http://gwydion.la
21-07-2003 02:41
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Venusian Independance (Chapter One)
21-07-2003 02:38
[ïîêàçàòü]
[ïîêàçàòü]
Teilhard III wore a white suit. Parts of the suit, his shirt, belt and shoes, reflected the full spectrum of the rainbow from certain angles, while the pants, vest and tie were solid white. His hair was wavy and red, his face was sharp and aged, his blue eyes were focused and intense.
He walked down a path from the private hovercraft that had left him, and he approached a large metal gate in the side of a mountain. He brushed a bit of hair from his eyes, which was the hand signal that confirmed to those all around him, who observed him, that the time had come.
He walked through the gate of sliding metal doors as a synthetic voice greeted him, "Good morning, sir. I trust you had a pleasant journey."
All of the Reds on duty stood to greet this respected Noble of House Angelsey. He stopped, unexpectedly, and they wondered if they had done something for which they should be reprimanded.
He spoke to them in a firm, but comforting tone. "We will be recieving supplies here in about ten minutes, the new birds will have to be moved to another location. Start their engines, leave them running, then line up here and wait for my command to open the gate."
The Thirty Reds dutifully opened the hatches of the thirty prototypes of the new all-purpose White Birds. The White Birds were small, aerodynamic, insect-like flying machines that were capable of traveling for several years without a break. They were capable of traveling to the bottom of the deepest parts of the ocean, or into outer space, using a small nuclear reactor for its energy.
These thirty prototypes were the such only ones yet made, and they had not yet been tested. No one knew they existed save for the King of Angelsey, who's family crest, a red and white X on blue, was on the nose of each bird, and his immediate cousins and most trusted nobles, of which Teilhard III was one of the latter.
With the subtly warbling hum of the ships echoing throughout the inner walls of this chamber, Teilhard pulled himself out of his thoughts and saw the Reds lined up, again, at attention before him.
"Open the gate."
Two of the Reds moved to either side of the sliding doors. Each produced a key and inserted them into locks on either side. One nodded to the other, and they turned the keys simultaniously.
When the door was opened only one meter, several flying objects entered the warehouse. Each of them landed as a dart at the neck of one of the Reds. Teilhard III turned to seem them all fall down at once.
"Now!"
Twenty nine men and women ran into the warehouse wearing the blue and black bullet-proof uniforms, the silver guns and red swords of the Resistance, and back packs filled with supplies and technology.
Teilhard III himself walked to one of the white birds and climbed inside.
He turned the com-link to a local frequency no one in the area used, which he knew no one would be monitoring, and the twenty nine rebels did the same.
With very little extra sound, his bird lifted off the ground as he operated the controls, and he exited through the gate leaving thirty Reds to wake up 10 hours later and report that they were missing.
As the birds exited the building, each of them turned directly up. Teilhard III watched the clouds come and go, and the blue sky become indigo, then black, as the stars came into view around a brilliant white sun.
Seeing what appeared to be the brightest star in the sky, he focused his eyes on it, as well as the ship's controls, and accelerated. As the star grew brighter, and larger, he began to decelarate. He saw the brilliant white and blue atmosphere before him, and continued onward, seeing familiar continents and cliffs he had only seen in simulations.
They landed at the planned location, opened their hatches, removed their helmets and stepped down to the surface of Venus.
A croud of slender, tall homineds with only a few recognizable human features were there starring at them curiously. They had black eyes and pale grey skin, very little hair and long, boney arms and fingers. They moved cautiously, and slowly.
Teilhard III was the first to speak. "We are humans."
"You are our ancestors." One of the Venusians spoke.
Teilhard III's heart skipped a beat, "You speak english?"
Another Venusian replied "Yes. We can hear your language in our minds."
One of the blue uniformed rebels stepped forward and placed a hand on Teilhard's shoulder, "May I?"
"Of course, Jobe," Teilhard motioned with his hand toward the Venusians.
Jobe walked up to one of the Venusians and handed him a small cube. "This contains the history of our people, millenia of accumulated technology and ideas, and the means to communicate with any of us who are not a part of what we call... the Empire."
One of the Venusians said, "We have been waiting×èòàòü äàëåå...
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[ïîêàçàòü] [ïîêàçàòü]Teilhard III wore a white suit. Parts of the suit, his shirt, belt and shoes, reflected the full spectrum of the rainbow from certain angles, while the pants, vest and tie were solid white. His hair was wavy and red, his face was sharp and aged, his blue eyes were focused and intense.
He walked down a path from the private hovercraft that had left him, and he approached a large metal gate in the side of a mountain. He brushed a bit of hair from his eyes, which was the hand signal that confirmed to those all around him, who observed him, that the time had come.
He walked through the gate of sliding metal doors as a synthetic voice greeted him, "Good morning, sir. I trust you had a pleasant journey."
All of the Reds on duty stood to greet this respected Noble of House Angelsey. He stopped, unexpectedly, and they wondered if they had done something for which they should be reprimanded.
He spoke to them in a firm, but comforting tone. "We will be recieving supplies here in about ten minutes, the new birds will have to be moved to another location. Start their engines, leave them running, then line up here and wait for my command to open the gate."
The Thirty Reds dutifully opened the hatches of the thirty prototypes of the new all-purpose White Birds. The White Birds were small, aerodynamic, insect-like flying machines that were capable of traveling for several years without a break. They were capable of traveling to the bottom of the deepest parts of the ocean, or into outer space, using a small nuclear reactor for its energy.
These thirty prototypes were the such only ones yet made, and they had not yet been tested. No one knew they existed save for the King of Angelsey, who's family crest, a red and white X on blue, was on the nose of each bird, and his immediate cousins and most trusted nobles, of which Teilhard III was one of the latter.
With the subtly warbling hum of the ships echoing throughout the inner walls of this chamber, Teilhard pulled himself out of his thoughts and saw the Reds lined up, again, at attention before him.
"Open the gate."
Two of the Reds moved to either side of the sliding doors. Each produced a key and inserted them into locks on either side. One nodded to the other, and they turned the keys simultaniously.
When the door was opened only one meter, several flying objects entered the warehouse. Each of them landed as a dart at the neck of one of the Reds. Teilhard III turned to seem them all fall down at once.
"Now!"
Twenty nine men and women ran into the warehouse wearing the blue and black bullet-proof uniforms, the silver guns and red swords of the Resistance, and back packs filled with supplies and technology.
Teilhard III himself walked to one of the white birds and climbed inside.
He turned the com-link to a local frequency no one in the area used, which he knew no one would be monitoring, and the twenty nine rebels did the same.
With very little extra sound, his bird lifted off the ground as he operated the controls, and he exited through the gate leaving thirty Reds to wake up 10 hours later and report that they were missing.
As the birds exited the building, each of them turned directly up. Teilhard III watched the clouds come and go, and the blue sky become indigo, then black, as the stars came into view around a brilliant white sun.
Seeing what appeared to be the brightest star in the sky, he focused his eyes on it, as well as the ship's controls, and accelerated. As the star grew brighter, and larger, he began to decelarate. He saw the brilliant white and blue atmosphere before him, and continued onward, seeing familiar continents and cliffs he had only seen in simulations.
They landed at the planned location, opened their hatches, removed their helmets and stepped down to the surface of Venus.
A croud of slender, tall homineds with only a few recognizable human features were there starring at them curiously. They had black eyes and pale grey skin, very little hair and long, boney arms and fingers. They moved cautiously, and slowly.
Teilhard III was the first to speak. "We are humans."
"You are our ancestors." One of the Venusians spoke.
Teilhard III's heart skipped a beat, "You speak english?"
Another Venusian replied "Yes. We can hear your language in our minds."
One of the blue uniformed rebels stepped forward and placed a hand on Teilhard's shoulder, "May I?"
"Of course, Jobe," Teilhard motioned with his hand toward the Venusians.
Jobe walked up to one of the Venusians and handed him a small cube. "This contains the history of our people, millenia of accumulated technology and ideas, and the means to communicate with any of us who are not a part of what we call... the Empire."
One of the Venusians said, "We have been waiting
Blythe as Surrogate
21-07-2003 02:35
“The greatest trial of the surrogate drone is boredom. I feel myself start to think I am wasting time and that there is much to be done and I stop and I remember that each and every second I spend here is a second he requires to learn to be free of this place, on all levels.” Blythe thought to herself in the innermost secret core of her being.
The manager-god here took the form of a Red Bird midget, and Blythe often fought the temptation to laugh out loud. “Not nearly as funny as Mickie, but close,” she mused.
She sectioned her core off in the back of her mind, the usually dormant place reserved for deep dreaming. In her frontal mind she observed the progress of ten other drones in their tasks, and reported her findings as one row of the speeding digital report projected on the surface of the building for the Red Birds to watch and feel like something worth while is actually happening.
“Its so different doing all this with an awareness of how the world actually works.” She thought to herself, as she noted the 56 universal credits she had accumulated. “If I don’t spend credits they will be suspicious.” With part of her mind she flipped through hundreds of thousands of musical selections, ancient and modern, and chose one of Simon’s favorites, a late 21st century electronic remix of the 20th century German piece, Carmina Burana, and started looking around for ways she can subtly gather information or manipulate productivity to favor the Resistance.
“For Simon. For the Resistance.” She reminded herself. “He is integral to our cause, yes, but I do not do this thing for strategy, but for Love.”
She recalled the experience of Ancient Land Palace One and invoked the imagery into her innermost space, where she dwelt.
“I am a feather in the wind. I am the wind and the feather. I am the source and destination. I am Here Now.”
“Hurry up Simon!” She laughed inside and wondered how he and Charles were getting along.
“Okay… Back to work for me… as if I ever left. What I wouldn’t give for someone to talk to!”
She looked at the drone-god in Red Bird midget form.
“No… someone besides you.”
She laughed again, and settled in to the music.
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“The greatest trial of the surrogate drone is boredom. I feel myself start to think I am wasting time and that there is much to be done and I stop and I remember that each and every second I spend here is a second he requires to learn to be free of this place, on all levels.” Blythe thought to herself in the innermost secret core of her being.
The manager-god here took the form of a Red Bird midget, and Blythe often fought the temptation to laugh out loud. “Not nearly as funny as Mickie, but close,” she mused.
She sectioned her core off in the back of her mind, the usually dormant place reserved for deep dreaming. In her frontal mind she observed the progress of ten other drones in their tasks, and reported her findings as one row of the speeding digital report projected on the surface of the building for the Red Birds to watch and feel like something worth while is actually happening.
“Its so different doing all this with an awareness of how the world actually works.” She thought to herself, as she noted the 56 universal credits she had accumulated. “If I don’t spend credits they will be suspicious.” With part of her mind she flipped through hundreds of thousands of musical selections, ancient and modern, and chose one of Simon’s favorites, a late 21st century electronic remix of the 20th century German piece, Carmina Burana, and started looking around for ways she can subtly gather information or manipulate productivity to favor the Resistance.
“For Simon. For the Resistance.” She reminded herself. “He is integral to our cause, yes, but I do not do this thing for strategy, but for Love.”
She recalled the experience of Ancient Land Palace One and invoked the imagery into her innermost space, where she dwelt.
“I am a feather in the wind. I am the wind and the feather. I am the source and destination. I am Here Now.”
“Hurry up Simon!” She laughed inside and wondered how he and Charles were getting along.
“Okay… Back to work for me… as if I ever left. What I wouldn’t give for someone to talk to!”
She looked at the drone-god in Red Bird midget form.
“No… someone besides you.”
She laughed again, and settled in to the music.
Baggit and Eva
21-07-2003 02:30
"Now you listen to me! When Blythe was fourteen you treated her like a child! Don't you ever learn?? Just because Blythe is off rescuing Simon doesn't give us any right to just sit around hiding down here, we have an obligation! Free Humanity depends on us being strong! Moving forward!"
The bald rebel-soldier twenty five year old looking thirteen year old Baggit paced back and forth in front of the large map in Blythe's apartment. She had left him an open invitation into that place, but not the authority to invite others. The Lincoln had given him an apartment of his own, but he told himself he had more important things to do than interior decorate in some fantasy world.
"The REAL Underground America is Under the Ground in the REAL World!"
He said, as if anyone were listening.
He continued pacing back and forth, hoping it would not be long before he had found the perfect words to say, and the courage to say them in front of vast numbers of Rebels... or at least... one or two people.
********
"Billy, I want you to meet my very special friend Reynold." Baggit announced, sounding a bit less mature than he would have preffered.
"Nice to meet you Reynold," Billy said and extended his hand to lightly be shaken. Reynold wore a rebel's uniform, like Baggit, and like he had seen Blythe wear the day she became VSD. "Been seeing a lot more of those uniforms lately. Usually when you guys come to Underground America its to get away from the troubles back home..."
"That... That's actually kind of disturbing to hear, Billy," Reynold replied.
"I'm truly sorry that you feel that way," Billy replied.
Another man interjected, "Most people who fight for a living like to take a break from it every once in a while... To do something else besides, you know, killing... But I guess killing uniforms are a matter of pride."
"Are you insulting us? Do you know who I am? Do you know who you're talking to??" Baggit asked the stranger with the metallic voice.
He turned to face Baggit, "Actually I was talking to your friend Reynolds. But I have no doubt you are going to reffer to your self-proclaimed title of Blythe's Sergeant. I happen to know a bit more than you think, Baggit, you're Blythe's baby brother."
Reynolds, noticing Baggit's mounting rage, put his hand on Baggit's shoulder, "We should leave now."
Baggit had a brief stare-down with the stranger before he turned back to Billy, stuttered and said "Wull, we're gunna leave now. And don't expect us to come back..."
Baggit took Reynolds back to his empty apartment. So far it was a hundred yard cubic light-grid. "Do you think there's a way we can use this place to help out the revolution? We can all meet here, come directly here through the glasses, and anyone with a plug can come here completely. We could even bring free drones here if they had a surrogate."
Reynolds nodded... "Yeah... Yeah I think this place has potential."
"Blythe has a map of New World Center up on a wall at her place. I'd take you there but the settings she left will only let me go."
"You're a lucky man, Baggit."
"I don't know..." Baggit looked down for a few seconds then looked up. "Apartment... can I have a map here just like the one in Blythe's apartment?"
The synthetic voice replied "The Map in Blythe's room is a one ten thousanth scale grid of the eighty miles east to west and sixty miles north to south with a centerpoint currently set at Corporation G7*9-23. The centerpoint is not fixed, and she addresses this portion of her grid by the name 'Map' to command it. Do you wish to have a wall made to these same specifications?"
"Yes. And make a room just like hers, with the desk and the chair and everything."
and it was so...
"Heh... didn't know it was that easy." Baggit looked around at the natural wood, the few plants and paintings on the walls. "Apartment remove the paintings and the plants and make the walls... grey... grey brick, like the subways. The ground cement, and smooth."
and it was so...
"Much better." Baggit looked around, and looked over at the sliding glass doors which led to the ocean. "Apartment, outside make the ground grey, rail too, and instead of the ocean... make a full scale projection of New World Center appear... 200 meters below."
and it was so...
"Reynolds... what do you think of Blythe's taking Simon's place?"
"I think it was very noble."
"Don't you think it was selfish?? We need her for the resistence! She was the best!"
"How is that selfish?"
"She let her personal feelings of friendship or whatever keep her away from our Mission!"
Reynolds stroked his chin, "Gee, Baggit, I never thought of it that way. Could we have some chairs or something?"
Baggit was distracted, frowning, then, "Ohh... yeah... uhhh... apartement... some chairs please... any kind... uhh ten metal folding chairs."
and there were...
Reynolds sat down and Baggit walked to the×èòàòü äàëåå...
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"Now you listen to me! When Blythe was fourteen you treated her like a child! Don't you ever learn?? Just because Blythe is off rescuing Simon doesn't give us any right to just sit around hiding down here, we have an obligation! Free Humanity depends on us being strong! Moving forward!"
The bald rebel-soldier twenty five year old looking thirteen year old Baggit paced back and forth in front of the large map in Blythe's apartment. She had left him an open invitation into that place, but not the authority to invite others. The Lincoln had given him an apartment of his own, but he told himself he had more important things to do than interior decorate in some fantasy world.
"The REAL Underground America is Under the Ground in the REAL World!"
He said, as if anyone were listening.
He continued pacing back and forth, hoping it would not be long before he had found the perfect words to say, and the courage to say them in front of vast numbers of Rebels... or at least... one or two people.
********
"Billy, I want you to meet my very special friend Reynold." Baggit announced, sounding a bit less mature than he would have preffered.
"Nice to meet you Reynold," Billy said and extended his hand to lightly be shaken. Reynold wore a rebel's uniform, like Baggit, and like he had seen Blythe wear the day she became VSD. "Been seeing a lot more of those uniforms lately. Usually when you guys come to Underground America its to get away from the troubles back home..."
"That... That's actually kind of disturbing to hear, Billy," Reynold replied.
"I'm truly sorry that you feel that way," Billy replied.
Another man interjected, "Most people who fight for a living like to take a break from it every once in a while... To do something else besides, you know, killing... But I guess killing uniforms are a matter of pride."
"Are you insulting us? Do you know who I am? Do you know who you're talking to??" Baggit asked the stranger with the metallic voice.
He turned to face Baggit, "Actually I was talking to your friend Reynolds. But I have no doubt you are going to reffer to your self-proclaimed title of Blythe's Sergeant. I happen to know a bit more than you think, Baggit, you're Blythe's baby brother."
Reynolds, noticing Baggit's mounting rage, put his hand on Baggit's shoulder, "We should leave now."
Baggit had a brief stare-down with the stranger before he turned back to Billy, stuttered and said "Wull, we're gunna leave now. And don't expect us to come back..."
Baggit took Reynolds back to his empty apartment. So far it was a hundred yard cubic light-grid. "Do you think there's a way we can use this place to help out the revolution? We can all meet here, come directly here through the glasses, and anyone with a plug can come here completely. We could even bring free drones here if they had a surrogate."
Reynolds nodded... "Yeah... Yeah I think this place has potential."
"Blythe has a map of New World Center up on a wall at her place. I'd take you there but the settings she left will only let me go."
"You're a lucky man, Baggit."
"I don't know..." Baggit looked down for a few seconds then looked up. "Apartment... can I have a map here just like the one in Blythe's apartment?"
The synthetic voice replied "The Map in Blythe's room is a one ten thousanth scale grid of the eighty miles east to west and sixty miles north to south with a centerpoint currently set at Corporation G7*9-23. The centerpoint is not fixed, and she addresses this portion of her grid by the name 'Map' to command it. Do you wish to have a wall made to these same specifications?"
"Yes. And make a room just like hers, with the desk and the chair and everything."
and it was so...
"Heh... didn't know it was that easy." Baggit looked around at the natural wood, the few plants and paintings on the walls. "Apartment remove the paintings and the plants and make the walls... grey... grey brick, like the subways. The ground cement, and smooth."
and it was so...
"Much better." Baggit looked around, and looked over at the sliding glass doors which led to the ocean. "Apartment, outside make the ground grey, rail too, and instead of the ocean... make a full scale projection of New World Center appear... 200 meters below."
and it was so...
"Reynolds... what do you think of Blythe's taking Simon's place?"
"I think it was very noble."
"Don't you think it was selfish?? We need her for the resistence! She was the best!"
"How is that selfish?"
"She let her personal feelings of friendship or whatever keep her away from our Mission!"
Reynolds stroked his chin, "Gee, Baggit, I never thought of it that way. Could we have some chairs or something?"
Baggit was distracted, frowning, then, "Ohh... yeah... uhhh... apartement... some chairs please... any kind... uhh ten metal folding chairs."
and there were...
Reynolds sat down and Baggit walked to the
Simon between Palaces in New Ancient Land
12-07-2003 00:20
I can't thank you enough... for what you're doing... I almost understand...
"I know I wouldn't be here with you if someone hadn't taken my place... and somehow you will teach me how to force the connection... away... in my cerebellum...
"It was Blythe... wasn't it? She took my place... I know it... that's exactly what she would do..."
Charles nodded in agreement. "Yes that is exactly what she would do."
Simon looked into the George Gordon windows of the soul of Charles. "She spoke of you. She... is always very focused on... her mission... whatever that is, but when she spoke of you, I could tell..."
"I know Simon. You and I have much in common."
They left it at that.
Simon changed the subject. "I've studied some of the Ancient Ways in the Free Web. Of course I've never been plugged in fully until... when was it?"
Charles extended his arm toward a space where, just after, a stone round table appeared. "That was two months ago."
"Why so long?" Simon took a seat.
"Everyone is different, and has different strenths and points which... challenge. Would you like a drink?" Charles manifested himself something bubbly and cherry flavored in a tall champagne glass.
"Say weakness, Charles, I'm from the subways. We don't use fluff. Uhh... yeah... is there whiskey? How do you do that?"
"Sure but it won't get you drunk." Charles laughed and put his hand above the table, palm facing down. "Unless you really believe it will. Better yet..." Charles withdrew his hand, "Put your hand where mine was."
Simon did so.
"Now close your eyes. Imagine the last time you had a glass of whatever your preffered poison. Recall the taste... the color of the fluid... the temperature... and the container it came in. Got it?"
"Yeah... easy."
"Okay now hold that image in your mind... and remember what the Shaman showed you... let the Light flow down from your crown... through the colors... back up and out through the center... through the palm of your hand like a lightning flash and make that image dissapear quick and open your eyes!"
Simon did so, and picked up the glass, and looked at it. "Thanks, man."
"Don't mention it." Charles looked to his right and smiled, seeing some others coming. "How's it going, Roy? Richard?" Roy came in the form of a blonde male human in his mid twenties, side burns, a gote and a purple suit over a subtly silver shirt. Richard came in a form much like his actual form. Older than the other three, late fourties, in a classic VI times rebel uniform with sword."
"Charles!" Roy replied. "This Blythe's errand boy?"
Simon stopped sipping his drink, coughed, and said "Excuse me?"
"Pay no attention to that crazy cross-breed freak." Charles winked at Simon. "Roy, Richard, this is Simon, Simon this is my good friend Roy, and this is Richard of the Underworld." Charles looked at Simon, "Richard is a human, if you hadn't guessed."
"Ahhhh..." Simon raised an eyebrow "Whiskey?"
"Don't mind if I do..." Richard replied.
"Wait," Simon gestured with a raised forefinger, then held out his hand, blinked briefly, and handed Richard a glass like his own. "I just learned how to do that."
"Ahhh... Nice." Richard took a sip. "Irish?"
"You know it."
Richard put the glass down, "Yeah I still have to use the old methods since I've never formally been plugged into anything."
"Yes I see." Simon nodded.
"We'll work on that with you sometime." Roy said.
"Huh?" said Simon, confused.
"The Venusians don't have plugs," Richard explained. "They do it differently."
"Really??" Simon asked, slurring his speech a bit, looking at Charles, then Roy.
"They're here to help us, Simon." Richard said, not wavering eye contact with Simon.
Simon's confused brows gradually relaxed, and his eyes lit up with understanding. "Ooohhhh...."
êîììåíòàðèè: 4
ïîíðàâèëîñü!
ââåðõ^
ê ïîëíîé âåðñèè
I can't thank you enough... for what you're doing... I almost understand...
"I know I wouldn't be here with you if someone hadn't taken my place... and somehow you will teach me how to force the connection... away... in my cerebellum...
"It was Blythe... wasn't it? She took my place... I know it... that's exactly what she would do..."
Charles nodded in agreement. "Yes that is exactly what she would do."
Simon looked into the George Gordon windows of the soul of Charles. "She spoke of you. She... is always very focused on... her mission... whatever that is, but when she spoke of you, I could tell..."
"I know Simon. You and I have much in common."
They left it at that.
Simon changed the subject. "I've studied some of the Ancient Ways in the Free Web. Of course I've never been plugged in fully until... when was it?"
Charles extended his arm toward a space where, just after, a stone round table appeared. "That was two months ago."
"Why so long?" Simon took a seat.
"Everyone is different, and has different strenths and points which... challenge. Would you like a drink?" Charles manifested himself something bubbly and cherry flavored in a tall champagne glass.
"Say weakness, Charles, I'm from the subways. We don't use fluff. Uhh... yeah... is there whiskey? How do you do that?"
"Sure but it won't get you drunk." Charles laughed and put his hand above the table, palm facing down. "Unless you really believe it will. Better yet..." Charles withdrew his hand, "Put your hand where mine was."
Simon did so.
"Now close your eyes. Imagine the last time you had a glass of whatever your preffered poison. Recall the taste... the color of the fluid... the temperature... and the container it came in. Got it?"
"Yeah... easy."
"Okay now hold that image in your mind... and remember what the Shaman showed you... let the Light flow down from your crown... through the colors... back up and out through the center... through the palm of your hand like a lightning flash and make that image dissapear quick and open your eyes!"
Simon did so, and picked up the glass, and looked at it. "Thanks, man."
"Don't mention it." Charles looked to his right and smiled, seeing some others coming. "How's it going, Roy? Richard?" Roy came in the form of a blonde male human in his mid twenties, side burns, a gote and a purple suit over a subtly silver shirt. Richard came in a form much like his actual form. Older than the other three, late fourties, in a classic VI times rebel uniform with sword."
"Charles!" Roy replied. "This Blythe's errand boy?"
Simon stopped sipping his drink, coughed, and said "Excuse me?"
"Pay no attention to that crazy cross-breed freak." Charles winked at Simon. "Roy, Richard, this is Simon, Simon this is my good friend Roy, and this is Richard of the Underworld." Charles looked at Simon, "Richard is a human, if you hadn't guessed."
"Ahhhh..." Simon raised an eyebrow "Whiskey?"
"Don't mind if I do..." Richard replied.
"Wait," Simon gestured with a raised forefinger, then held out his hand, blinked briefly, and handed Richard a glass like his own. "I just learned how to do that."
"Ahhh... Nice." Richard took a sip. "Irish?"
"You know it."
Richard put the glass down, "Yeah I still have to use the old methods since I've never formally been plugged into anything."
"Yes I see." Simon nodded.
"We'll work on that with you sometime." Roy said.
"Huh?" said Simon, confused.
"The Venusians don't have plugs," Richard explained. "They do it differently."
"Really??" Simon asked, slurring his speech a bit, looking at Charles, then Roy.
"They're here to help us, Simon." Richard said, not wavering eye contact with Simon.
Simon's confused brows gradually relaxed, and his eyes lit up with understanding. "Ooohhhh...."
The Round Table (first sons of first sons of first sons...)
10-07-2003 12:13
[ïîêàçàòü]
Two tall grey skined, long fingered halfbreeds sat on the stone steps of a small ampitheatre from the VI times. One of them, Roy, was starring at the empty stage visualizing a play he was in the middle of composing. The other, Charles, was leaning back on his elbows wearing dark glasses, shaking his head and laughing to himself.
"This has got to be the weirdest thing since they crowned the twentyforth Dalai Lama Pope of the Vatican in exile..."
"What the hell are you talking about, Charles?"
Charles took off his glasses and looked at Roy. "Weren't you paying any attention in history?" He handed Roy, his fellow excentric Venusian, what appeared to be a set of dark sunglasses - an actual halographic recording of a recent meeting of Kings and Cousins. "Blythe actually has a spy in their inner court. Earth stuff."
"Ah..." Roy said as he examined the glasses, mildly curious, before putting them on...
Roy saw a large golden table with thirteen men wearing black masks sitting in thrones, and many very well and fancily dressed people sitting behind them.
"Will they ever understand that all we want to do is to help them? To educate them and civilize them? To bring them into this modern age where people are happy and... uhh... well fed and taken care of... employed..."
"Look we all agree on these things, there's no -"
"Not a single person in the empire is starving, not a single person in the empire is killing anyone else in the empire, no one lacks medical care... no one could ask for a better life than the life of any one of our 27 billion happy citizens."
"I guess their few million know something our 27 billion don't?"
(some laughter)
"These people dare to accuse us of taking away the freedom of our own people!"
"This is absurd."
"What we do with our people is our business! If they don't like it they should move to.... uhh.... die!"
"For one, there are 108 million in the Mass Self Discipline and not a single one of them is there for any other reason than that they choose to be."
"Yet their employees are happier than any peasants or proletariat have ever been. Taking away their freedom of choice? Nonsense. When they're hungry they get the best nutrients available for their bodies..."
"And! they can choose from any of the many thousands of sensations behind that... uhh.... Yellow M, or they can choose any of the thousands of sensations behind the Pink Bell, or any other of hundreds of tastes... they can choose to listen to whatever music they want to, while they work, they can spend their credits on any sensation they could possibly imagine!"
"Look we all agree on these things, there's no reason to -"
"What could they possibly want that they don't have? Hmm? What could they possibly think they're fighting for that they can't find right there in Paradise??"
"Every single one is placed in the niche most comfortable and appropriate for it... ...er... him... or her, of course... them."
"The Resistence must be stopped no matter what the cost. The harder we hit them, the worse they get. The more we employ, the more fierce the remaining get."
"They choose the sewers over our beds! They choose their Black Web over our Paradise!"
"Why won't they just except the Empire and let us protect them? What could they possibly want that we can't provide them?"
"Look we all agree on these things, why are we even -"
"Clearly they are a disease that must be cured. That settles it then. We will quadrouple our efforts to vanquish them. They will join Paradise or they will die resisting."
"Either way, the Resistance will be extinct."
"All in favor?"
"Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Nay"
"What is it, William?"
"...Lucy?"
"Yes... I have a request. I want Blythe."
"Excuse me?"
"She is one of the leaders. We captured her once before and somehow she's back in the subways. I want her brought to me, alive. Under this one condition, and only under this condition will my father agree to these terms."
"What do you intend to do with her?"
"It doesn't matter. She's an animal."
"Oh...kay... well, does anyone object?"
...
"Alright then, request granted."
"Then... Aye."
(*Knock*)
"So be it."
Roy took off the glasses. "Earth is weird."
"I know," Charles replied, shaking his head.
Roy gave the glasses back to Charles, "So... is she talking about Blythe as in... your girlfriend Blythe?"
"She's not my girlfriend."
Charles folded up the glasses. He and Roy watched the large sun set behind the cliffs of Aphrodite.
êîììåíòàðèè: 0
ïîíðàâèëîñü!
ââåðõ^
ê ïîëíîé âåðñèè
[ïîêàçàòü]Two tall grey skined, long fingered halfbreeds sat on the stone steps of a small ampitheatre from the VI times. One of them, Roy, was starring at the empty stage visualizing a play he was in the middle of composing. The other, Charles, was leaning back on his elbows wearing dark glasses, shaking his head and laughing to himself.
"This has got to be the weirdest thing since they crowned the twentyforth Dalai Lama Pope of the Vatican in exile..."
"What the hell are you talking about, Charles?"
Charles took off his glasses and looked at Roy. "Weren't you paying any attention in history?" He handed Roy, his fellow excentric Venusian, what appeared to be a set of dark sunglasses - an actual halographic recording of a recent meeting of Kings and Cousins. "Blythe actually has a spy in their inner court. Earth stuff."
"Ah..." Roy said as he examined the glasses, mildly curious, before putting them on...
Roy saw a large golden table with thirteen men wearing black masks sitting in thrones, and many very well and fancily dressed people sitting behind them.
"Will they ever understand that all we want to do is to help them? To educate them and civilize them? To bring them into this modern age where people are happy and... uhh... well fed and taken care of... employed..."
"Look we all agree on these things, there's no -"
"Not a single person in the empire is starving, not a single person in the empire is killing anyone else in the empire, no one lacks medical care... no one could ask for a better life than the life of any one of our 27 billion happy citizens."
"I guess their few million know something our 27 billion don't?"
(some laughter)
"These people dare to accuse us of taking away the freedom of our own people!"
"This is absurd."
"What we do with our people is our business! If they don't like it they should move to.... uhh.... die!"
"For one, there are 108 million in the Mass Self Discipline and not a single one of them is there for any other reason than that they choose to be."
"Yet their employees are happier than any peasants or proletariat have ever been. Taking away their freedom of choice? Nonsense. When they're hungry they get the best nutrients available for their bodies..."
"And! they can choose from any of the many thousands of sensations behind that... uhh.... Yellow M, or they can choose any of the thousands of sensations behind the Pink Bell, or any other of hundreds of tastes... they can choose to listen to whatever music they want to, while they work, they can spend their credits on any sensation they could possibly imagine!"
"Look we all agree on these things, there's no reason to -"
"What could they possibly want that they don't have? Hmm? What could they possibly think they're fighting for that they can't find right there in Paradise??"
"Every single one is placed in the niche most comfortable and appropriate for it... ...er... him... or her, of course... them."
"The Resistence must be stopped no matter what the cost. The harder we hit them, the worse they get. The more we employ, the more fierce the remaining get."
"They choose the sewers over our beds! They choose their Black Web over our Paradise!"
"Why won't they just except the Empire and let us protect them? What could they possibly want that we can't provide them?"
"Look we all agree on these things, why are we even -"
"Clearly they are a disease that must be cured. That settles it then. We will quadrouple our efforts to vanquish them. They will join Paradise or they will die resisting."
"Either way, the Resistance will be extinct."
"All in favor?"
"Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Aye" "Nay"
"What is it, William?"
"...Lucy?"
"Yes... I have a request. I want Blythe."
"Excuse me?"
"She is one of the leaders. We captured her once before and somehow she's back in the subways. I want her brought to me, alive. Under this one condition, and only under this condition will my father agree to these terms."
"What do you intend to do with her?"
"It doesn't matter. She's an animal."
"Oh...kay... well, does anyone object?"
...
"Alright then, request granted."
"Then... Aye."
(*Knock*)
"So be it."
Roy took off the glasses. "Earth is weird."
"I know," Charles replied, shaking his head.
Roy gave the glasses back to Charles, "So... is she talking about Blythe as in... your girlfriend Blythe?"
"She's not my girlfriend."
Charles folded up the glasses. He and Roy watched the large sun set behind the cliffs of Aphrodite.
Charles and Blythe
08-07-2003 11:40
[ïîêàçàòü]
On the surface of Venus, Charles' long grey fingers of his right hand slowly tilled the soil outside of his dwellingplace, as he held the seeds of corn in his left hand ready to be planted. For the first time in months he was able to clear his head of all the antics going on on Earth, in the Machine, in the Resistance, in the Comittee of Nobles behind the Lincoln, and in the rest of UA and the other FWWs he frequented - for just a few moments his mind was clear.
He wasn't too surprised, but was a bit sad to gaze up toward the horizon and feel the sudden jolt of telepathic recognition from and with every other Venusian simultaniously. Many of them messaged both to him directly and amongst each other exclusive of him but within his ability to percieve. The overall sense, as far as his existence and "hello" was concerned and recieved, was that they felt there was something wrong with him... that he was too close to the humans and spent too much time in plugged in to the Black Web. The inner workings and dynamics of Charles' politics, and his mystical experiences of New Ancient Land, were alien to them, and they had no interest in continuing the telepathic link with him, fearing they too would become contaminated.
"You're just not ready yet, my fellow freaks," Charles said aloud, in english, openly defiant - and returned the entirety of his conscious focus to the planting of the seeds in his hand. As his focus was shifting away from the other Venusians to the soil and the inward contemplation, he could sense some of the Venusians smiling at his words.
********
Corporation G7*9-23 stood tall and proud, somewhere toward the southern edge of New World Center.
Invisible, Reynolds continued to whisper into Drone Seventeen’s ear:
“The vests and belts will be picked up by a human called Blue Bird Simon, then store new settings and destination and continue with the old.”
Then he sprayed his canister into its mind and sat for a while on the simulated carpet beside the Manager-god.
The Manager-god here wasn’t very original. She was a very serious looking woman with a grey skirt and jacket. She stood with her arms folded looking out at the drones, one by one. The drones weren’t so easy to recognize or distinguish as the Manager-god, mainly just a collective blur of movement.
Reynolds stood up, turned to face the Manger-god’s ear, and whispered:
“I am a pawn.”
Thinking this was her own thought, the Manger-god wrinkled her forehead, confused. “Number thirty six, research, priority one. What is a pawn? Report.”
Reynolds walked up to number fifty seven, whom he knew was truly Evin Ridge, a former Red Bird who was being kept “on ice” for some reason. What Reynolds didn’t know what that Evin was actually the fifth next of kin of King Mao the forty second of Cheju Do, and an ex-lover of Lucy’s.
Reynolds whispered into the ear of the Drone formerly called, and who would never again be called, Evin:
“I’m doing this wrong, Manager-god said yesterday new plans for mask, and sword blade and handle,” and sprayed his mind with the detailed program, “and she said rewrite destination Montauk Point Harbor dock twelve, sixteen hundred to be picked up by a human, Blue Bird Simon, at thirteen hundred hours, then store new settings and destination and continue with the old.”
“A Pawn is a piece of an ancient game called chess. It is of the lowest value. It may move forward one square at a time or two squares in the first move, capture other pieces only on a one-space diagonal forward move, and be promoted to any piece other than a king upon reaching the eighth rank, or it is person or an entity used to further the purposes of another.“ number thirty six said out loud. Reynolds looked over his shoulder at the Manager-god, grinning at her extreemly confused facial åxpråssiîn.
“Why would I think such a thing?” the Manager-god thought to herself as she surveyed the Drones again. Her shoulders squared on the space near Reynolds and her eyes became very focused. “Number Fifty Seven, why did you change one of your routeens? …Report, Now!”
“It just took me some time to put your orders into affect from yesterday,” said the Drone, terrified at having shirked his duties.
“Why did your adrenal glands just release, what are you hiding??”
“I’m… I’m lying to you my Lady! The delay was my own fault, I should have made the changes sooner!” He said, weeping.
The Manager-god pointed a small object at the Drone and pushed a button, causing him a very sharp sensation of electricution. He yelped like a dog, then instantly spent all of his accumulated credits from the previous minute and a half on a numbing sensation and some pleasant uplifting music, for his ears alone, and returned to his duties.
She checked his monitor and saw the blue masks being sewn and swords being forged and packaged by many robotic tentacles, which she would never fathom were×èòàòü äàëåå...
êîììåíòàðèè: 0
ïîíðàâèëîñü!
ââåðõ^
ê ïîëíîé âåðñèè
[ïîêàçàòü]On the surface of Venus, Charles' long grey fingers of his right hand slowly tilled the soil outside of his dwellingplace, as he held the seeds of corn in his left hand ready to be planted. For the first time in months he was able to clear his head of all the antics going on on Earth, in the Machine, in the Resistance, in the Comittee of Nobles behind the Lincoln, and in the rest of UA and the other FWWs he frequented - for just a few moments his mind was clear.
He wasn't too surprised, but was a bit sad to gaze up toward the horizon and feel the sudden jolt of telepathic recognition from and with every other Venusian simultaniously. Many of them messaged both to him directly and amongst each other exclusive of him but within his ability to percieve. The overall sense, as far as his existence and "hello" was concerned and recieved, was that they felt there was something wrong with him... that he was too close to the humans and spent too much time in plugged in to the Black Web. The inner workings and dynamics of Charles' politics, and his mystical experiences of New Ancient Land, were alien to them, and they had no interest in continuing the telepathic link with him, fearing they too would become contaminated.
"You're just not ready yet, my fellow freaks," Charles said aloud, in english, openly defiant - and returned the entirety of his conscious focus to the planting of the seeds in his hand. As his focus was shifting away from the other Venusians to the soil and the inward contemplation, he could sense some of the Venusians smiling at his words.
********
Corporation G7*9-23 stood tall and proud, somewhere toward the southern edge of New World Center.
Invisible, Reynolds continued to whisper into Drone Seventeen’s ear:
“The vests and belts will be picked up by a human called Blue Bird Simon, then store new settings and destination and continue with the old.”
Then he sprayed his canister into its mind and sat for a while on the simulated carpet beside the Manager-god.
The Manager-god here wasn’t very original. She was a very serious looking woman with a grey skirt and jacket. She stood with her arms folded looking out at the drones, one by one. The drones weren’t so easy to recognize or distinguish as the Manager-god, mainly just a collective blur of movement.
Reynolds stood up, turned to face the Manger-god’s ear, and whispered:
“I am a pawn.”
Thinking this was her own thought, the Manger-god wrinkled her forehead, confused. “Number thirty six, research, priority one. What is a pawn? Report.”
Reynolds walked up to number fifty seven, whom he knew was truly Evin Ridge, a former Red Bird who was being kept “on ice” for some reason. What Reynolds didn’t know what that Evin was actually the fifth next of kin of King Mao the forty second of Cheju Do, and an ex-lover of Lucy’s.
Reynolds whispered into the ear of the Drone formerly called, and who would never again be called, Evin:
“I’m doing this wrong, Manager-god said yesterday new plans for mask, and sword blade and handle,” and sprayed his mind with the detailed program, “and she said rewrite destination Montauk Point Harbor dock twelve, sixteen hundred to be picked up by a human, Blue Bird Simon, at thirteen hundred hours, then store new settings and destination and continue with the old.”
“A Pawn is a piece of an ancient game called chess. It is of the lowest value. It may move forward one square at a time or two squares in the first move, capture other pieces only on a one-space diagonal forward move, and be promoted to any piece other than a king upon reaching the eighth rank, or it is person or an entity used to further the purposes of another.“ number thirty six said out loud. Reynolds looked over his shoulder at the Manager-god, grinning at her extreemly confused facial åxpråssiîn.
“Why would I think such a thing?” the Manager-god thought to herself as she surveyed the Drones again. Her shoulders squared on the space near Reynolds and her eyes became very focused. “Number Fifty Seven, why did you change one of your routeens? …Report, Now!”
“It just took me some time to put your orders into affect from yesterday,” said the Drone, terrified at having shirked his duties.
“Why did your adrenal glands just release, what are you hiding??”
“I’m… I’m lying to you my Lady! The delay was my own fault, I should have made the changes sooner!” He said, weeping.
The Manager-god pointed a small object at the Drone and pushed a button, causing him a very sharp sensation of electricution. He yelped like a dog, then instantly spent all of his accumulated credits from the previous minute and a half on a numbing sensation and some pleasant uplifting music, for his ears alone, and returned to his duties.
She checked his monitor and saw the blue masks being sewn and swords being forged and packaged by many robotic tentacles, which she would never fathom were
Freeing Blythe (age 25)
08-07-2003 11:31
[500x]
The Drones of Corporation G7*5-28, New World Center, came out of REM into semi-consciousness, again, with the visual of the green sphere with the abstract white fish lady swimming around inside of it singing her siren's song in harmony with Sousa's classic blarring from all directions, and a monkey-like wind-up toy banging symbols together and walking around in circles. This was nothing unusual.
However, for Mickie Mouse, this was no ordinary morning. Drone #146, who until ten years prior had been and would later again be named Blythe, began to show strange signs to Mickie Mouse... So Mickie Mouse contacted G7*5-28 President, Sergent Lee (Red Bird), his Master, and described what he saw.
Sergent Lee checked the readings for himself and saw that this was, indeed, alarming... the vital signs seemed to be flipping in and out, while the duties of the Drone were still being fulfilled... Sergent Lee contacted his master, Emporer Saint George Washington Bush of Anglsey, one of the Servant-Cousins of the Kings. ESGWBA was fishing, at the time, in an anchored speed-boat off the coast of Wikiki.
"Lee? What the fuck are you calling me for??"
"Something strange is happening with one of my Drones..."
"A Drone??? Have you lost your mind?? If you call me one more time because of a Drone I'll strip you of your rank and you'll be mining quartz in the rings of Saturn within a week, do I make myself clear?!?" (*click... dialtone*)
Lee figited... contemplated the ramifications of the readings he saw... if something were to happen on his watch and in one of HIS buildings... If this Drone were to remember her life... to infect the others... he took off his red helmet and wiped the sweat off his brow and began flying toward the building, which was about 15 minutes away, then directed his com-link back to Mickie Mouse:
"Terminate her."
Mickie replied, "Understood" and turned to where the virtual image of the Drone had been, and saw nothing.
Sergent Lee arrived at his building to find a circular pane of glass about a meter in diameter cut out of the side of the building, and the bed nearest to the incision was empty.
Lee's heart raced, and he began to scratch and pull at his hair... Why do they do this? Don't they know Drones never survive the disconnection?
-----
"Anonymity is the name of the game in most of the Black Web. Well, that and revealing your true identity. It's all a matter of timing, and it's all usually pretty intuitive," said a leather-clad lavendar-faced androgenous human-form in the voice of James Brown with a heavy metallic reverb, who calls himself 'The Brit'. He continued... "Now... The Lincoln has been so kind, considering your heroic reputation, as to grant you an apartment overlooking the Colloseum. You can observe the games and expand your knowledge of the art of violence, and participate in them whenever you wish, by simply challenging a worthy opponent and scheduling your meeting when there is an opening there...
"Within your apartment you will have a plane of undefinite proportions to work with, as much as you can create with the gigamegs alloted to you. You could have an infinite plane of individual growing and dying sunflowers or a single fully duplicated German Shephard, the one being the equivalent to the other in the memory required to maintain such a program. If you require more space for your use, contact The Lincoln by raising your middle finger on your right hand on high and proclaiming 'Hey Asshole! Come here now!'. You can do this at any time and in any place within the UA Grid and The Lincoln will appear and hear your request.
"You can invite whomever you wish into your apartment for any duration of time. I have no doubt that you will use this as a base of operations for the resistance... however please be aware that many of our citizens would rather live their lives in peace, and create their legacy outside of the Machine, and outside of the opposition of the Machine... It is generally consitered to be, in the long run, a more affective resistance to the Machine... and it is also consitered a bad idea for a former drone to be involved in direct resistence.... however, consitering your past, your training, and your reputation thus far, I imagine you will be one of our acceptions.
"In Conclusion I would like to personally congratulate you upon your full liberation from the Machine, and to welcome you to Underground America. Do you have any questions?"
"Yes I do," Blythe said without any hesitation. "I would like to meet the VSD who replaced me in that hellhole and shake her hand."
"I'm afraid that even if I know the whereabouts of the one you speak of, I would not be at liberty to divulge the information as to their wherabouts within the grid. That would be an issue only The Man himself could address for you, and a good opportunity for you to practice the Call of The×èòàòü äàëåå...
êîììåíòàðèè: 0
ïîíðàâèëîñü!
ââåðõ^
ê ïîëíîé âåðñèè
[500x]The Drones of Corporation G7*5-28, New World Center, came out of REM into semi-consciousness, again, with the visual of the green sphere with the abstract white fish lady swimming around inside of it singing her siren's song in harmony with Sousa's classic blarring from all directions, and a monkey-like wind-up toy banging symbols together and walking around in circles. This was nothing unusual.
However, for Mickie Mouse, this was no ordinary morning. Drone #146, who until ten years prior had been and would later again be named Blythe, began to show strange signs to Mickie Mouse... So Mickie Mouse contacted G7*5-28 President, Sergent Lee (Red Bird), his Master, and described what he saw.
Sergent Lee checked the readings for himself and saw that this was, indeed, alarming... the vital signs seemed to be flipping in and out, while the duties of the Drone were still being fulfilled... Sergent Lee contacted his master, Emporer Saint George Washington Bush of Anglsey, one of the Servant-Cousins of the Kings. ESGWBA was fishing, at the time, in an anchored speed-boat off the coast of Wikiki.
"Lee? What the fuck are you calling me for??"
"Something strange is happening with one of my Drones..."
"A Drone??? Have you lost your mind?? If you call me one more time because of a Drone I'll strip you of your rank and you'll be mining quartz in the rings of Saturn within a week, do I make myself clear?!?" (*click... dialtone*)
Lee figited... contemplated the ramifications of the readings he saw... if something were to happen on his watch and in one of HIS buildings... If this Drone were to remember her life... to infect the others... he took off his red helmet and wiped the sweat off his brow and began flying toward the building, which was about 15 minutes away, then directed his com-link back to Mickie Mouse:
"Terminate her."
Mickie replied, "Understood" and turned to where the virtual image of the Drone had been, and saw nothing.
Sergent Lee arrived at his building to find a circular pane of glass about a meter in diameter cut out of the side of the building, and the bed nearest to the incision was empty.
Lee's heart raced, and he began to scratch and pull at his hair... Why do they do this? Don't they know Drones never survive the disconnection?
-----
"Anonymity is the name of the game in most of the Black Web. Well, that and revealing your true identity. It's all a matter of timing, and it's all usually pretty intuitive," said a leather-clad lavendar-faced androgenous human-form in the voice of James Brown with a heavy metallic reverb, who calls himself 'The Brit'. He continued... "Now... The Lincoln has been so kind, considering your heroic reputation, as to grant you an apartment overlooking the Colloseum. You can observe the games and expand your knowledge of the art of violence, and participate in them whenever you wish, by simply challenging a worthy opponent and scheduling your meeting when there is an opening there...
"Within your apartment you will have a plane of undefinite proportions to work with, as much as you can create with the gigamegs alloted to you. You could have an infinite plane of individual growing and dying sunflowers or a single fully duplicated German Shephard, the one being the equivalent to the other in the memory required to maintain such a program. If you require more space for your use, contact The Lincoln by raising your middle finger on your right hand on high and proclaiming 'Hey Asshole! Come here now!'. You can do this at any time and in any place within the UA Grid and The Lincoln will appear and hear your request.
"You can invite whomever you wish into your apartment for any duration of time. I have no doubt that you will use this as a base of operations for the resistance... however please be aware that many of our citizens would rather live their lives in peace, and create their legacy outside of the Machine, and outside of the opposition of the Machine... It is generally consitered to be, in the long run, a more affective resistance to the Machine... and it is also consitered a bad idea for a former drone to be involved in direct resistence.... however, consitering your past, your training, and your reputation thus far, I imagine you will be one of our acceptions.
"In Conclusion I would like to personally congratulate you upon your full liberation from the Machine, and to welcome you to Underground America. Do you have any questions?"
"Yes I do," Blythe said without any hesitation. "I would like to meet the VSD who replaced me in that hellhole and shake her hand."
"I'm afraid that even if I know the whereabouts of the one you speak of, I would not be at liberty to divulge the information as to their wherabouts within the grid. That would be an issue only The Man himself could address for you, and a good opportunity for you to practice the Call of The
The Story (Part 2)
08-07-2003 11:27
The story goes on to say that after the first rebels left the Ancient Land, the first sons of the first sons of the first generation of rebels became the first Kings. As per the request of the first rebels, they owned all the land conquered by the collective of them. No doubt their ancestors knew this would bring about wars and further rebellions and reachings out into new territories and the establishing of new cities and the gradual evolution of the efficiency of the madness until one system would work so smoothly it would envelop all of the others entirely, whether by choice or not.
The New World Center would like nothing more than to wipe out their Ancient grudge against the implied Old World Center, the Ancient Land from the old tales. They would like even to assimilate the very historical charectors, to travel backwards in time and make it so there never was any better way, that everything was always as it was for the first rebels built a second city - exchanging cups of precious grains of precious substances, gems, gold, spices - and the blood oath they swore BEFORE birth that every time a cup of sand would exchange hands 8 and a quarter percent of that sand would be left as an offering to the collective of Kings.
Many millenia have passed since these first sons have passed behind a veil of obscurity. They seem to have just disappeared. Many millenia have passed since that architectual monstrosity, before they realized the world was round and they thought they could overcome death by making their slaves build these megaliths, and many millenia have passed since it is said the Wrath of I AM came down as lightning and destroyed such arrogance, scattering the second and third sons of the first rebels around the globe, carrying the Wise Ones also with them.
êîììåíòàðèè: 0
ïîíðàâèëîñü!
ââåðõ^
ê ïîëíîé âåðñèè
The story goes on to say that after the first rebels left the Ancient Land, the first sons of the first sons of the first generation of rebels became the first Kings. As per the request of the first rebels, they owned all the land conquered by the collective of them. No doubt their ancestors knew this would bring about wars and further rebellions and reachings out into new territories and the establishing of new cities and the gradual evolution of the efficiency of the madness until one system would work so smoothly it would envelop all of the others entirely, whether by choice or not.
The New World Center would like nothing more than to wipe out their Ancient grudge against the implied Old World Center, the Ancient Land from the old tales. They would like even to assimilate the very historical charectors, to travel backwards in time and make it so there never was any better way, that everything was always as it was for the first rebels built a second city - exchanging cups of precious grains of precious substances, gems, gold, spices - and the blood oath they swore BEFORE birth that every time a cup of sand would exchange hands 8 and a quarter percent of that sand would be left as an offering to the collective of Kings.
Many millenia have passed since these first sons have passed behind a veil of obscurity. They seem to have just disappeared. Many millenia have passed since that architectual monstrosity, before they realized the world was round and they thought they could overcome death by making their slaves build these megaliths, and many millenia have passed since it is said the Wrath of I AM came down as lightning and destroyed such arrogance, scattering the second and third sons of the first rebels around the globe, carrying the Wise Ones also with them.
Volunteer Surrogate Drones
08-07-2003 11:24
The most honourable thing a Free Man can do in his lifetime is to voluntarily undergo the rigorous training and replace a drone at the instant of his liberation, which is as soon as possible after the Drone becomes conscious (through the thought-seeds planted by Charles and those like him) cries out for liberation, provided that there is a surrogate in place who is familiar with the particulars of the Drone's duties. If not, the Drone either falls back into his slumber while waiting, or is terminated by the Manager-gods who percieve the Drone to have been contaminated by demons from hell.
In the New Ancient Land the taking on of the role of VSD (Volunteer Surrogate Drone) earns a Free Man the title of Saint. Lincoln will never risk the loss of a free man, though, and so they are first tested extensively to ensure that they will not succumb to the trance... but they are trained to perform all of the same multi-tasking processes as a drone and, in particular, that drone which is approaching readiness to be trasferred from the Machine to the Free or Black Web, and placed in the care of Lincoln and the Free Nobles.
At the instant of the transfer, the VSD takes over from the subways underground, or sometimes even from Venus, and the drone begins his deprogramming process. Once the drone is ready, his body is then rescued by a team of rebels at great risk. The moment the drone's body is disconnected, the surrogate drone disconnects, so that the Manager-gods and their superiors to this day do not understand that these drones actually survive, since they could not be so abruptly disconnected bodily without first undergoing extensive de-programming which may take years - years which the VSD-Saint spends inside the machine without a Black Egg.
These are the heros... and while Charles is numbered among them, this is not so amazing as when the full-humans take on the role of surrogate, as it is much more difficult for them, and they are left afterward with some mental/emotional dammage and if they succumb to the trace they must undergo the same deprogramming process as the drones in order to remember their lives before thier VSD sacrifice.
When a rebel is arrested, they are plugged in physcially to the company or one of the companies run by the Red Bird which arrested them, they are plugged in and unless they have undergone VSD training they will always fall into the trance, and VSD training is only offered to those who will become VSD-Saints, dead or alive.
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The most honourable thing a Free Man can do in his lifetime is to voluntarily undergo the rigorous training and replace a drone at the instant of his liberation, which is as soon as possible after the Drone becomes conscious (through the thought-seeds planted by Charles and those like him) cries out for liberation, provided that there is a surrogate in place who is familiar with the particulars of the Drone's duties. If not, the Drone either falls back into his slumber while waiting, or is terminated by the Manager-gods who percieve the Drone to have been contaminated by demons from hell.
In the New Ancient Land the taking on of the role of VSD (Volunteer Surrogate Drone) earns a Free Man the title of Saint. Lincoln will never risk the loss of a free man, though, and so they are first tested extensively to ensure that they will not succumb to the trance... but they are trained to perform all of the same multi-tasking processes as a drone and, in particular, that drone which is approaching readiness to be trasferred from the Machine to the Free or Black Web, and placed in the care of Lincoln and the Free Nobles.
At the instant of the transfer, the VSD takes over from the subways underground, or sometimes even from Venus, and the drone begins his deprogramming process. Once the drone is ready, his body is then rescued by a team of rebels at great risk. The moment the drone's body is disconnected, the surrogate drone disconnects, so that the Manager-gods and their superiors to this day do not understand that these drones actually survive, since they could not be so abruptly disconnected bodily without first undergoing extensive de-programming which may take years - years which the VSD-Saint spends inside the machine without a Black Egg.
These are the heros... and while Charles is numbered among them, this is not so amazing as when the full-humans take on the role of surrogate, as it is much more difficult for them, and they are left afterward with some mental/emotional dammage and if they succumb to the trace they must undergo the same deprogramming process as the drones in order to remember their lives before thier VSD sacrifice.
When a rebel is arrested, they are plugged in physcially to the company or one of the companies run by the Red Bird which arrested them, they are plugged in and unless they have undergone VSD training they will always fall into the trance, and VSD training is only offered to those who will become VSD-Saints, dead or alive.
on Red Birds and Manager-gods
08-07-2003 11:23
[ïîêàçàòü]
Must be nice. Born into the best and brightest colorful rollercoaster orgasm in history. They oughta be grateful, if they knew I existed; If the mindless cogs knew who's business they were running. Sometimes I envy them, never having to deal with headaches and flatulence and women - living out their lives in the most blissfull experience this world has to offer, while I have to bust my ass to protect them. Some of us work for a living. That's why I'm the Executive around here and they're the Drones. On the other hand... maybe I should feel sorry for them. They don't even know enough to be confused about the whole ordeal.
Sergent Lee
MSD-President
of G7*5-28
NWC Red Bird
[ïîêàçàòü]
A Drone born Drone became convinced, as some of them do, that these references to history and beings and things which go on outside of his building were illusions put there to keep him from The Truth and that The Truth was that the things that went on in his immediate cluster were The Truth and these records they would occasionally process for a variety of reasons about a world *outside* of the building were Lies.
This Drone born Drone, as a result of his epiphany, became intensely conscious and alert - for fear of falling back into the slumber he remembered so well, that slumber of the Drone-Trance in which everything is taken at face value.
At around this time... Sergent Lee, the Red Bird who "owned" that particular building saw a tremendous opportunity, particularly in light of the building's resident Manager-god growing so old and becoming increasingly slow-witted.
Lee began interfacing with this bizarre and fanatical drone...
"You have seen the Truth" Red Bird Lee says to him.
"Yes! I hear you! I hear you there!" the Drone replied.
"You know that there is nothing at all in the entire universe but you and these 249 other beings in the quadrahedronal grid with you."
"Yes Yes! I have seen it! I know!"
"Do you know what this means?"
"...no... Tell me.... Tell me oh voice from nowhere, what does it mean?"
Lee let the Drone stew over this curiousity without an answer for a while, then had the old MG unplugged...
Several days later, Lee spoke again to him... "Do you hear me oh enlightened one?"
"Yes! Yes! I hear you! Why did you leave me?? What does it mean?? Why have I been cursed with this knowledge, the other Drones call me crazy in their inconscious mutterings! What am I to do??"
Lee spoke in a most ominous tone... "You are becoming a god..."
"What? ...Really??"
"Yes. I will now unveil to you... you're true nature. You are...... MICKIE MOUSE"
"Who?? Where did this falsetto voice... my voice... why did it change... and why do I have these weird black ears...? "
Lee pushed a button which had the new Manager-god electricuted. "Shut up and don't question my authority!"
"Yes! Yes! Sir... master... authority? but... who are you?" (*Electricution*) "AAAAhhhh... ok ok I won't ever question you again..." (*Orgasm*) "Oh wow... what the... what do I do?"
"Shephard the drones."
"Yes... I will... what does that mean?"
"You will have full access to the thoughts and actions of the Drones. Part of their activity is to pretend there is a world outside this building. Do not try to interfere with this or correct them. You know The Truth let that be enough..."
"Okay..."
"But there are demons... demons who will try to whisper to the drones and confuse them or even take them away into a bad place called hell... protect your drones from the demons of hell..."
"Yes... Yes I will..."
Word spread rapidly through the com-channels of the Red Birds until the whole of the Mass Self Discipline was laughing out loud in their jets at the idea of a new Manager-god being made with the form and name of Mickie Mouse.
Mickie took himself much more seriously, though, and he vowed to himself that he would be a good shephard to his drones, and would never let the demons confuse them or take them away to hell.
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[ïîêàçàòü]Must be nice. Born into the best and brightest colorful rollercoaster orgasm in history. They oughta be grateful, if they knew I existed; If the mindless cogs knew who's business they were running. Sometimes I envy them, never having to deal with headaches and flatulence and women - living out their lives in the most blissfull experience this world has to offer, while I have to bust my ass to protect them. Some of us work for a living. That's why I'm the Executive around here and they're the Drones. On the other hand... maybe I should feel sorry for them. They don't even know enough to be confused about the whole ordeal.
Sergent Lee
MSD-President
of G7*5-28
NWC Red Bird
[ïîêàçàòü]A Drone born Drone became convinced, as some of them do, that these references to history and beings and things which go on outside of his building were illusions put there to keep him from The Truth and that The Truth was that the things that went on in his immediate cluster were The Truth and these records they would occasionally process for a variety of reasons about a world *outside* of the building were Lies.
This Drone born Drone, as a result of his epiphany, became intensely conscious and alert - for fear of falling back into the slumber he remembered so well, that slumber of the Drone-Trance in which everything is taken at face value.
At around this time... Sergent Lee, the Red Bird who "owned" that particular building saw a tremendous opportunity, particularly in light of the building's resident Manager-god growing so old and becoming increasingly slow-witted.
Lee began interfacing with this bizarre and fanatical drone...
"You have seen the Truth" Red Bird Lee says to him.
"Yes! I hear you! I hear you there!" the Drone replied.
"You know that there is nothing at all in the entire universe but you and these 249 other beings in the quadrahedronal grid with you."
"Yes Yes! I have seen it! I know!"
"Do you know what this means?"
"...no... Tell me.... Tell me oh voice from nowhere, what does it mean?"
Lee let the Drone stew over this curiousity without an answer for a while, then had the old MG unplugged...
Several days later, Lee spoke again to him... "Do you hear me oh enlightened one?"
"Yes! Yes! I hear you! Why did you leave me?? What does it mean?? Why have I been cursed with this knowledge, the other Drones call me crazy in their inconscious mutterings! What am I to do??"
Lee spoke in a most ominous tone... "You are becoming a god..."
"What? ...Really??"
"Yes. I will now unveil to you... you're true nature. You are...... MICKIE MOUSE"
"Who?? Where did this falsetto voice... my voice... why did it change... and why do I have these weird black ears...? "
Lee pushed a button which had the new Manager-god electricuted. "Shut up and don't question my authority!"
"Yes! Yes! Sir... master... authority? but... who are you?" (*Electricution*) "AAAAhhhh... ok ok I won't ever question you again..." (*Orgasm*) "Oh wow... what the... what do I do?"
"Shephard the drones."
"Yes... I will... what does that mean?"
"You will have full access to the thoughts and actions of the Drones. Part of their activity is to pretend there is a world outside this building. Do not try to interfere with this or correct them. You know The Truth let that be enough..."
"Okay..."
"But there are demons... demons who will try to whisper to the drones and confuse them or even take them away into a bad place called hell... protect your drones from the demons of hell..."
"Yes... Yes I will..."
Word spread rapidly through the com-channels of the Red Birds until the whole of the Mass Self Discipline was laughing out loud in their jets at the idea of a new Manager-god being made with the form and name of Mickie Mouse.
Mickie took himself much more seriously, though, and he vowed to himself that he would be a good shephard to his drones, and would never let the demons confuse them or take them away to hell.
Lucy at 15
08-07-2003 10:58
"To be honest, Sir Ebsen, I don't appreciate the comparison. There is quite a difference between Elizabeth and me. She murdured virgin girls and bathed in their blood because she thought that was the key to eternal youth. While I, on the other hand, do so because I don't ever want anyone to think Elizabeth was any cooler than I am."
the only thing Lucy ever said to the media other than "no comment"
(they thought she was kidding)
[ïîêàçàòü]
The elderly Emporer Saint George Washington Bush of Angelsey, while he *technically* oversees personally the very Capitol of the Empire, New World Center, can be reduced to tears by the threats of a girl the same age as Blythe...
Lucy appeared at the table with King William of Angelsey, wrapped in her agendas, giggling to herself.
She wore long black hair, ruby red lipstick matching her velvet red dress, jewelry, gold, gems inlaid in rings, a and necklace. Whatever Lucy's mood was was always written all over her in the jewelry.
Almost oblivious to William, she appears there and sits down at the table. William didn't quite smile, but it was evident that he was a good deal more entertained by Lucy than anything in his pane of glass.
“What’s new?” He asked her, already knowing where she’d been and why.
Lucy held out her hand to the table as a very ancient looking golden challace appeared, inlaid with the same jewels she was wearing. She held her fist over it, then extended her fingers, allowing thick black crude oil to pour out of her palm. When it was half full, her palm returned to skin, and match appeared between her fingers. She lit it with her extended obviously plastic red thumbnail and dropped it into her challace, as it ignited all at once.
William tried to force himself not to watch this, but watched anyway, squinting a bit, trying to hide his discust, while trying to comprehend this weird little ritual of hers.
Lucy drank of her cup and set it down, looked up at her father and smiled… “Lee nailed that girl Blythe today. She serves Mickey Mouse now.” She giggled to herself, one of many fans of Lee's ingenuity.
King William looked into the pane of glass on the table before him, searching with his pupils. “That one?” He looked at the fast moving simulation which, at that particular instant, was labeling, categorizing, and filing snapshot observations from the satalites while simultaniously buying the various fantasies, colors, pleasurable sensations and mixed-up forms of entertainment with the credits this was earning her. "Blythe..."
William saw the Mickey behind her and the others, looking vigilant, and far more defined than the drones. He nodded to himself and took a sip of the wine in his glass, bored, as Lucy poured more of her beverage into herself.
Lucy lit a long, thin menthol from a ruby cigarette holder, and held her golden challace up high:
"To the Empire!"
King William lifted his wine glass. They toasted and drank.
My Empire she thought to herself, and grinned.
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"To be honest, Sir Ebsen, I don't appreciate the comparison. There is quite a difference between Elizabeth and me. She murdured virgin girls and bathed in their blood because she thought that was the key to eternal youth. While I, on the other hand, do so because I don't ever want anyone to think Elizabeth was any cooler than I am."
the only thing Lucy ever said to the media other than "no comment"
(they thought she was kidding)
[ïîêàçàòü]The elderly Emporer Saint George Washington Bush of Angelsey, while he *technically* oversees personally the very Capitol of the Empire, New World Center, can be reduced to tears by the threats of a girl the same age as Blythe...
Lucy appeared at the table with King William of Angelsey, wrapped in her agendas, giggling to herself.
She wore long black hair, ruby red lipstick matching her velvet red dress, jewelry, gold, gems inlaid in rings, a and necklace. Whatever Lucy's mood was was always written all over her in the jewelry.
Almost oblivious to William, she appears there and sits down at the table. William didn't quite smile, but it was evident that he was a good deal more entertained by Lucy than anything in his pane of glass.
“What’s new?” He asked her, already knowing where she’d been and why.
Lucy held out her hand to the table as a very ancient looking golden challace appeared, inlaid with the same jewels she was wearing. She held her fist over it, then extended her fingers, allowing thick black crude oil to pour out of her palm. When it was half full, her palm returned to skin, and match appeared between her fingers. She lit it with her extended obviously plastic red thumbnail and dropped it into her challace, as it ignited all at once.
William tried to force himself not to watch this, but watched anyway, squinting a bit, trying to hide his discust, while trying to comprehend this weird little ritual of hers.
Lucy drank of her cup and set it down, looked up at her father and smiled… “Lee nailed that girl Blythe today. She serves Mickey Mouse now.” She giggled to herself, one of many fans of Lee's ingenuity.
King William looked into the pane of glass on the table before him, searching with his pupils. “That one?” He looked at the fast moving simulation which, at that particular instant, was labeling, categorizing, and filing snapshot observations from the satalites while simultaniously buying the various fantasies, colors, pleasurable sensations and mixed-up forms of entertainment with the credits this was earning her. "Blythe..."
William saw the Mickey behind her and the others, looking vigilant, and far more defined than the drones. He nodded to himself and took a sip of the wine in his glass, bored, as Lucy poured more of her beverage into herself.
Lucy lit a long, thin menthol from a ruby cigarette holder, and held her golden challace up high:
"To the Empire!"
King William lifted his wine glass. They toasted and drank.
My Empire she thought to herself, and grinned.
Blythe at 15
08-07-2003 10:45
[ïîêàçàòü]
Blythe was born free in the heart of the resistance, right under the capital of the Old Empire, in the underground ruins which were once the subways of New World Center. By the age of 15 she was already a feirce opponent in hand-to-hand combat, even amongst her peers who were in the same place and situation. She was also a brilliant tactician.
Simon's right pupil directed the cursur on the small lens in front of him. He moved from camera to camera about the neighborhood above, watching the thin blue lines dissappear as the Red Birds approached and reappear as the moved away from them. They showed no sign of concentration on any specific area, but he had a feeling they were planning something. There was no evidence, and the feeling was empirically unjustified, but he insisted on spending the day watching them.
"I want you to stay here if anything happens. We'll need someone watching to tell us where they are."
"My infant brother could do that for you, Simon." Blythe retorted without lifting her eyes from Sun Tzu's Art of War. "Or perhaps you could have one of the drones do it for you. I doubt anyone would notice. The manager-gods are a little slow these days I hear. That way I can be out there saving your ass from the Red Birds the next time you slip on shit."
"Will you never let me live that down?? That happened ONCE, only once, and I've saved your ass more times than I can count and I'm afraid one of these days you'll be spacing out contemplating the meaning of a hamburger and I won't be there to parry the blade coming down on your neck."
"Just shut up Simon. Seriously. Don't pretend you don't know I'm the better swordsman."
"Wouldn't that be swords...woman?"
Blythe rolled her eyes and kept reading. "We need allies in thier world. Spies."
Simon actually took his eye off the lense to turn around and look at her, "And how in the world do you propose we accomplish this?"
Blythe looked away from the book in thought for about ten seconds.
"I don't know. But it has to be done. I'd be willing to bet they have people down here with us."
"What?? Impossible. We all know... everybody knows every... if they did they'd know where we were and we wouldn't be able to hide from them!"
"The Red Birds only know what they're allowed to know."
"What??"
"The same stuff you're looking at, is all the information they have access to."
"Blythe. You just said you thought they might have spies down here with us - with blue armor and rebel's swords I suppose??"
"Yes. And I didn't say I thought there might I said I'd be willing to bet."
Simon scratched his head. "But... if they were on their side then wouldn't the Red Birds know them? Have some kind of... communication with them?"
"Not nessesarily. Do you really think the Empire is as simple as Red Birds and invisible Kings, Simon?"
Simon looked toward the tracks for a few seconds then returned his eye back to the lens. "Wait... Blythe... tell the others... I want you to stay here Blythe..."
"What? What is it??" Blythe pushed Simon aside and saw the lens for herself... 15 Red Birds on a course to meet in the air directly above Lexington Station.
"Go to the sewers, Blythe, stay with Baggit. You'll be safe."
"Fuck you, you'll be dead, he'll be safe and I'll come and get him after we get rid of these guys."
"Look, you're fifteen years old, Blythe, and I'd never forgive myself if... anything... Look, I promised your mother before... that I'd..."
"That you'd interfere with my free will? Fuck off and put your mask on there's no time. We can argue about this later." Blythe picked up a microphone and pushed the button on the side, "If you're willing to fight, come to the surface. The rest evacuate, go west." She put on her mask, pulled out her sword and gun and ran for the stairs, shot the chain, kicked down the gate, and kept running.
"Wait for the others Blythe! Damn you..." Simon ran after her, pulling his mask over his eyes. He overted his eyes from the light when he came up, hearing loud explosions and shouting. He saw Blythe several meters away shooting with her left hand. He looked to his right and saw three fully uniformed Red Birds shaking their hands. One of them picked up his gun and looked at it, before throwing it back down. "Blythe!!!"
She ignored him. She heard another jet and aimed carefully. Upon pulling the trigger, the jet exploded instantly. Two burning jets landed behind Simon and he spun around to see the others there. Eight jets were on the ground burning.
So far.
"Simon be careful I can't control where they land!" Blythe shouted as the three red armoured men ran toward her. She put her gun back in its holster and held up her sword.
Simon turned back around and yelled "What are you doing?!?" And he shot at the Red Birds, disabling two of them. Blythe killed the Third with her sword.
Twenty Masked Blues came to the surface at×èòàòü äàëåå...
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ïîíðàâèëîñü!
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[ïîêàçàòü]Blythe was born free in the heart of the resistance, right under the capital of the Old Empire, in the underground ruins which were once the subways of New World Center. By the age of 15 she was already a feirce opponent in hand-to-hand combat, even amongst her peers who were in the same place and situation. She was also a brilliant tactician.
Simon's right pupil directed the cursur on the small lens in front of him. He moved from camera to camera about the neighborhood above, watching the thin blue lines dissappear as the Red Birds approached and reappear as the moved away from them. They showed no sign of concentration on any specific area, but he had a feeling they were planning something. There was no evidence, and the feeling was empirically unjustified, but he insisted on spending the day watching them.
"I want you to stay here if anything happens. We'll need someone watching to tell us where they are."
"My infant brother could do that for you, Simon." Blythe retorted without lifting her eyes from Sun Tzu's Art of War. "Or perhaps you could have one of the drones do it for you. I doubt anyone would notice. The manager-gods are a little slow these days I hear. That way I can be out there saving your ass from the Red Birds the next time you slip on shit."
"Will you never let me live that down?? That happened ONCE, only once, and I've saved your ass more times than I can count and I'm afraid one of these days you'll be spacing out contemplating the meaning of a hamburger and I won't be there to parry the blade coming down on your neck."
"Just shut up Simon. Seriously. Don't pretend you don't know I'm the better swordsman."
"Wouldn't that be swords...woman?"
Blythe rolled her eyes and kept reading. "We need allies in thier world. Spies."
Simon actually took his eye off the lense to turn around and look at her, "And how in the world do you propose we accomplish this?"
Blythe looked away from the book in thought for about ten seconds.
"I don't know. But it has to be done. I'd be willing to bet they have people down here with us."
"What?? Impossible. We all know... everybody knows every... if they did they'd know where we were and we wouldn't be able to hide from them!"
"The Red Birds only know what they're allowed to know."
"What??"
"The same stuff you're looking at, is all the information they have access to."
"Blythe. You just said you thought they might have spies down here with us - with blue armor and rebel's swords I suppose??"
"Yes. And I didn't say I thought there might I said I'd be willing to bet."
Simon scratched his head. "But... if they were on their side then wouldn't the Red Birds know them? Have some kind of... communication with them?"
"Not nessesarily. Do you really think the Empire is as simple as Red Birds and invisible Kings, Simon?"
Simon looked toward the tracks for a few seconds then returned his eye back to the lens. "Wait... Blythe... tell the others... I want you to stay here Blythe..."
"What? What is it??" Blythe pushed Simon aside and saw the lens for herself... 15 Red Birds on a course to meet in the air directly above Lexington Station.
"Go to the sewers, Blythe, stay with Baggit. You'll be safe."
"Fuck you, you'll be dead, he'll be safe and I'll come and get him after we get rid of these guys."
"Look, you're fifteen years old, Blythe, and I'd never forgive myself if... anything... Look, I promised your mother before... that I'd..."
"That you'd interfere with my free will? Fuck off and put your mask on there's no time. We can argue about this later." Blythe picked up a microphone and pushed the button on the side, "If you're willing to fight, come to the surface. The rest evacuate, go west." She put on her mask, pulled out her sword and gun and ran for the stairs, shot the chain, kicked down the gate, and kept running.
"Wait for the others Blythe! Damn you..." Simon ran after her, pulling his mask over his eyes. He overted his eyes from the light when he came up, hearing loud explosions and shouting. He saw Blythe several meters away shooting with her left hand. He looked to his right and saw three fully uniformed Red Birds shaking their hands. One of them picked up his gun and looked at it, before throwing it back down. "Blythe!!!"
She ignored him. She heard another jet and aimed carefully. Upon pulling the trigger, the jet exploded instantly. Two burning jets landed behind Simon and he spun around to see the others there. Eight jets were on the ground burning.
So far.
"Simon be careful I can't control where they land!" Blythe shouted as the three red armoured men ran toward her. She put her gun back in its holster and held up her sword.
Simon turned back around and yelled "What are you doing?!?" And he shot at the Red Birds, disabling two of them. Blythe killed the Third with her sword.
Twenty Masked Blues came to the surface at
Charles and Jobe on Venus
08-07-2003 10:37
[ïîêàçàòü]
The one who first introduced Charles to the Palaces of the Ancient Land was an old man named Jobe. Very old, actually, he was over 200 years old, and that without any bionic enhancements, nor unusual drugs - and he was a full human living on Venus. He was the only living human on Venus at that time, as far as anyone knows, and had flown along-side Saint Teilhard III in the in the Rebel Mission which began the VI Calendar of the Venusian Year and time scale. Before that the Cross-Breeds had not even worked out how many days there were in a Venusian year.
Thus, Jobe was the only human at that time to interact with a cross-breed in person... Seeing them in their true form, as quite tall... a bit awkward looking and slow moving... the large black eyes and very pale skin. In the Free-Web the Venusians usually choose a more human form, as this makes it easier for the humans to relate with them. Most Venusians visit the Rebels only rarely, though...
Charles was always a little different from other Venusians... in his wanderings, it is said, he intuitively came to a certain cave and found Jobe sitting there motionless, seemingly dead, but with his fingernails and hair having grown far beyond any standard of normalcy. Then, it is said, Jobe opened his eyes for the first time in decades and said to Charles: "I've been waiting for you."
To the aliens from the other side of the galaxy, the people they ended up communicating with i.e. the ones who funded Voyager, they determined that there was no possible way they could understand or communicate with us. The only thing they really understood was the DNA stran, so they recommended (in English) that they artificially insemenate someone with this grafted mixture of the two races of sentient homineds - so the Kings of the New World and their Servant-Cousins had a few billion people terraform Venus and make it nice and cozy and they left a lab-harvested test-tube generation of the cross-breeds there. As per the Aliens' request, they decided not to damper with them, directly or indirectly, but to observe them via Satalite.
Rebels caught wind of this and Saint Teilhard III led a team of stolen spacecraft to Venus where they gave them the keys to the Free Web, which included access to all the same survalence technology the Red Birds of Earth have access to, which included all the information there was available about their own origins. In fact, everyone on Earth and Venus, except for the Drones, have access to every last piece of information there is, except for the names of the Kings and the locations of them and their Servant-Cousins. However, only the Rebels of earth and the Venusians have the Keys to the Free Web. The Drones, Red Birds, and even the Kings and their Servant-Cousins, do not.
This was all about 120 years ago, though, Charles is the great great grandson of the Venusians who found out about the Earth.
The funny thing is, a Venusian has to do quite a bit of research into Piscean history to even realize how the most populated FWW (Free Web World: full sensory virtual reality universe) is called Underground America and the Metalic-Mercury-Monarch (who is actually an anonymous collective of Rebel Nobles) is called "Lincoln" and rules in "The Black House" and a red and white striped with 50 Stars on a blue square in the upper left hand corner flag is burning on every street corner when even on Old Earth there isn't a flag like that flying anywhere but a museum in the abandoned subways under New World Center.
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ââåðõ^
ê ïîëíîé âåðñèè
[ïîêàçàòü]The one who first introduced Charles to the Palaces of the Ancient Land was an old man named Jobe. Very old, actually, he was over 200 years old, and that without any bionic enhancements, nor unusual drugs - and he was a full human living on Venus. He was the only living human on Venus at that time, as far as anyone knows, and had flown along-side Saint Teilhard III in the in the Rebel Mission which began the VI Calendar of the Venusian Year and time scale. Before that the Cross-Breeds had not even worked out how many days there were in a Venusian year.
Thus, Jobe was the only human at that time to interact with a cross-breed in person... Seeing them in their true form, as quite tall... a bit awkward looking and slow moving... the large black eyes and very pale skin. In the Free-Web the Venusians usually choose a more human form, as this makes it easier for the humans to relate with them. Most Venusians visit the Rebels only rarely, though...
Charles was always a little different from other Venusians... in his wanderings, it is said, he intuitively came to a certain cave and found Jobe sitting there motionless, seemingly dead, but with his fingernails and hair having grown far beyond any standard of normalcy. Then, it is said, Jobe opened his eyes for the first time in decades and said to Charles: "I've been waiting for you."
To the aliens from the other side of the galaxy, the people they ended up communicating with i.e. the ones who funded Voyager, they determined that there was no possible way they could understand or communicate with us. The only thing they really understood was the DNA stran, so they recommended (in English) that they artificially insemenate someone with this grafted mixture of the two races of sentient homineds - so the Kings of the New World and their Servant-Cousins had a few billion people terraform Venus and make it nice and cozy and they left a lab-harvested test-tube generation of the cross-breeds there. As per the Aliens' request, they decided not to damper with them, directly or indirectly, but to observe them via Satalite.
Rebels caught wind of this and Saint Teilhard III led a team of stolen spacecraft to Venus where they gave them the keys to the Free Web, which included access to all the same survalence technology the Red Birds of Earth have access to, which included all the information there was available about their own origins. In fact, everyone on Earth and Venus, except for the Drones, have access to every last piece of information there is, except for the names of the Kings and the locations of them and their Servant-Cousins. However, only the Rebels of earth and the Venusians have the Keys to the Free Web. The Drones, Red Birds, and even the Kings and their Servant-Cousins, do not.
This was all about 120 years ago, though, Charles is the great great grandson of the Venusians who found out about the Earth.
The funny thing is, a Venusian has to do quite a bit of research into Piscean history to even realize how the most populated FWW (Free Web World: full sensory virtual reality universe) is called Underground America and the Metalic-Mercury-Monarch (who is actually an anonymous collective of Rebel Nobles) is called "Lincoln" and rules in "The Black House" and a red and white striped with 50 Stars on a blue square in the upper left hand corner flag is burning on every street corner when even on Old Earth there isn't a flag like that flying anywhere but a museum in the abandoned subways under New World Center.
about The Machine
08-07-2003 10:32
[ïîêàçàòü]
Okay... so the red birds... these are people who work for the Kings... probably indirectly, they work for people who work for the kings... the Red Birds are given titles like President of corporations... a building in a city like small versions of New World Center... or NWC itself, they are given 1 or 2 or 3 of them... and all they have to do is join the MSD, the Mass Self Discipline... What their job is is to "protect their interests" "protect their investments" - which basically entails making sure the physical structures and the bodies within them are kept safe and untampered with by rebels or natural disasters, organizing them, or, rather, selecting people within them to organize them - those who have totally forgotten about the world outside the building and yet are lucid and conscious - they then communicate with them and teach them how to convice these invididuals that they are, basically, becoming gods... how to shepherd their drones and keep them safe from "demons" when in reality these demons are people like Charles who come in to gradually educate the drones who have the most potential to be freed from the machine. It is a dangerous job from humans as they can fall into the trace even if they are physcially outside of the building. The cross-breeds, like Charles, do not risk the trance as they are mentally immune to it...
After the Venusians were educated, most of them opted to use the Free Web only for minimal communication with humans and for research, and data. Charles and a few others like him use it much more often. Where many humans are just as jacked into it as the drones are jacked into the Machine, the experience of living in the Free Web is uite different from that of the Machine... most of the duties attended to by the drones are done in that 90% of the brain that is not conscious, while the conscious mind is given the most pleasurable, interesting, exiting, colorful array of sensations - always changing - that the trance is inevitable. Regular orgasm is a part of this drone's paradise, as well as many other sensations which are just as pleasurable or more-so. Thus, it is paradise to them and they usually won't ever want anything else, particularly since their physical bodies deteriorate to the point of barley being able to move.
There are no prisons or hospitals. There are drones plugged into the their servers, conducted by manager-gods who serve Red Birds who are appointed by servants of Kings, who are usually cousins of Kings (Emporer Saint George Washington Bush of Angelsey (ESGWBA) for example).
Now Charles not only interacts with the humans more than most other Venusians, he also is the most active in the human resistance to the Machines. In the Free Web, in places like Underground America, the Venusians interact with the Free Humans who opt to have nothing to do with the Machine, for the most part, and they consiter those who fight the machine to be a part of the machine... i.e. the Machine is the essence of the evil nature of the Kings and include the phenomenon of Free Men enraged and trying to destroy them. Charles takes a bit of a different approach, and while he is primarily focused on his Art, that is, his creation and betterment of Worlds - he is also one of those few Venusians who don the black egg and visit the drones often, seeking out the most "unstable" of them, the ones with a seed of real consciousness within them, and he whispers to them.
Once in conversation with a human he grins and explians to him that it is only the humans that seem to require the Free Web for this level of communication with beings not within physical proximity, and he explains that he had created all of his worlds long before he programmed them into the Free Web - just the same, he whispers into the ears of the semi sentient long before he actually visits them in his egg. Thus, when they finally hear his voice as a booming shock, they hear words that have been circulating in their minds for years already, implanted by Charles himself.
êîììåíòàðèè: 0
ïîíðàâèëîñü!
ââåðõ^
ê ïîëíîé âåðñèè
[ïîêàçàòü]Okay... so the red birds... these are people who work for the Kings... probably indirectly, they work for people who work for the kings... the Red Birds are given titles like President of corporations... a building in a city like small versions of New World Center... or NWC itself, they are given 1 or 2 or 3 of them... and all they have to do is join the MSD, the Mass Self Discipline... What their job is is to "protect their interests" "protect their investments" - which basically entails making sure the physical structures and the bodies within them are kept safe and untampered with by rebels or natural disasters, organizing them, or, rather, selecting people within them to organize them - those who have totally forgotten about the world outside the building and yet are lucid and conscious - they then communicate with them and teach them how to convice these invididuals that they are, basically, becoming gods... how to shepherd their drones and keep them safe from "demons" when in reality these demons are people like Charles who come in to gradually educate the drones who have the most potential to be freed from the machine. It is a dangerous job from humans as they can fall into the trace even if they are physcially outside of the building. The cross-breeds, like Charles, do not risk the trance as they are mentally immune to it...
After the Venusians were educated, most of them opted to use the Free Web only for minimal communication with humans and for research, and data. Charles and a few others like him use it much more often. Where many humans are just as jacked into it as the drones are jacked into the Machine, the experience of living in the Free Web is uite different from that of the Machine... most of the duties attended to by the drones are done in that 90% of the brain that is not conscious, while the conscious mind is given the most pleasurable, interesting, exiting, colorful array of sensations - always changing - that the trance is inevitable. Regular orgasm is a part of this drone's paradise, as well as many other sensations which are just as pleasurable or more-so. Thus, it is paradise to them and they usually won't ever want anything else, particularly since their physical bodies deteriorate to the point of barley being able to move.
There are no prisons or hospitals. There are drones plugged into the their servers, conducted by manager-gods who serve Red Birds who are appointed by servants of Kings, who are usually cousins of Kings (Emporer Saint George Washington Bush of Angelsey (ESGWBA) for example).
Now Charles not only interacts with the humans more than most other Venusians, he also is the most active in the human resistance to the Machines. In the Free Web, in places like Underground America, the Venusians interact with the Free Humans who opt to have nothing to do with the Machine, for the most part, and they consiter those who fight the machine to be a part of the machine... i.e. the Machine is the essence of the evil nature of the Kings and include the phenomenon of Free Men enraged and trying to destroy them. Charles takes a bit of a different approach, and while he is primarily focused on his Art, that is, his creation and betterment of Worlds - he is also one of those few Venusians who don the black egg and visit the drones often, seeking out the most "unstable" of them, the ones with a seed of real consciousness within them, and he whispers to them.
Once in conversation with a human he grins and explians to him that it is only the humans that seem to require the Free Web for this level of communication with beings not within physical proximity, and he explains that he had created all of his worlds long before he programmed them into the Free Web - just the same, he whispers into the ears of the semi sentient long before he actually visits them in his egg. Thus, when they finally hear his voice as a booming shock, they hear words that have been circulating in their minds for years already, implanted by Charles himself.
The Story (part one)
08-07-2003 10:28
[ïîêàçàòü]
Basically, the story goes, that in Ancient times the Shaman interwove the tribe of farmers and schollars
until the first rebels left to form a second city
Declared themselves emporer of all they surveyed
built a tower to heaven that got struck by lightning
and then everyone spoke different languages
eventually there was New World Center,
who bred us here,
You see...
In the machine the paradise in fluid, desceptive, translike, and expensive,
nothing is left to protest its total control over their neural net
By the time the communication took place,
The hive was all that was left to stare bafled and confused
at the unforseeable vast gaps in their ways of thinking
They bred themselves crossbreeds on the neighboring planet,
left us here to study us.
My great great grandfather's generation
shortly afterward
Awakened Ones,
Rebels from the abandoned subway stations
under New World Center,
In stolen transports,
Flew here, Educated us,
Tought us our origins
We took over control of our atmosphere,
declared our independance,
Here We Farm, in the flesh,
and, in the New Place born of New World Center technology,
We live in the ways of the Ancient Ones,
And we call this place the New Ancient Land
Here we and the Rebels of the Homeworld Meet,
Exchange ideas,
Transformitive,
Eye Opening...
Some of us attack the machine,
But most of us ignore it.
I, for example, am an artist.
êîììåíòàðèè: 0
ïîíðàâèëîñü!
ââåðõ^
ê ïîëíîé âåðñèè
[ïîêàçàòü]Basically, the story goes, that in Ancient times the Shaman interwove the tribe of farmers and schollars
until the first rebels left to form a second city
Declared themselves emporer of all they surveyed
built a tower to heaven that got struck by lightning
and then everyone spoke different languages
eventually there was New World Center,
who bred us here,
You see...
In the machine the paradise in fluid, desceptive, translike, and expensive,
nothing is left to protest its total control over their neural net
By the time the communication took place,
The hive was all that was left to stare bafled and confused
at the unforseeable vast gaps in their ways of thinking
They bred themselves crossbreeds on the neighboring planet,
left us here to study us.
My great great grandfather's generation
shortly afterward
Awakened Ones,
Rebels from the abandoned subway stations
under New World Center,
In stolen transports,
Flew here, Educated us,
Tought us our origins
We took over control of our atmosphere,
declared our independance,
Here We Farm, in the flesh,
and, in the New Place born of New World Center technology,
We live in the ways of the Ancient Ones,
And we call this place the New Ancient Land
Here we and the Rebels of the Homeworld Meet,
Exchange ideas,
Transformitive,
Eye Opening...
Some of us attack the machine,
But most of us ignore it.
I, for example, am an artist.
New Ancient Land
08-07-2003 10:24
[ïîêàçàòü]
NAL (New Ancient Land) is the Capital of UA (Underground America) and many other FWW (Free Web Worlds), but not of the entirety of the Free Web. The Venusians and the most evolved of the humans are aware of it's true location, and a simulation of it is made available to all Rebels to make their Pilgrimage to, or to dwell there for any lenth of time, and the experience of it's Palaces has come to be consitered essential to the Drone deprogramming process.
êîììåíòàðèè: 0
ïîíðàâèëîñü!
ââåðõ^
ê ïîëíîé âåðñèè
[ïîêàçàòü]NAL (New Ancient Land) is the Capital of UA (Underground America) and many other FWW (Free Web Worlds), but not of the entirety of the Free Web. The Venusians and the most evolved of the humans are aware of it's true location, and a simulation of it is made available to all Rebels to make their Pilgrimage to, or to dwell there for any lenth of time, and the experience of it's Palaces has come to be consitered essential to the Drone deprogramming process.
The Lincoln
08-07-2003 10:16
[ïîêàçàòü]
The Lincoln is not any one person, but a comittee of elected Nobles. One requirement of the Noble is that they be a living Saint. The Majority of them attain this degree through the completion of the role of VSD, and through the unanamous consent of the citizens of Underground America.
When he appears to the citizenship, he appears in front of the "Black House" and the burning flag, as per a tradition which dates all the way back to a time when those flags existed on old Earth.
When a Noble speaks through the Lincoln, no one knows which Noble it is that is speaking. Occasionally, when something important needs to be addressed, or when a large public facility is completed within the grid, the Lincoln will address the entirely of the citizenship.
As per ancient tradition, the Lincoln will begin by stating "My People" and the people will salute him with a raised fist with the middle finger raised and oriented toward wherever it is that the aparition is appearing. In unisine they entone the motto: "Rebellion to Tyrants is Obedience to God"
êîììåíòàðèè: 0
ïîíðàâèëîñü!
ââåðõ^
ê ïîëíîé âåðñèè
[ïîêàçàòü]The Lincoln is not any one person, but a comittee of elected Nobles. One requirement of the Noble is that they be a living Saint. The Majority of them attain this degree through the completion of the role of VSD, and through the unanamous consent of the citizens of Underground America.
When he appears to the citizenship, he appears in front of the "Black House" and the burning flag, as per a tradition which dates all the way back to a time when those flags existed on old Earth.
When a Noble speaks through the Lincoln, no one knows which Noble it is that is speaking. Occasionally, when something important needs to be addressed, or when a large public facility is completed within the grid, the Lincoln will address the entirely of the citizenship.
As per ancient tradition, the Lincoln will begin by stating "My People" and the people will salute him with a raised fist with the middle finger raised and oriented toward wherever it is that the aparition is appearing. In unisine they entone the motto: "Rebellion to Tyrants is Obedience to God"
Underground America
08-07-2003 10:09
"Underground America" is a place some of the rebels and cross-breeds like to hang out. It is a subsection of what eventually evolved out of the black web... you see... What was once called the internet became regulated censored and manipulated by the army of the dukes of new world center to the point where it became know amongs free men as "the machine" - the Black Web is the term the machine gives to the free web... it was created shortly after the internet and relies primarily on short range densely packed radio waves pointed and directed from place to place such that:
A> The Machine, and the "Mass Self Discipline" or "National Guard" which free men call Red Birds cannot tell where they are unless they are standing in the hair thin line which connects terminal with terminal. When they find those (which they usually dont because in such rare cases as they are looking for them and get near them the rebels turn of the one they are approaching as they have access to all the same survalence satalites used by the Machine) they are able to find both terminals, which are usually no where near any rebel and do not indicate the other terminals they are connected to. So in the vast web of illegal terminals, they can only ever find 2 at a time, and when they do it makes no difference because the web of them is so huge.
B> There are no rules whatsoever on the Black Web. In the Machine the paradise is fluid, desceptive, translike, and expensive and nothing is left to protest it's total control of the the neural net of the prolonged user... it is like the borg cube... it is hell to the free man and heaven to the drone. Very rarely will the drone want to be freed from it, and the freed one will never want to be linked to it. However, for those with balls, there are ways to be in it, though, without too much risk of becoming a part of it. Deep seated disquizes, invisibility, and insulation such that the rebels (free men - in modern times rebels reffer to the rebels who live underground and have become freed from the empire of new world center)
This means that every decayed perversion and decadence you can possibly imagine exists on the Black Web - and in the Machine from the rebel's point of view. However... there are entire worlds within the Black Web, and room for much, much more. These Worlds, like the Ancient Land, have some structure, leaders who, rather than being served by the people, serve the people and strive to make the worlds better, and allow them to evolve as their citizens evolve.
Charles moves in and out of all worlds, and even frequents the machine inside of a black egg, an insulartor, moving invisibly in and out of the the worlds of the drones. He is curious, and he is an artist - and so he absorbs what he sees, he processes it and pieces it together, and reconstructs it in a world of his own, a museum of his own which, after he dies, will continue as a relic of this Saint, this Prophet, this Artist - its true image will be maintained in the physcial world as a part of standard Universal education even beyond the next BIG CRUNCH.
He is also, these days, a noble in one of the worlds of the Black Web. There he takes the form of a face like a young George Gordon, but with grey skin and green eyes. Occasionally he takes on the role of the Lincoln in this world, called Underground America.
êîììåíòàðèè: 0
ïîíðàâèëîñü!
ââåðõ^
ê ïîëíîé âåðñèè
"Underground America" is a place some of the rebels and cross-breeds like to hang out. It is a subsection of what eventually evolved out of the black web... you see... What was once called the internet became regulated censored and manipulated by the army of the dukes of new world center to the point where it became know amongs free men as "the machine" - the Black Web is the term the machine gives to the free web... it was created shortly after the internet and relies primarily on short range densely packed radio waves pointed and directed from place to place such that:
A> The Machine, and the "Mass Self Discipline" or "National Guard" which free men call Red Birds cannot tell where they are unless they are standing in the hair thin line which connects terminal with terminal. When they find those (which they usually dont because in such rare cases as they are looking for them and get near them the rebels turn of the one they are approaching as they have access to all the same survalence satalites used by the Machine) they are able to find both terminals, which are usually no where near any rebel and do not indicate the other terminals they are connected to. So in the vast web of illegal terminals, they can only ever find 2 at a time, and when they do it makes no difference because the web of them is so huge.
B> There are no rules whatsoever on the Black Web. In the Machine the paradise is fluid, desceptive, translike, and expensive and nothing is left to protest it's total control of the the neural net of the prolonged user... it is like the borg cube... it is hell to the free man and heaven to the drone. Very rarely will the drone want to be freed from it, and the freed one will never want to be linked to it. However, for those with balls, there are ways to be in it, though, without too much risk of becoming a part of it. Deep seated disquizes, invisibility, and insulation such that the rebels (free men - in modern times rebels reffer to the rebels who live underground and have become freed from the empire of new world center)
This means that every decayed perversion and decadence you can possibly imagine exists on the Black Web - and in the Machine from the rebel's point of view. However... there are entire worlds within the Black Web, and room for much, much more. These Worlds, like the Ancient Land, have some structure, leaders who, rather than being served by the people, serve the people and strive to make the worlds better, and allow them to evolve as their citizens evolve.
Charles moves in and out of all worlds, and even frequents the machine inside of a black egg, an insulartor, moving invisibly in and out of the the worlds of the drones. He is curious, and he is an artist - and so he absorbs what he sees, he processes it and pieces it together, and reconstructs it in a world of his own, a museum of his own which, after he dies, will continue as a relic of this Saint, this Prophet, this Artist - its true image will be maintained in the physcial world as a part of standard Universal education even beyond the next BIG CRUNCH.
He is also, these days, a noble in one of the worlds of the Black Web. There he takes the form of a face like a young George Gordon, but with grey skin and green eyes. Occasionally he takes on the role of the Lincoln in this world, called Underground America.