the beat of the nation's economic heart continued, but subtly. It was more about the subtle changes; the First Chairmans tie was a deep navy. School children, instead of conducting noisy mock commercial exchanges copied down formulas for optimal investment in variable-asset liquidity situations.
Three Years Ago
This would have never happened in the Old Country. Sure, the price of complete security was an utter loss of privacy and any semblance of civil or political rights. Most people, though, eventually got used to paying the price, and could enjoy life. There is a certain freedom that comes from knowing you can leave your keys in the engine at all times.
Qooi had strayed from the path. It had offered people rights that where unthinkable. Those old enough to remember the Old Country—good and bad—where either shocked or strangely attracted to the new model.
Yet, a longing for the old ways hit the country in the days following today. And over time there would be changes; democracy would be replaced by a sort of meritocratic oligarch centered on the enigmatic First Chairman. Citizens could technically vote, but the nature and purpose of voting was almost forgotten.
Today
"Thank you all for coming. I appreciate today is difficult for each of you, but it is difficult for all of us." Sitting, the First Chairman unbuttoned his jacket, and motioned for the 6 other man to sit. The conference room was devoid of anything remarkable; indeed the walls where raw concrete, and the floor was nothing more than a thick vaguely blue carpet/fibrecover. The table looked like it was from Ikea; curved vaguely European lines. Normally they'd meet in one of the opulent meeting rooms of Government Palace; but today it didn't seem right.
"We have wasted this opportunity. We are three years into the great-plan, and yet key milestones are still hauntingly far away. This is beyond acceptable. Where is the satellite network? Neither of the two options have been achieved. The attempts to break the encryption of locked down Imperial system have failed, as have attempts to create our own."
Someone looked like that where going to speak, but than thought better of it.
"Our defensive and offensive forces are still laughable. We are buying weapons designed ten twenty years ago? What happened to the bold promise of caseless weaponry in at least 60% of the force? This is an Imperial technology that if only we could unlock we could utilize."
Pausing, he sipped some water. The Executive Council had seen the First-Chairman angry, but this cold intense rage was something else.
"Why do we still struggle to communicate with the outside world. An ambassador is left sitting a dingy airport because our systems can't cope? We are meant to be a modern nation! We are meant to be more than that."
Three Years Ago
One explosion. Than two explosons. Than four explosions. Each minute bought the next stage of geometric progression. Before long, thousands upon thousands of explosions where ripping through the countries schools, hospitals and workplaces. They explosions where caused by little more than a grenade with a timer. Yet for all their limited size, they where placed for maximum strategic effect.
The explosions stopped, and then the fireworks started. The brand new SilverCloud Tower; meant to be one of the worlds tallest new buildings was oblitrated in what many suspect was a low yeild nuclear explosion. The offical reports suggest only it was a high grade explosive; but offical reports seldom supress wagging tongues.
Chaos reigned, yet it seemed the madness had stopped for now.
Today
"I am frustrated gentleman. Above all I need to know why we can't find the lost lands. I do not care what manner of temporal science is hiding the lost lands, if that indeed is the theory of the week to cover your stunning lack of progress. I will not threaten you; I know you share my goals. Instead, I plead to you. We must make progress. Accelerate our economic growth; it is only through the powers of a booming economy that I suspect we will make real progress towards rediscovering the homelands."
He sat back in his seat, looking worn-out. He waved and his Chief-of-Staff, who was standing quietly behind him stepped forward.
"The rest of the meeting will concern specific modifications to the roadmap. We not longer feel it is possible to maintain a military force capable of anything other than self-defense. Thus, the external defense committee will receive punitive budget cuts for the next two years, or until a viable model for maintaing at least a minimal external offense force is created. The funds will be re-diverted to the space program, and the decryption efforts. If we can unlock even one of the minor Imperial codes we can make huge progress into piecing together the puzzle."
The External Defense Committee chairman looked ill.
"Now, if you'll turn to the first page of the blue booklet in-front of you, you'll see some new KPIs for all committees..."
Three Years Ago
A mutative virus was released into the water supply. The amalgamation of Qooian water companies, while saving money, had resulted in a few key targets that once compromised would effect almost the entire national water system. Of course, by the time the virus was discovered it was too late; and almost everyone had contracted it.
It was not a deadly virus; there where no noticeable symptom and in most cases the host was unaware of even having caught it. It baffled scientists, and it was only after the completion of the second stage of the Qooian Genome project that the virus' effect was known; a specific gene of unknown purpose was simply, yet permanently, deactivated. The mutation was passed on; eventually no one had an active form of the gene. The general public was never told the purpose of the gene; the offical story was that the creators of the virus had stuffed up somehow, and created a virus that did nothing.
After years and years of failure to decrypt even the simplest Imperial code, researches where starting to wonder if perhaps, just maybe, this gene had something to do with it.
Today
The meeting was over. Everyone left quickly, leaving the First-Chairman alone.
He knew something that no one else in the room knew; the gene, called WC-47 amongst the scientists was not gone. It still existed. One person, and one person only held an active version. Despite millions of dollars on covert operations, he was no closer to discovering the identity and location of this person.
Every now and again a letter, normally written on fine paper and with a distinctive purple ribbon affixed to the letter would appear on his desk. To this day his own private security devision was unable to say how the letter got there.
Stifling a yawn he wondered who he could turn to. He wasn't sure if he could trust any nation with the truth. Although it was cliche, he wanted a friend–or at least an ally–to turn to.
Three years ago
As night fell thousands lay dead. Emergency services would be stretched to breaking point. And somewhere someone congratulated themself on a job well done. The plan was in motion.