Re: The Phenomenal Fracas! (GBS2G6): [Round Three: HMS Thunderhead]
06-08-2011, 07:06 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.
It was hard to say how long it had been since the round had started; it hardly mattered in any case, since time was only important as a measure of the events it contained. Given that of the anywhere-from-a-few-to-hundreds of consciousnesses that had the most interest in events aboard the Thunderhead existed largely outside such petty trivialities as temporal mechanics (or at least the Thunderhead's universe's temporal mechanics), a mere tally of elapsed seconds would be frippery at best, and distracting at worst.
For those temporally-bound souls that existed both within the Thunderhead and within the confines of the Phenomenal Fracas, those seconds were more important, but still not important enough to spend mental energy ticking away. Had one contestant had cause to ask another how long it had been since they'd been freed from the Malevolence, and been able to do so in a situation where the questioned wouldn't simply attack the questioner of course, the best answer would probably have been something along the lines of 'I don't know, a while'. For one reason or another, participants in the various Grand Battles seldom had cause to invest much of their attention in chronology.
Suffice it to say that enough time had passed for important things to have happened; showers had been taken, arrests had been made, questions had been asked, dinners had been eaten. Legs had been broken. People had been killed. And, at the forefront of the seething divine mind called La Aguja del Dolor, subtle pressure had been applied in hundreds of little ways in hundreds of little minds.
It was so easy for humans to forget what they had as long as another nearby human had more. Nevermind that even the poorest passenger on the Thunderhead was aboard a cutting-edge luxury liner in a scientifically-advanced society with ample food and medicine; there were people aboard a cutting-edge luxury liner in a scientifically-advanced society with ample food and medicine with gilt-embroidered carpets. All it took was to channel that jealousy into rage and violence was a gentle playing-up of injustices, perceived and real, and careful suppression of just enough good feelings to tip the mental balance towards anger. Once you have angry people, especially if they're all angry at the same thing, all they need is a bit of direction and someone to stand behind and suddenly even the most reasonable person is inclined to fight and loot and set fire to things without a second thought. No, more than that: with a sense of righteousness, even as bloodied knuckles clench around stolen finery.
Somewhere under an hour, but probably more than fifteen minutes, after being placed in the Thunderhead, Laguja had whipped the bubbling cauldron of resentment and fear that was every slum throughout every history into a boiling mass of rage and hatred that was the beginning of every revolution in every history. In truth, given time, the same situation could have been brought about solely through rhetoric rather than mental meddling, but time was not among the many things Laguja had. Once it judged the correct atmosphere had been created, once fights were already breaking out in the residential districts with drastically-increased frequency, the godling judged that it was time for the people to find their leader. It didn't want to simply mask Muriegro in more illusions and place him at the head of the charge; aside from simply being more effort than leading an unwitting puppet, it would likely bring unwanted attention to Laguja's most valuable servant from the other contestants. The last thing Laguja wanted now was an unfortunate death to end the round.
And so it was that Jerome Gerrickson was thrust onto the scene. Jerome was a young man in his twenties, poor enough to know his poverty but with money enough to devote his thoughts to injustice rather than survival. He'd been something of a dissident, even a proto-revolutionary, before Laguja's arrival, but that was largely immaterial; what was important was his clear voice, his pleasing face, and his undeniable passion. Even saddled with a pedestrian name like Jerome, Jerome would have been the kind of person who would have gone on to champion some minor cause with reasonable success; with Laguja's hidden backing, he would become a sort of accelerated Robespierre.
Somewhere under twenty minutes, but probably more than five, after the proper mental landscape had been cultivated, Laguja had Jerome standing at an improvised podium in a large public square, shouting at a gradually-growing crowd of passers-by and interested youths. The young man, High Priest hovering unnoticed in the alley behind him, was delivering impassioned lines with eloquence he'd previously been unable to find.
"And in an hour, we'll land in front of the Empress. The same empress who drafted the Kisling Accords. The same empress who sent your brothers and sisters to die at the claws of the clagrites so her cronies could lap up the spice in the aftermath. The same empress who commissioned this colossal glorified barge so that you would all forget that you're used as cheap, expendable labor and harvestable talent by the magacorporations that run your lives.
She used words like equality, like glory, like Golden Age. Well look at your reconstituted algae dinner and tell me it's equal to the filet they eat down below. Look at the dreary job you do to buy that algae and tell me that's glorious. Look at the ramshackle, cramped apartment they shoved you in, at the laking pipes and hissing stove, at your children sharing a bed, and tell me those are the hallmarks of a Golden Age.
No, equality will forever remain a myth as long as we willingly put on the yoke of the Empire and smilingly accept the empress's lash. We will never achieve glory until we allow ourselves to embrace peace with our neighbors and raise our children to be something more than fuel for the expansionist war machine. There will never be a Golden Age under an oppressive autocracy, no matter how benevolent you let yourself believe it to be.
I urge you, every one of you–"
The speech continued unabated, constantly drawing murmurs of assent from the ever-larger crowd, but Laguja's attention had moved elsewhere: a small hand was tugging at the grey sleeve of its thrall, a small face looking up at Muriegro's larger hooded and glamoured one.
"Mister? A lady told me to give you this."
The child proffered a small box wrapped in satiny black paper. There was a card pinned to the top of the gift, and an elegantly-complex bow at one corner in the same material as the wrapping. Muriegro took the box, and his god implanted a 'Thank you' in the young courier's mind, then shooed it away.
Laguja was fully capable of reading the card without opening it, but its priest unfolded the paper out of mechanical habit. The message inside was in elegant and immaculate script and smelled faintly of India ink that was quite at odds with the futuristic setting.
It appears that you have no intention of seeking my gift, so it falls to me to thrust it into your hands. While you may view me as an enemy, and perhaps rightly so, you gain little by spurning what tools I can provide. I trust that I can count on you to be pragmatic when it comes to matter; as you well know, even an enemy can be made useful if handled correctly.
I will neither insult nor incense you by interfering so directly as my contemporaries choose to. Be warned by this knowledge, however, that the five who would like to see you dead make no such concessions with their chosen. And know, of course, that spiting or fighting those above you may lead to their disappointment, but has much more salient consequences for you.
---~~~~~
The signature was quite unreadable, and may well have simply been a series of squiggles. Either way, Laguja knew who it was from. The scarcely-veiled threats and condescending advice did hold a kernel of truth, though; there was little to be gained by turning a nose up to what gifts the questionable benefactor provided. After ripping the black paper off and opening the box, Muriegro found himself holding a rough cloth sack, tied tightly with heavily-knotted twine. It gave off near-imperceptible sounds of shaky breathing, but was otherwise outwardly unremarkable.
The amazonian hung it at his belt and turned his attention back to the speaker and crowd; there would be time later to determine its abilities and worth: for now, there were more pressing concerns.
Jerome had largely finished his impromptu speech, murmurs of ascent turning to cheers of agreement. Muriegro's tattered lips curled into a smile; in half a dozen other places, half a dozen similar rabble-rousers were goading the peasantry into action as well. Soon, their flocks would take up arms and storm the elevators, the various groups consciously or unwittingly merging into Jerome's. There would be clashes against the gentry and against the security forces, but that wasn't what mattered. What would matter would be what followed.
It was hard to say how long it had been since the round had started; it hardly mattered in any case, since time was only important as a measure of the events it contained. Given that of the anywhere-from-a-few-to-hundreds of consciousnesses that had the most interest in events aboard the Thunderhead existed largely outside such petty trivialities as temporal mechanics (or at least the Thunderhead's universe's temporal mechanics), a mere tally of elapsed seconds would be frippery at best, and distracting at worst.
For those temporally-bound souls that existed both within the Thunderhead and within the confines of the Phenomenal Fracas, those seconds were more important, but still not important enough to spend mental energy ticking away. Had one contestant had cause to ask another how long it had been since they'd been freed from the Malevolence, and been able to do so in a situation where the questioned wouldn't simply attack the questioner of course, the best answer would probably have been something along the lines of 'I don't know, a while'. For one reason or another, participants in the various Grand Battles seldom had cause to invest much of their attention in chronology.
Suffice it to say that enough time had passed for important things to have happened; showers had been taken, arrests had been made, questions had been asked, dinners had been eaten. Legs had been broken. People had been killed. And, at the forefront of the seething divine mind called La Aguja del Dolor, subtle pressure had been applied in hundreds of little ways in hundreds of little minds.
It was so easy for humans to forget what they had as long as another nearby human had more. Nevermind that even the poorest passenger on the Thunderhead was aboard a cutting-edge luxury liner in a scientifically-advanced society with ample food and medicine; there were people aboard a cutting-edge luxury liner in a scientifically-advanced society with ample food and medicine with gilt-embroidered carpets. All it took was to channel that jealousy into rage and violence was a gentle playing-up of injustices, perceived and real, and careful suppression of just enough good feelings to tip the mental balance towards anger. Once you have angry people, especially if they're all angry at the same thing, all they need is a bit of direction and someone to stand behind and suddenly even the most reasonable person is inclined to fight and loot and set fire to things without a second thought. No, more than that: with a sense of righteousness, even as bloodied knuckles clench around stolen finery.
Somewhere under an hour, but probably more than fifteen minutes, after being placed in the Thunderhead, Laguja had whipped the bubbling cauldron of resentment and fear that was every slum throughout every history into a boiling mass of rage and hatred that was the beginning of every revolution in every history. In truth, given time, the same situation could have been brought about solely through rhetoric rather than mental meddling, but time was not among the many things Laguja had. Once it judged the correct atmosphere had been created, once fights were already breaking out in the residential districts with drastically-increased frequency, the godling judged that it was time for the people to find their leader. It didn't want to simply mask Muriegro in more illusions and place him at the head of the charge; aside from simply being more effort than leading an unwitting puppet, it would likely bring unwanted attention to Laguja's most valuable servant from the other contestants. The last thing Laguja wanted now was an unfortunate death to end the round.
And so it was that Jerome Gerrickson was thrust onto the scene. Jerome was a young man in his twenties, poor enough to know his poverty but with money enough to devote his thoughts to injustice rather than survival. He'd been something of a dissident, even a proto-revolutionary, before Laguja's arrival, but that was largely immaterial; what was important was his clear voice, his pleasing face, and his undeniable passion. Even saddled with a pedestrian name like Jerome, Jerome would have been the kind of person who would have gone on to champion some minor cause with reasonable success; with Laguja's hidden backing, he would become a sort of accelerated Robespierre.
Somewhere under twenty minutes, but probably more than five, after the proper mental landscape had been cultivated, Laguja had Jerome standing at an improvised podium in a large public square, shouting at a gradually-growing crowd of passers-by and interested youths. The young man, High Priest hovering unnoticed in the alley behind him, was delivering impassioned lines with eloquence he'd previously been unable to find.
"And in an hour, we'll land in front of the Empress. The same empress who drafted the Kisling Accords. The same empress who sent your brothers and sisters to die at the claws of the clagrites so her cronies could lap up the spice in the aftermath. The same empress who commissioned this colossal glorified barge so that you would all forget that you're used as cheap, expendable labor and harvestable talent by the magacorporations that run your lives.
She used words like equality, like glory, like Golden Age. Well look at your reconstituted algae dinner and tell me it's equal to the filet they eat down below. Look at the dreary job you do to buy that algae and tell me that's glorious. Look at the ramshackle, cramped apartment they shoved you in, at the laking pipes and hissing stove, at your children sharing a bed, and tell me those are the hallmarks of a Golden Age.
No, equality will forever remain a myth as long as we willingly put on the yoke of the Empire and smilingly accept the empress's lash. We will never achieve glory until we allow ourselves to embrace peace with our neighbors and raise our children to be something more than fuel for the expansionist war machine. There will never be a Golden Age under an oppressive autocracy, no matter how benevolent you let yourself believe it to be.
I urge you, every one of you–"
The speech continued unabated, constantly drawing murmurs of assent from the ever-larger crowd, but Laguja's attention had moved elsewhere: a small hand was tugging at the grey sleeve of its thrall, a small face looking up at Muriegro's larger hooded and glamoured one.
"Mister? A lady told me to give you this."
The child proffered a small box wrapped in satiny black paper. There was a card pinned to the top of the gift, and an elegantly-complex bow at one corner in the same material as the wrapping. Muriegro took the box, and his god implanted a 'Thank you' in the young courier's mind, then shooed it away.
Laguja was fully capable of reading the card without opening it, but its priest unfolded the paper out of mechanical habit. The message inside was in elegant and immaculate script and smelled faintly of India ink that was quite at odds with the futuristic setting.
It appears that you have no intention of seeking my gift, so it falls to me to thrust it into your hands. While you may view me as an enemy, and perhaps rightly so, you gain little by spurning what tools I can provide. I trust that I can count on you to be pragmatic when it comes to matter; as you well know, even an enemy can be made useful if handled correctly.
I will neither insult nor incense you by interfering so directly as my contemporaries choose to. Be warned by this knowledge, however, that the five who would like to see you dead make no such concessions with their chosen. And know, of course, that spiting or fighting those above you may lead to their disappointment, but has much more salient consequences for you.
---~~~~~
The signature was quite unreadable, and may well have simply been a series of squiggles. Either way, Laguja knew who it was from. The scarcely-veiled threats and condescending advice did hold a kernel of truth, though; there was little to be gained by turning a nose up to what gifts the questionable benefactor provided. After ripping the black paper off and opening the box, Muriegro found himself holding a rough cloth sack, tied tightly with heavily-knotted twine. It gave off near-imperceptible sounds of shaky breathing, but was otherwise outwardly unremarkable.
The amazonian hung it at his belt and turned his attention back to the speaker and crowd; there would be time later to determine its abilities and worth: for now, there were more pressing concerns.
Jerome had largely finished his impromptu speech, murmurs of ascent turning to cheers of agreement. Muriegro's tattered lips curled into a smile; in half a dozen other places, half a dozen similar rabble-rousers were goading the peasantry into action as well. Soon, their flocks would take up arms and storm the elevators, the various groups consciously or unwittingly merging into Jerome's. There would be clashes against the gentry and against the security forces, but that wasn't what mattered. What would matter would be what followed.