07-19-2015, 07:09 PM
Sender ID: N.I.D, The Sisterhood of Dreams.
Sender Location: Hokkaido, Inner System, Shiden Cloud, Ainu Station, Floor 24
Encryption: Enervating
Transmission Priority: Epsilon
Nishi smiles with the glacial cynicism of well-bred housecats, if only for an illusory instant. A drag of the Dream punctures her back into her present self, and an impression of the real starts to filter back into her eye. Manet would have found her too distracted, but Monet would have loved her. She regarded both as horsecrap. She was an engineer, a grease-monkey. The waxen perfection of near-immortality hadn't robbed that from her eyes - yet.
I’m gonna’ ask you to take a real, hard, Holmes-esque look at this. Get your sharp-eye on and your sharpie out, and take yourself some notes. You’ll get lost if ya’ don’t, or won’t. Pay attention.
What do you see?
You, and me, we. We, are looking at a supercomputer, or more exactly The Supercomputer. It’s a title you see, not an object. Just as a noble may start his life an earl and aspire to be an emperor simply by the acquisition of additional influence, a computer can aspire to be a supercomputer simply by the addition of hardware.
And yet processing power, like any other form of power, is the constant victim of shifting goalposts. The average fifty five credit locket disk can hold store a comfortable pecobyte of raw, transcendent data; more data than accumulated all the grey matter in your body clasped within the base of your neck. With data we have transcended the corruptible realm and made ourselves gods among gods, beyond evolution or natural disaster, an effectively immortal species, whom the laws of physics do not condemn to corruption, but instead emancipate. Through the millennia of the computer, mankind has become a machine dependent not on flesh, but on light, silicone, rare earths, addicted to the pomegranate of knowledge with such devotion that we cannot help but laugh in the face of the imagined scions who crafted this existential plane – it is ours for the plunder, for the spoils.
Unfortunately virtual intelligences, being rather more streetwise than we are, did not invent sexism, money, poverty, war, homophobia, racism, transphobia, theistic discrimination, political discrimination, substance discrimination and lifestyle discrimination. Humans, being stupid to the Nth degree, are more than welcome to fill said niche. If it can be invented, humans will do so, and after the last millennia of mankind doing nothing to amputate its own gangrene it’s time somebody started, somewhere.
Regardless if that place is amongst the desolate plains of Maltese grass or amongst the volatile star nursery that is the crow nebula, it has to happen somewhere, somehow. Our organisations both offer such releases – both accept the inherent lie of mercantilist democracy as a pavlovian reaction to the museum worthy, quaintly decrepit systems of usury that keep Sirius in check till this day. That prevent Sirians from fulfilling their spiritual and biological potential. We both believe in the merit of what some geopolitics postgraduates would cliché as a “firm grip.” Both the Nation and the Chrysanthemums share The Dream in all of its manifestations; we understand the necessity of cardamine proliferation in the evolutionary cycle of our species – the final step to the true transhumanism of a utopian Sirius, free from suspicion, war, and even the decay of death our limited DNA imposes upon us. We live to fly, we live to breathe. We live off The Dream and are its perpetuators.
Now, back to the computer.
This is the Prime Control Unit on our – only – battleship, ‘The Matsuda’, titled after our beloved founder. If you chanced to have a crack at publically available Kusarian records, you would see the ship detailed as “lost” under the less salubrious title she began life with, ‘The Himeji’. Fortunately for providence, she was stricken with a severe case of crew abandonment during the fall of Heaven’s Gate, an event (I am sure) the Blood Dragons know more about than they are willing to reveal to us. But that is a matter of history, relevant only for academia.
Since the recovery of the (mostly operational) hulk, we have been restoring her. Improving her, and have even been able to move her into Okinawa, her present resting place. However, despite the innumerable number of unemployed female software engineers the Kusarian patriarchy regularly furnishes the movement with, we have not been able to glean access to the brain of the beast – indeed, the VI at the core of the ship still believes that she is called the KNF ‘Himeji’, and, if made aware of the umpteen-hundred Chrysanthemums residing within our corridors, would certainly blow them out of the nearest available airlock. Obviously, we do not have access to Yokohama shipyard, nor do we have the tools required to successfully lobotomise one of the heftiest war machines in this quadrant of the Sector, so, instead, we are coming to someone who knows a great deal more about battleships than we do. You – our closest of compadres.
We need a virus that can take the battleship's firewalls down – a full-on firesale. We need to wipe everything – targeting information, crew manifests, hardcoded files, everything, right down to the OS. We need a way of making the battleship braindead, effectively wiping eight hundred tonnes of solid state drive, so we can code a replacement operating system more compliant with the end goal of using the machine as a functional tool against the republic.
What do you say? We will not bribe you with payment – we hold you in too great esteem to trivialise your aid. Instead, we remain mindful of our debt to you and if you need our sisters for the assistance of your own great cause, you need but say the word. If you wish to observe – we will not defame you with the shameful adjective “spy” amongst friends – the process of restoring the warship to a functional life, then you need but say, and we will permit you to see all for yourself. I am sure you already know where we intend to move it, and for what purpose, the once she is restored – but this a matter is too sensitive for such an insecure medium.
These are the terms we lay before you, without haggling. If you are willing to aid in the proliferation of Orange Dream throughout Kusari, transport one Counterfeit Software Package of your design in the container imaged below, to the battleship. Coordinates are attached in the unlikely event your scouts have not already enlightened you – she is no stranger to accommodating Hispanics.
I am Nishi Adeline Darche – you may (and will) call me Mrs Darche or Darche alone, whichever suits your particular peculiarity. I have been informed by Munen that you are a man of great esteem, and I have no doubt that you will amply fulfil our request with all the expedience expected of an allied power. Prove me right, and I’ll buy you a drink. Prove me wrong, and I’ll buy you three.
Be in touch. Touch wood.
Sender Location: Hokkaido, Inner System, Shiden Cloud, Ainu Station, Floor 24
Encryption: Enervating
Transmission Priority: Epsilon
Nishi smiles with the glacial cynicism of well-bred housecats, if only for an illusory instant. A drag of the Dream punctures her back into her present self, and an impression of the real starts to filter back into her eye. Manet would have found her too distracted, but Monet would have loved her. She regarded both as horsecrap. She was an engineer, a grease-monkey. The waxen perfection of near-immortality hadn't robbed that from her eyes - yet.
I’m gonna’ ask you to take a real, hard, Holmes-esque look at this. Get your sharp-eye on and your sharpie out, and take yourself some notes. You’ll get lost if ya’ don’t, or won’t. Pay attention.
What do you see?
You, and me, we. We, are looking at a supercomputer, or more exactly The Supercomputer. It’s a title you see, not an object. Just as a noble may start his life an earl and aspire to be an emperor simply by the acquisition of additional influence, a computer can aspire to be a supercomputer simply by the addition of hardware.
And yet processing power, like any other form of power, is the constant victim of shifting goalposts. The average fifty five credit locket disk can hold store a comfortable pecobyte of raw, transcendent data; more data than accumulated all the grey matter in your body clasped within the base of your neck. With data we have transcended the corruptible realm and made ourselves gods among gods, beyond evolution or natural disaster, an effectively immortal species, whom the laws of physics do not condemn to corruption, but instead emancipate. Through the millennia of the computer, mankind has become a machine dependent not on flesh, but on light, silicone, rare earths, addicted to the pomegranate of knowledge with such devotion that we cannot help but laugh in the face of the imagined scions who crafted this existential plane – it is ours for the plunder, for the spoils.
Unfortunately virtual intelligences, being rather more streetwise than we are, did not invent sexism, money, poverty, war, homophobia, racism, transphobia, theistic discrimination, political discrimination, substance discrimination and lifestyle discrimination. Humans, being stupid to the Nth degree, are more than welcome to fill said niche. If it can be invented, humans will do so, and after the last millennia of mankind doing nothing to amputate its own gangrene it’s time somebody started, somewhere.
Regardless if that place is amongst the desolate plains of Maltese grass or amongst the volatile star nursery that is the crow nebula, it has to happen somewhere, somehow. Our organisations both offer such releases – both accept the inherent lie of mercantilist democracy as a pavlovian reaction to the museum worthy, quaintly decrepit systems of usury that keep Sirius in check till this day. That prevent Sirians from fulfilling their spiritual and biological potential. We both believe in the merit of what some geopolitics postgraduates would cliché as a “firm grip.” Both the Nation and the Chrysanthemums share The Dream in all of its manifestations; we understand the necessity of cardamine proliferation in the evolutionary cycle of our species – the final step to the true transhumanism of a utopian Sirius, free from suspicion, war, and even the decay of death our limited DNA imposes upon us. We live to fly, we live to breathe. We live off The Dream and are its perpetuators.
Now, back to the computer.
This is the Prime Control Unit on our – only – battleship, ‘The Matsuda’, titled after our beloved founder. If you chanced to have a crack at publically available Kusarian records, you would see the ship detailed as “lost” under the less salubrious title she began life with, ‘The Himeji’. Fortunately for providence, she was stricken with a severe case of crew abandonment during the fall of Heaven’s Gate, an event (I am sure) the Blood Dragons know more about than they are willing to reveal to us. But that is a matter of history, relevant only for academia.
Since the recovery of the (mostly operational) hulk, we have been restoring her. Improving her, and have even been able to move her into Okinawa, her present resting place. However, despite the innumerable number of unemployed female software engineers the Kusarian patriarchy regularly furnishes the movement with, we have not been able to glean access to the brain of the beast – indeed, the VI at the core of the ship still believes that she is called the KNF ‘Himeji’, and, if made aware of the umpteen-hundred Chrysanthemums residing within our corridors, would certainly blow them out of the nearest available airlock. Obviously, we do not have access to Yokohama shipyard, nor do we have the tools required to successfully lobotomise one of the heftiest war machines in this quadrant of the Sector, so, instead, we are coming to someone who knows a great deal more about battleships than we do. You – our closest of compadres.
We need a virus that can take the battleship's firewalls down – a full-on firesale. We need to wipe everything – targeting information, crew manifests, hardcoded files, everything, right down to the OS. We need a way of making the battleship braindead, effectively wiping eight hundred tonnes of solid state drive, so we can code a replacement operating system more compliant with the end goal of using the machine as a functional tool against the republic.
What do you say? We will not bribe you with payment – we hold you in too great esteem to trivialise your aid. Instead, we remain mindful of our debt to you and if you need our sisters for the assistance of your own great cause, you need but say the word. If you wish to observe – we will not defame you with the shameful adjective “spy” amongst friends – the process of restoring the warship to a functional life, then you need but say, and we will permit you to see all for yourself. I am sure you already know where we intend to move it, and for what purpose, the once she is restored – but this a matter is too sensitive for such an insecure medium.
These are the terms we lay before you, without haggling. If you are willing to aid in the proliferation of Orange Dream throughout Kusari, transport one Counterfeit Software Package of your design in the container imaged below, to the battleship. Coordinates are attached in the unlikely event your scouts have not already enlightened you – she is no stranger to accommodating Hispanics.
I am Nishi Adeline Darche – you may (and will) call me Mrs Darche or Darche alone, whichever suits your particular peculiarity. I have been informed by Munen that you are a man of great esteem, and I have no doubt that you will amply fulfil our request with all the expedience expected of an allied power. Prove me right, and I’ll buy you a drink. Prove me wrong, and I’ll buy you three.
Be in touch. Touch wood.