Look to the West Volume VII: The Eye Against the Prism

Title page
  • Thande

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    Quick links to previous parts

    Volume I: Diverge and Conquer & Volume II: Uncharted Territory
    Volume III: Equal and Opposite Reactions (formerly "The World Turned Upside Down")
    Volume IV: Cometh the Hour...
    Volume V: To Dream Again & Volume VI: The Death of Nations
    Without comments (not yet fully updated)
    Laconic chronology ("Date: Stuff Happens") version

    NB. Volumes I & II and Volumes V & VI were split retroactively so each share one thread.

    Volumes I-III (currently) available for purchase as eBooks (with accompanying media and bonus features) from Sea Lion Press via Amazon and other online purchases. Click 'Look to the West' on the left sidebar, then click the individual volume covers to see links to Amazon etc. Alternatively, see my Amazon author page for a list of all my books.

    Volumes I and II also available as print paperbacks from the same source.

    Now, without further ado...






    Look to the West


    A Timeline

    by Dr Thomas W. Anderson MSci MA (Cantab) MRSC SFHEA







    VOLUME SEVEN:
    THE EYE AGAINST THE PRISM




    Thande Institute Archive 20190511 item X54-32Z-9EE-4PT.

    Provenance: Document discovered by Sgt Robert Mumby (Team Beta, TimeLine L Expedition 1a). Document was found pressed between two books, apparently forgotten, on bookshelf possessed by TimeLine L native D. Batten-Hale (see archive section 5A).

    Remarks: Document takes the form of a fragment of a newspaper, the Oxfordshire County Register, which appears to have been preserved due to being on the back of an article mentioning Mr Batten-Hale’s allegedly tireless efforts to protect university funding. As the layout of the front and back of the pages is different, the text on the other side begins mid-article.



    ...the third murder of a GTI academic in as many weeks, panic has gripped Brasenose-Hertford College in particular, where Dr Peasebody’s body was found (see main story, page 2). However, Inspectrix Atlantis Samuels of the Oxfordshire Constabulary insisted in today’s press conference on behalf of the Royal National Police that there was no cause for alarm, and that the police were appealing for witnesses to come forward. Inspx Samuels also publicly denied the rumour that the Interior Minister has requested that the Royal Gendarmery be called in to ‘get a grip’ on the case, as was the language used by a Government document leaked yesterday (available on Motext page LO22A). Pressure now mounts on the police to solve what appears to be a diabolically complex case.

    DRAMATIC SCENES IN COLLEGE DEBATE

    Studebaker College’s Student Union has become known for forming the vanguard of controversial debates, and Tuesday’s was no exception. With the invitation of divisive Scots academic Archie McIntyre, recently returned from his trip to the Former Societist Territories, the wonder is it took so long as it did for the riot to break out. Register reporter Angela Dawlish was on the scene and records here Prof McIntyre’s colourful remarks leading up to the unrest:

    PROF MCINTYRE: [...] It takes a lot to shock you, doesn’t it? [Derisive laughter from audience] I mean it—I could blether [Eng: talk] about going around Zone Whin—I mean, ahem, Platinea and looking at threshed bases—oh, and blasted cities, and folks sick and starving—but ye’re inured to all o’ that, aye? [Challenging sounds from audience] Oh aye. But lemme tell ye ane thing, ye ruddy Sassenachs [Note: derogatory term for English used by Scots] I cuild tell ye somethin’ that’d make ye sit up in yez chairs.

    At this point Prof McIntyre left the lectern and walked to a blackboard used when the lecture theatre is employed for teaching rather than debates. He deliberately walked to the wrong side of the blackboard and wrote large words on it in chalk where they were not visible by the audience or any of his fellow debate participants.

    PROF MCINTYRE: ’Scuse my wee [Eng: small] bit o’ theatre, no? Now I’ll tell ye. Whit’s the ane thing I’ve learned frae [Eng: from] goin’ around those lands we were all raised tae hate? I cuild say anythin’! I’m already a foreign Scottish laddie bletherin’ at the English, isnae [Eng: isn’t] that suspicious enough, ye ken? [Eng: you know?] I cuild say looking at those puir wee lassies and bairns [Eng: women and babies or children, respectively, terms also ruled acceptable in some Northern English dialects by the Academy] starvin’ in their shattered cities, and say, why, war is wrong, and they’ve converted me tae their side, tae the Bad Idea? Do ye want me tae say that?

    Prof McIntyre glared at the restive audience, who doubtless were hoping he’d get to the point.

    PROF MCINTYRE: But it’s no’ controversial tae call yer opponent some closet Sanchezista—isnae that whit we’ve been doin’ all our lives, from arguin’ over a sweet ice when we were bairns? No, that willnae [Eng: won’t] shock ye! I’ll say somethin’ else—I’ll say, ye ken, twa [Eng: two] years past when we all let our fireworks off tae celebrate that we’d won—I say it’s nuthin’ of the sort!

    More curious murmurs from the audience began at this point.

    PROF MCINTYRE: Naw! The Societists, the individuals on the other side, oh they lost. But Pablo Sanchez won!

    Jeers, shouts, denials from the audience, but the sound amplifiers allowed Prof McIntyre’s voice to rise above.

    PROF MCINTYRE: Ye’ll say I’m aff me heid! [Eng: off my head, i.e. unhinged] But I tell ye! Whit was old Pablo Sanchez tryin’ tae prove? Eh? He wuz tryin’ tae prove that all men are brithers and that all the ’uman race shares values? Eh? Change me mind!

    At this point some members of the audience began to rush the stage, but Prof McIntyre held them back by raising a hand and going to the blackboard. There is no denying his charisma.

    PROF MCINTYRE: If ye’ll let me finish...whit has the last century proved, eh? Ye’ll say I’m a daftie, that we spent the last ’undred years divided! But I say, no! We were all, all of us, all across the world, united by ane principle! And this is it!

    Prof McIntyre then rotated the blackboard to reveal the words he had scrawled in chalk.

    It was at this point that our reporter had to leave as the room descended into chaos and seven arrests were made for varying degrees of bodily harm. Eighteen injuries were reported, though intriguingly, Prof McIntyre himself escaped unharmed. It is clear that his argument found some resonance with some parts of the audience, who elected to defend him.

    The words Prof McIntyre wrote, the principle he claimed had united all of humanity through the long years of the Quiet War regardless of whether they be Diversitarians or Societists, was as follows:

    THE ENDS ALWAYS JUSTIFY THE MEANS.







    upload_2019-9-2_10-22-46.png

    THE EYE AGAINST THE PRISM










    .
     
    Interlude 22
  • Thande

    Donor
    Interlude #22: Heartbreak Photel

    Transcript of Thande Institute inaugural meeting of TimeLine L Analysis Team Gamma (composed largely of the members of the former Exploration Teams Alpha and Beta)
    Time: 11:30 hours
    Date: 22/11/2019
    Location: Thande Institute, Cambridge, United Kingdom, TimeLine A (a.k.a. Our TimeLine or OTL)


    CAPTAIN CHRISTOPHER G. NUTTALL (CGN): Well, gentlemen, let’s hear it.

    DR THEODOROS PYLOS (TR): Sir?

    CGN: Explain, in as few words as possible, exactly how screwed we are.

    TP: Ah.

    DR BRUNO LOMBARDI (BL): I think that’s a little unfair, sir. I agree that, ah, our superiors are a little...naive about how easy it is to interpret those intercepted transmissions from the micro-Portal at Snowdrop House in TimeLine L, but—

    LIEUTENANT THOMAS BLACK (TB): Alright, we understand the situation, you don’t have to explain it again.

    SERGEANT ROBERT MUMBY (RM): Too right, I keep expecting you to turn to one side and say ‘eh, readers?’

    BL: Pardon?

    LIEUTENANT JACK TINDALE (JT): Forget it, Bob, they don’t have The Beano in Canada.

    RM (muttering): And I thought TimeLine L was weird...

    CAPTAIN BEN MACCAULEY (BM): Anyway, let’s get back to what Chris was talking about.

    CGN (a bit surprised): ...thank you. Yes, anyway. (cough) There seems to be a bit of a disconnect in, er, in Director Rogers’ understanding of exactly what interpreting these signals involves...

    TB: He understood the radio messages—

    BL: The Photel messages.

    TB: —whatever, he understand those messages from the English Security Directorate and all the other ‘papers, please’ lot are going to be encrypted. Our computers are better than ours, but it’ll still take time to crack those codes.

    LIEUTENANT EAMON MCDONNELL (EM): That’s right, Tom, but the problem is...

    CGN: Someone also told him that we can pick up television transmissions—

    BL: Motoscope transmissions.

    CGN: —whatever, we can pick up television transmissions through it. Including that Motext service they use instead of an internet. That’s included in the carrier wave.

    BM: Well, we can pick them up, I think, but surely he realised—

    CGN: He’s management.

    BM: Oh.

    RM: Oh! He thinks because we reported about Motext before...

    EM: That’s it’s as simple as reading it off a screen.

    SERGEANT DOMINIC ELLIS (DE): Huh. Which it was...when we had a receiver in our room built by the TimeLine L English.

    TP: More probably imported, I think, despite the propag—

    DE: Whatever, it was made to receive and decode those transmissions. Does the Director think we can just send them into one of our TVs and expect them to decode?

    TB (sarcastically): The benefit of an arts education.

    RM: Wait a minute, aren’t you...?

    TB: IT’S SELF-DEPRECATORY HUMOUR!

    CGN: Alright, alright. The important thing is, what do we do about it?

    EM: I’d say the important thing is who do we blame for telling him that.

    (long silence and the squeaking sound of swivelling chairs is heard)

    DR DAVID WOSTYN (DW) (defensively): How was I to know? He was just asking about how they managed without the internet! And their Motext isn’t just like our old Teletext, it’s very sophisticated and fascinating! Almost like Minitel as well as Teletext!

    RM: Like what?

    DW (sotto voce): Damn rosbifs...

    CGN: Look—look—whatever’s happened, we need to figure out how to decode and analyse this information as soon as possible. Not just to stop the Director locking us up again, but because it’s the right thing to do.

    BM: He’s right—we need to focus on how we gain as much more information about TimeLine L, as fast as possible.

    TP: There’s always the risk that someone a bit more open-minded might come across the record of our imprisonment and put two and two together.

    CGN: Agreed. Suggestions?

    RM: We could Portal back into TimeLine L and nick one of their televisions—

    BL: Motoscopes.

    RM: —yes, that—with a decoder, and put the signals through it.

    CGN: Sensible idea, but the Director’s put a moratorium on trips to TimeLine L for the present.

    EM: Well, in that case I guess all we can do is reverse-engineer the necessary algorithms for the signal. We’d need to know the number of columns of pixels on the screen...

    DW: Good thinking, we did take some images of them and digitise them before.

    EM: Also the number of colours, I think it was more than our Teletext, used to have, like you said?

    DW: Something like sixteen, but I’m not sure if it’s quite the same as our timeline’s setups...

    CGN: Well, it’s a start. Gentlemen, this isn’t what we wanted to spend our time doing, but our top priority needs to be—

    ENSIGN CHARLTON CUSSANS (CC) (interrupting): While you were talking, I broke the code.

    (Pause)

    CGN: What?

    CC: Well, it’s just letters and numbers. I know those!

    BL (sighs): Oy vey...
     
    251
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #251: The Aftermath

    “Repeat, we have an Abbey Abbey Ninn Eight Finchley. Entering crossgrid Hackney Three by Queensbury Four by Two Six One. All units converge and follow orders from Red Hill on pulse Clerkenwell Two. Suspect is a Pimlico One Seven wearing a red jacket and blue trousers. Intercept with nonlethal force where possible. Repeat, we have...”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Pages EX101J-M [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Remarks: Pages are grouped under a section titled “Morsel-sized Revision for your English Highers! HISTORY”. Presumably, as with similar examples in our timeline, ‘Highers’ is an abbreviation for a Higher Education Certificate or Higher Schools Leaving Certificate. From context it would appear this is taken around age 17 or 18 by pupils in the Kingdom of England. It is not clear at which stage compulsory education ceases or subject choice begins.

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    HEY KIDS! It’s time to look again at THE PANDORIC WAR! You may say ‘I know that—I’ve seen all the films’! But the version of history you’ll be examined on may not be the one they were using!

    DID YOU KNOW? People who fought in the Pandoric War didn’t call it that! At the time they mostly called it just ‘the war’ or ‘the Great War’ or even ‘the Worldwide War’! It wasn’t until the Black Twenties that the term became popularised![1]

    When you talk about a war, the first thing people ask is who won and who lost? But that’s a tricky question with the Pandoric War! Some historians would argue that the real winner of the Pandoric War was France—which wasn’t even in it! So these things are more complicated than they look.[2]

    The Pandoric War started when Colonel David Braithwaite, son of former ENA President Albert Braithwaite, was shot and killed by Meridian troops on Mount Zhangqihe in China. But an exam question that asks you ‘what were the causes of the Pandoric War?’ does not want you just to say this. The exam wants you to write about all the forces leading up to that point. If you were describing the causes of a fire, it would not be enough to talk about the spark that set it off—you would also have to talk about why flammable substances were left in a place where they could burn. It is the same with a war.

    Some causes of the Pandoric War
    • The UPSA’s government had grown weak, dominated by corporate interests who put economic interests first and emphasised the Hermandad as a trading bloc not a mutual-defence organisation. The lines blurred between the UPSA and its allies, vassals and the corporations’ armies. So what began as a mostly corporate scuffle involving a railway near Zhangqihe turned into the UPSA itself being implicated for the murder of an American hero.
    • The ENA had treated its mother country badly, in particular in the Lionheart Incident (1886). The support of what was then Great Britain in a war was taken for granted, and cracks here and elsewhere in the Hanoverian Dominions were ignored. Some American politicians believed that the ENA had obtained a raw deal under the Seventies Thaw and ironically used the death of David Braithwaite as an excuse to undo his uncle’s legacy of peace. Some also desired the reconquest of Carolina, though often only to secure America’s frontiers rather than any desire for the territory itself. The Free City of Nouvelle-Orléans was considered more desirable as it would allow ENA control of the entire Mississippi.
    • The German government was concerned about the rise of Russia as an industrial power, and it was argued (Tschirschky Doctrine) that Germany would inevitably be more outclassed by Russia the longer she was left, and that Germany should seize the first opportunity to seek war with Russia and defeat it now. German policy was more confident than warranted because Danubia and Poland were firmly within the German orbit, and German diplomats were confident of the neutrality of Germany’s major neighbours with the exception of Scandinavia. This was true in the case of France and Italy, but proved less so in the cases of Belgium.
    • Feng China had long had rivalries with Siam and saw the Zhangqihe incident as an excuse to escalate these into warfare, enjoying a superiority of numbers and resources which eventually told. The Feng leadership believed, accurately, that the Russians would not be able to instigate the rival Beiqing Chinese regime in the north to action until it was too late.
    • Some Meridians understood that the country would be facing an uphill battle and would rather have avoided war. However, the citizenry reacted against the Zhangqihe incident by electing Alvaro Monterroso, an opponent of corporate interests. Monterroso, who under other circumstances might have been a friend to the ENA, refused to own any responsibility for the Zhangqihe incident, attributing it to those corporate interests, not the UPSA itself, which incensed the ENA’s leadership.
    • Orders were issued or reported prematurely by both ENA and UPSA governments (though the details of this are subject to much debate even under non-mandated circumstances).[3]
    • Once war was declared between ENA and UPSA, other countries saw this as an opportunity to jump on one side or the other which they had long-running disputes with. Because it was not apparent from the start which side was weaker, countries joined both sides as cobelligerents, escalating and spreading the war.
    • French neutrality was ostensibly declared by Napoleon Leclerc (Leclerc Doctrine) to prevent the war from escalating and spreading. Other countries such as Italy, Spain and Portugal (a great coup at the time) joined what became known as the Marseilles Protocol, creating a bloc too large and powerful to offend, as it could have easily tipped the balance in the war by joining the other side. This prevented war from taking place in some regions of the world, but also artificially channelled the conflict down lines which led to stalemate and bloodshed, possibly even extending the war. The Marseilles Protocol nations also sold weapons and other supplies to both sides, and ended up profiting from the post-war settlement. This led to the sobriquet of the ‘French Vulture’.

    In your mum and dad’s day, it used to be a common question to ask students to list the members of the two sides of the Pandoric War (and perhaps also the ‘third side’ of the Marseilles Protocol). These are listed below for completeness, but then we’ll look at why you won’t be asked about this anymore.

    The Northern Powers
    Empire of North America
    Great Britain
    Ireland
    Bengal
    Burma
    Venezuela
    Other Hanoverian Dominions
    Cuban Republic
    Feng China and its allies
    Germany
    Danubia
    Poland (later switched sides)
    Ottoman Empire

    The Diametric Alliance
    United Provinces of South America
    Kingdom of Carolina
    Empire of New Spain (Mexico, Guatemala, New Granada, Peru)
    Portuguese-Brazil
    Pernambuco
    Guyanese Republic
    Free City of Nouvelle-Orléans
    Congo
    Siam
    Batavian Republic
    Cape Republic
    Russian Empire
    Lithuania
    Finland
    Other Russian vassals
    Scandinavia
    Beiqing China
    Belgium

    The Marseilles Protocol (Neutral)
    France
    Spain
    Italy
    Portugal
    Greece
    Navarre
    Catalonia
    Bavaria
    Bernese Republic

    Why won’t you be asked to learn these lists anymore? Because they are misleading. The alliance names are arbitrary and were thought up after the fact. People at the time did not really regard the ENA or Great Britain as being allies of Germany or sharing any mutual cause, and the same was true of Russia and the UPSA, for example. The war was an excuse for nations to press their own interests, as all wars have been, and to assert anything else is naive.

    The Pandoric War affected the whole world. So it’s been popular for controversy-seeking historians to argue that it didn’t, or that forces generally accepted to have been put into motion by the war were already pre-existent. This is a legitimate point of view and should not be confused with paleo-Sanchezista/crypto-Jansenist determinism. You must be ready to argue if the war caused a particular event—or to defend the opposite position.

    Example exam question: “The German monarchy was already doomed before the outbreak of the Pandoric War.” Do you agree?

    In this case, one could argue for this position by drawing attention to the backlash against Johann Georg’s Kulturkrieg in the years leading up to the war. Or one could argue against it by drawing attention to the German public anger unleashed by the failure of the war and its focus on Johann Georg rather than their elected politicians or their junior kings. (Note that where sources would accompany questions, they are given in the appendix to this pageset).

    Science and technology. ‘Wars are always good for science, and science is always good for wars’. The Pandoric War was no exception. Social history questions may focus on the technologies that arose from the war and their consequences on the postwar world. It is important to distinguish between technologies that were actually seen for the first time during the war, as in the case of the deadly Scientific Attack, and technologies which technically preceded its outbreak but rose to prominence and maturity during it, as in the case of aerodromes. There are also examples where a technology was used in only a very limited capacity during the war but blossomed after it. Perhaps the best example is the discovery of Photel pulses by Christian Ilsted weeks before the murder of Colonel Braithwaite. The Scandinavian government successfully kept his discovery secret and used it to great effect during the conflict, but were unable to preserve it as a state secret afterwards. Many have posed the question of what the war would have been like if Photel had been discovered five years earlier, its secrecy quickly lost, and had been in use by all nations on the outbreak of war. Note also that while there were rapid advances during the war, many military technologies had suffered from the years of the Long Peace. Some had advanced, as in the case of the lionheart lineship, but others had remained stagnant through lack of use, and tactics had grown more theoretical and less experience-based. Those nations who possessed soldiers who had won military experience serving in proxy wars or as mercenaries had an advantage over others. For example, Meridian and American troops had served in Mexico and the Far East, and Russian protguns were considered superior to German ones because the Russians had learned lessons from their proxy wars against Persian-backed states in Tartary.

    People. Remember that the Pandoric War affected individual people as well as nations. Many lost their lives. Others became heroes, or villains. Many became different people to those they would have been if the war had never happened, even ignoring the rise of the Combine. A short-form question might ask you to name three military officers from different nations who all rose to political power as a consequence of the war. It would not be enough for you to give three later politicians who happened to be Pandoric War veterans—you would need to demonstrate specific consequences arising from individual events, such as an act of heroism that led to publicity, which aided them in their future careers. A question may also focus on a specific individual (who will have been covered in your curriculum) rather than asking you for examples.

    Example exam question: Would Heloise Mercier still have become the first Prime Ministress of France without the experiences and opportunities afforded to her by the Pandoric War? [4]

    Note this type of question is of the sort known as a ‘counterfactual’ which you may see quite frequently in future. A historian can consider an event from real history by positing the question of how history would have progressed if that event had gone differently. We can, for example, ask what might have happened if Colonel Braithwaite had not been shot, or if the German Populists had been successful in their revolt and founded a German republic more than a century early, or even if the Meridian revolutionaries of the 1780s had been defeated by the Spanish and the UPSA was never created. As well as being a serious tool of historical analysis, counterfactuals form the basis of the literary genre known as speculative romance. But do not cite authors of such works in a serious history essay if you wish to be taken seriously!

    Hindsight. Remember when looking at primary sources that the people who wrote them, if they are writing soon after the fact, do not have the benefit of hindsight that you have. Nor did they even have all the information you have on what was happening in the world at the time they were writing. An otherwise sober and well-informed writer might still have naive ideas about the Societist Revolution at a time when we know what was really happening in South America. Be careful, though, because one can also find superficially similar accounts from later periods penned by those who were in fact fully aware of the crimes of the Combine, but chose to be wilfully blind to them. This is just one example, but perhaps the most emotive one, of the impact of hindsight in historical analysis. The same can apply to the fates of nations and of individuals. A rising politician may be judged in a manner which we find absurd with the benefit of hindsight—a famous peacemaker seen as a warmonger, a corrupt embezzler seen as a figure of purity. But these assessments might make perfect sense with the information available to the commentator making the comment at the time. They might even be objectively true, at the time—people can change.

    Example exam question: You are a journalist in 1901 reviewing the aftermath of the Pandoric War. Which nations do you describe as ‘the winners’ of the war? Assume you are living in a neutral state without censorship.

    This is a difficult question even if the examiner has kindly excused you from the need to think about appealing to the version of history taught in a particular nation! In most conflicts one can say one side or the other won, but the Pandoric War is far more complex. This is another reason why the simplistic ‘list the nations on each side’ question is no longer asked; judged as though they were coherent ‘sides’, the crude pragmatic alliances of the war cannot be said to have won or lost. Take the so-called Diametric Alliance—the Russian Empire achieved all of her war aims, with her only reversal being the loss of Beiqing China and revolt in Yapon, while conversely the other pole of the UPSA was destroyed altogether! The ENA won in that she dominated North America, but took losses to Russia and obviously Great Britain departed from the Hanoverian sphere in the Third Glorious Revolution. Some even consider France to be the biggest victor of the war, despite her neutrality.[5] It is a reasonable point; through the Marseilles Protocol, France extended its influence and remained strong while rivals such as Germany were weakened through the war. Yet even this is open to criticism. France exerted influence throughout the war by the implied argument that she could tip the balance against either of the two ‘sides’ by joining the other, so could avoid conflict with both even while profiting from their battles. But this required her to maintain armed force throughout the world for the threat to be taken seriously, and this thin spreading of her forces meant that she was unable to suppress the seemingly trivial Dufresnie rebellion. France was forced to concede the independence of the republic founded by the former convicts, even as she seemed to be reaching the zenith of her power and influence worldwide by effectively penning the postwar settlement.

    Because it is so hard to pick any unambiguous ‘winners’, it is therefore up to you to make unorthdox arguments supported by evidence to answer this tricky exam queston. Though we would recommend against going as far as the infamous student who argued the UPSA had won because the Combine later became powerful, and some naive writers at the time thought of the Combine as just an extension of the UPSA under a new government!

    This leads us naturally onto our next topic, which will be covered in the following pageset. Although many would dispute its inclusion under the same heading as the Pandoric War, your current exam syllabus considers the immediate aftermath of the war in the former UPSA to fall in the same category. You may therefore also face questions about the solidification of the Societist regime in the same paper. Of course, you may have heard that due to later destruction of sources, it is very hard to be certain exactly what happened in those dark days. Rest assured, however, that we will be very clear on which version of history the current Government wishes you to base your answers on...






    [1] Underlined text in this transcript represents red-coloured text in the original broadcast. These pieces of text function similar to hyperlinks in our internet, although the means of accessing them is to repeatedly press a button on the Motoscope controls to cycle through highlighting each the link on screen and then to press an enter button when the correct one is highlighted. For that reason, not many links are displayed per page to avoid tedious scrolling.

    [2] Judging by the jarring shift in tone around this point, we suspect that this was a ‘funky’ modern introduction tacked onto an otherwise unchanged, older and more staid, piece of teaching content.

    [3] I.e. ‘historians disagreed about this even before the Assembly of Sovereign Nations told them it wanted them to disagree about it’.

    [4] Evidently—and unsurprisingly—the English Motext service does not have provision for accent marks. Also note the tendency towards more specifically gendered terms in TTL English; they would speak of ‘the first senatrix’, not ‘the first female senator’.

    [5] The fact that this point was already stated in the ‘funky modern intro’ suggests the person who wrote it didn’t look too closely at the rest of the text.
     
    252
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #252: Division and Integration

    “Negative. Confirm, Seven Seven Clerkenwell. No. Negative, negative. Not the one from Tuesday. This is new. Seven Seven Clerkenwell, crossgrid Greenwich One by Lewisham Two…I don’t care what the Minister says, get some Six Barkings on there, double time. Better to seek forgiveness than—”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Pages EX101Q-V [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    This topic is often grouped under the Pandoric War but really belongs to its aftermath. The kinds of exam questions you’ll be asked could be put under the overall heading of ‘Why did the Sanchezistas have such difficulties after taking over in the Revolution?’ But be wary of what your mum and dad tell you about questions like this! When they were at school, they might well have been able to get some marks just by answering ‘Because Societism is wrong and evil’ to everything—but these days the examiners expect a bit more nuance! Besides, it is not very Diversitarian for everyone to answer the same thing! It’s up to you to come up with your own unique reasons WHY the early Societists ran into such difficulties.

    Don’t over-emphasise personalities. While the Government has given you what version of history it wants you to use in the syllabus, there’s no getting away from the fact that nobody knows that much about the individuals involved. It’s hard to pick apart the reality we want to see from the sort of crude fabrications made by the Russians or, indeed, the Combine itself when it was rewriting history. That’s the key point, in fact. Ask WHY the Combine needed to rewrite its own history, and the answer needs to be more than ‘it was evil’. It was certainly not for the reasons we might choose to rewrite history, to encourage a flowering of more perspectives and points of view! Remember, Societism demands a single narrative which all must accept as an objective truth—whereas we know that the only objective truth is the one each individual perceives. What was the Societists’ vested interest in wanting this rewriting? Think especially of the time in which it took place, during and after the Black Twenties after the creation of the Biblioteka Mundial.

    But let’s go back to 1900 and those difficulties the Sanchezistas faced. One can point to specific unrest unleashed by the assassination of Bartolome Jaimes, the illness of Raul Caraibas and the resulting power vacuum in the old guard at the top of the movement. Archbishop Ramirez attempted to step into this vacuum to an extent, but as first among equals of an informal council, ineffective and infighting. Not every part of the former UPSA had accepted the Societists’ dramatic coup in the bloody destruction of the Anglo-American army. Some treated them as the saviour of Buenos Aires (or Zon1Urb1), but others disagreed. Chile in particular saw organised counter-revolutionary forces loyal to the Fuerzas Armadas and under the leadership of General Luca Antonelli. (Please note that calling into question the loyalty the troops felt towards Antonelli because of his Italian background, and making comparisons to Castelli, is too simplistic!) At present Antonelli’s forces, battered and starved by years of war (many of them were veterans rotated out from the front lines) were no direct threat to the main Societist power base in Platinea. However, that might change.

    Here’s where you can point to the idea that Societism, having just taken power, was already collapsing under its own contradictions. These weren’t the salons and gentlemen’s clubs and lecture theatres in which Sanchez had expounded his high-minded theories—this was hard reality. Sanchez had always argued that Societism would be the result of a simultaneous global revolution, not a revolution in one country (something carefully expunged from the BM later on). Because of this, he had never considered the question of what a Societist region (as he would see it) might do when threatened by those loyal to their true nation, or indeed by a neighbouring rival nation. Caraibas, more realistic in some ways, had considered it to some extent, but again his speculations had been too theoretical. Besides, he was now a sick man, lacking much of the fire that had brought him to the head of the movement. Caraibas might have been able to reconcile Societism, which painted all soldiers as mere murderers, with the need for an armed force to take on Antonelli’s forces in Chile. The deluded criminals who had carried out the Scientific Attack atrocity had mostly died in the attempt, neatly avoiding the question of whether it was considered fine for someone to commit a murder in the name of global unity through society. But this would require a regular army, something that would be anathema to Sanchez.

    Into this power vacuum, it is believed, rose the man known to history as Rodrigus Alfarus, or often as Amigo Alfarus, using the Societist fraternal address. His early history is entirely unknown, confused by BM rewritings as well as pre-Iverson Protocol propaganda. Even the ‘official’ version promulgated by the RM itself became overwritten by his successors and only fragments remain. Those fragments suggest a narrative in which Alfarus was a quiet, loyal stalwart of the Societist movement from long before the outbreak of the Pandoric War, which seems somewhat unlikely from what is known of his character. A rival theory argues that he joined the movement during the war on seeing which way the wind was blowing, and that this was a chance for power. Many historians believe Alfarus was a veteran of the Fuerzas Armadas (something carefully concealed from his fellow Societists) and argue this was the only way in which he could have amassed the experience and connections he needed to achieve what he did.

    ===

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    ===

    While other would-be Societist leaders were wasting time on committees dreaming up new institutions and how to reconcile them with Sanchez’s words, Alfarus was busy. He obtained authorisation for his projects not least by never giving the full story to any of his rivals on those committees. He could likely not have achieved this, however, without the support of Caraibas, the biggest surviving name in the movement. It remains a matter of much debate exactly how conscious this support was. The popular Soviet-penned view portrays Caraibas comatose and laudanum-riddled on his deathbed with Alfarus casually grabbing his withered hand and using it to sign the relevant documents. While this scene can’t be ruled out later on, it can’t have been accurate at the time when Alfarus was first working on his plans. There seems at least some evidence that Caraibas genuinely did see Alfarus as a potential protégé, though his perception of the man may well have been inaccurate. It is hard now, with the fragmentary records, for us to guess whether Alfarus was the sort of man to appear as all things to all people and conceal his true self—but it seems likely.

    Together with some trusted lieutenants, Alfarus therefore managed to circumvent the ineffective, squabbling masses of Societist leaders, still reeling from the loss of Jaimes and arguing over how Zonal Rejes should be appointed. The Societists had appealed to a number of veterans of the Pandoric War in its closing stages, men driven to bitterness by losses and who had often been left wounded and abandoned by the increasingly dysfunctional Monterroso-led state. Many Societists were uncomfortable with what to do with these men, but Alfarus saw an opportunity. Knowing that the movement as a whole would never consent to the creation of a military explicitly described as such, he created the Celatores—meaning ‘wardens’ or ‘watchmen’ in a form of Novalatina rather closer to Spanish than many. The Celatores were deliberately given uniforms and imagery which more evoked park rangers than soldiers (though in the short term, this mainly applied to the ones the public could see). They were armed, but Alfarus announced that the weapons were intended only as a warning, because obviously the enemy would surrender when they realised the errors of their ways and the truth of Societism. Radically, he also declared that if any Celator slew another human being, he would be hanged in turn.

    Alfarus’ choice of capital punishment may seem strange given the general Quedlingism of Sanchezistas, but this reflects his attempts to appeal to a broad base of the movement. At this point and for some time afterwards, the biggest threat to the Societists was not Antonelli in Chile, nor the French-led International Expeditionary Force currently steaming from Rochefort towards Recife. It was the existential threat from the realisation that, now it had taken power and there was no longer an external opposition to unite against, the movement was not so united as it had seemed. And given that the movement’s whole raison d’être was to try to eliminate divisions between humans, this was an even bigger problem than it would be in other contexts.

    There were many differences of opinion between the Sanchezistas that had grown up; sometimes things which Sanchez himself had been vague on, often relating to economics; sometimes on things which Sanchez had contradicted himself on; often on things which Sanchez had been very clear on, but were simply unpopular, ignored and suppressed (such as his refusal to countenance a flag or symbol for the movement). Above all others, the argument which became so prominent that it remains common knowledge today (despite the BM’s best efforts) was that between the Garderistas and Familistas.

    What did the Garderistas and Familistas believe?
    • The Garderistas argued that divisions between humans, and the unsuited inheritance of a position in society to an incapable child, were caused by the traditional carytic family structure. They therefore advocated that all babies at birth should be taken from their parents and raised in common in crèches, with no way to trace whose child was whose. Only then, they claimed, could there be no chance of inherited privilege overruling meritocracy. Furthermore, children could be circulated around the world and raised in different locations in different Zones, quickening the homogenisation of languages and racial backgrounds.
    • The Familistas opposed the Garderistas, arguing that the carytic family was something present in all human civilisations and therefore, rather, represented one of the signs of unity in all societies that Sanchez had pointed out (like patterns of hierarchies of nobility). Some Familistas, of course, were motivated simply by loving their children and regarding the Garderistas’ plans as monstrous, but such a naïve justification tends not to be noted in BM records.

    ===

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    The Garderista-Familista division may be best known, in part because of its emotive content, but it was only one of a number of divisions within the movement. Indeed, it can really be argued to be only a subset of the broader debate about inheritance and Superhumanism.[1]

    This may seem strange to you, if you are aware that Societism was regarded as a counter to Superhumanism in the late 19th century. However, this is because the flavour of Superhumanism in question usually focused on class. Patronising aristocrats dreamed of being able to sterilise the lower classes and outbreed them to extinction, while Neo-Jacobins had the opposite dream. Societists, on the other hand, argued from nature that just as one could not have an ecosystem with only predators or only prey, attempting to eliminate a class from human society was absurd. This is a more-or-less accurate description of the pre-war argument, and is important to understand to realise how Societism could seem modern and trailblazing at the time to the ignorant, but this is not the only form in which Superhumanism could manifest.

    Some Superhumanists, rather than focusing on class as a proxy, looked directly at what they regarded as ‘undesirable characteristics’. Often this was bound inextricably up with flawed understandings built on ideas like craniography.[2] A predilection for theft, perhaps, or low moral character in general…could such things be attributed to biology rather than moral choices? And, therefore, did the Final Society have a duty to breed these out of the human race by sterilising the current generation of undesirables, and encouraging reproduction by good specimens?

    This debate was seriously hampered by the fact that the science of genetics was in its infancy. Truly ‘a little knowledge is a dangerous thing’ for the Societists, trying to build their ideology on a basis that kept shifting. Scientists knew that blastic acid [DNA] was how genetic information was transferred, but not the rules of how inheritance worked.[3] All sorts of strange Societist theories were concocted, then faced difficulties when later scientific breakthroughs contradicted them. The BM had to do a lot of rewrites of history.

    Opponents of Superhumanism argued that Societism implicitly accepted that any human had the capacity to take a proper role in society, and that a perfect society should have room for all humans. However, the debate’s stakes were heightened by the problem of what to do with demobbed Fuerzas Armadas soldiers, in particular those who had not opposed the Revolution. Many Superhumanists argued that the soldiers had shown themselves genetically predisposed to be killers and should be sterilised or even executed, an extreme and non-Quedlingist position showing how polarised things had become. Of course, the veterans were not going to take that lying down, and tensions heightened.

    Alfarus’ move was therefore an attempt to defuse the tensions. He was recruiting the veterans to what at first glance appeared to be a new army, but he had bowed to the advocacy of the most extremist anti-military Superhumanists. He had assembled a plurality of contradictory factions behind him. It would not be until well after Alfarus’ rise to power was complete that it was revealed how he had achieved this compromise. The agreement which the Celatores signed indeed stated that they would be executed if they slew another human…but that execution would be automatically deferred by the (still hypothetical) court system to a ‘more suitable date’, specifically the soldier’s eightieth birthday, and the soldier would spend the preceding decade in a suspiciously luxurious ‘military prison’. Compared to the fate that many veterans of the pre-revolutionary Fuerzas Armadas had met with, this seemed like a rather good bargain by comparison.

    ===

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    Alfarus took the Celatores to fight Antonelli in Chile and ultimately defeated him by 1901. However, by that time the International Expeditionary Force had landed in Pernambuco and was advancing into the former Portuguese-Brazil, having secured King João VII and his remaining loyalists. In Alfarus’ absence the squabbling had continued in Zon1Urb1, Caraibas was even sicker, Ramirez was ineffective (beyond drawing up a new structure for the Universal Church) and none had risen to fill the vacuum. This is just what Alfarus had been counting on (it is thought) when he took the admitted gamble to march on Chile. He returned a hero, despite the misgivings in the eyes of those who thought he and his Celatores looked suspiciously militaristic. But, it must be remembered, there were not that many Societist true believers about. The people of what had been the UPSA had accepted the Sanchezistas as their saviours after the Scientific Attack seemed to save them from Anglo-American attack by a dark miracle, but that does not mean they believed chapter and verse in Societist values. Indeed, in many ways they didn’t really realise what those values were. This was Alfarus’ opportunity.

    Example exam question: Why did the International Expeditionary Force meet with such little success given the opportunities it had?

    Once again, this is the sort of question where your mum and dad’s generation might have been able to get away with saying ‘Because it had ‘international’ in the name so it was flawed!’ But nowadays we want more from you! You should be aware that the term had not taken on its modern negative connotations back then, but just reflected an agreement between nations like the ASN today.

    It’s very hard for us to look at the IEF and not think of the missed opportunities that the question alludes to. It could certainly be argued that most of the twentieth century was spent bemoaning the rise of Societism and if only it could have been prevented. Yet with this hindsight, the IEF looks like a slapdash, heartbreakingly ineffective attempt to strangle the Fever Dream in its cradle. And that is the more charitable interpretation. It could even be said that without the IEF, Societism might not have successfully established itself at all…




    [1] Eugenics.

    [2] Phrenology.

    [3] See Part #209 in Volume V. This is the opposite order to how these discoveries happened in OTL, driven in part by the fact that Mendelian inheritance relies on the happenstance of Mendel having found some examples whose inheritance rules are much simpler than most biological situations.
     
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    253
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #253: Fragile Apex, Iron Nadir

    “That’s—that is thirty zero seven till the Deptford Clerkenwell Seven is in, correct? ... Right, in that case it’s time for a Zetland One One. ... No, make mine a strawberry one.”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

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    When writing answers and essays about the consolidation of Societism in South America in the aftermath of the Pandoric War, many students make the mistake of treating the situation as though South America was isolated, and do not consider the course of global events. But these are very important. Don’t write about the International Expeditionary Force as though it appeared from nowhere. Events back in Europe were crucial in both why the force was sent and why it failed—or even backfired by uniting disparate Societist factions against it.

    Remember that many democratic nations had delayed elections because of the war, even those like France which were technically neutral, though on war footing. Those elections now took place in many nations and had big impacts on their political direction. The ENA’s response to both the rise of Societism and the breakaway of the former Great Britain was confused and muted in part because her electorate punished the Supremacist Party, and to a lesser extent their Liberal allies, for the massacre of the Scientific Attack.[1] The American voters were voting against their government rather than for an opposition, further confused by the fact that the two parties that usually led rival governments had united as a wartime coalition. This made it hard for the new President Faulkner (Liberal) to form a stable government.

    A similar situation was seen in France, because the Diamantine Party had given qualified support to the wartime policy of Prime Minister Leclerc and his National Party. It is hard to judge the French electorate’s response to the Marseilles Protocol from the results of the 1900 French general election. For which party, which candidate, could a Frenchman or –woman vote for if he or she was opposed to that policy? In the event, the Nationals lost a few seats, but still just about held a majority, the Diamantines made a small net gain after considerable churn of seats, and—as in the ENA—the minnow opposition parties gained seats. It is certainly hard to argue that there was any real surge in sympathy for the extremist Neo-Jacobin views of the Noir Party that led to them gaining nine seats; it was merely that the Noirs were an opposition voice. Even trickier to judge is the fact that Jules Degenlis, the only openly Societist deputy in the outgoing Parliament, saw eleven like-minded members of the so-called ‘Greys’ elected beside him. (Societists in France had already used grey as their colour before the war, because black was taken by the Neo-Jacobins). Did Le Douze de Jules represent naive support by uninformed French voters for the revolution in South America based on little information? Or was it merely that they were looking for someone who wasn’t a Diamantine or a National in their circonscription? Even then, Degenlis had always been a cautious supporter of the Marseilles Protocol policy on Pacifist principle, only criticising the ‘Vulture’-like corollaries of using neutrality to sell weapons and supplies to both sides of the war.

    Neutral France had indeed managed to continue trade with most of the world throughout the war, meaning her people had suffered far less in terms of shortages. Nonetheless there had been some rationing, a spike in unemployment and a general feeling that the prosperous years of the Long Peace had ended. Leclerc interpreted the National Party’s re-election with a reduced majority as qualified support for his foreign policy, but that the French people would not forgive further deprivation. Indeed, he intended to present the Marseilles Protocol as the ultimate triumph of French power, that France now bestrode the world as a colossus while her rivals had wounded themselves, and that this would be the engine for a new age of prosperity for her people. There were already subtle signs that pulling off this image of imperial invincibility would be trickier than it looked, such as the ultimate success of the rebels in Dufresnie in throwing off French colonial control. But Dufresnie seemed like an irrelevant flyspeck on the other side of the world. Perhaps the vision would be possible, if Leclerc made the right choices.

    He ultimately suffered, though, from the fact that the Diamantines had withdrawn from the wartime alliance and he had lost their capable leader, Robert Mercier, at the Tuileries.[2] While Mercier was busy surviving a leadership challenge and then reorganising his party anew as an opposition force, Leclerc was forced to cope with the elevation of National grandee Philippe Soisson to the Foreign Ministry. Soisson had been a capable organiser for the party and Maison Secretary,[3] but lacked the necessary experience to fill the role he was called upon to do so, and ended up playing catch-up at one of the most crucial moments for foreign policy in French history. It was no secret that Leclerc had wanted to promote Heloise Rouvier instead, who had effectively deputised to Mercier during the final stages of the war. He was unable to sell this to his conservative party caucus not only because Rouvier was a woman, but also because she had been subject to innuendoes about being involved with Mercier. (She would go on to marry him, but it is unclear when their relationship began, and some argue it began out of spite after Rouvier was rejected by her party and later resigned its whip).

    The Societist Revolution was initially seen as rather far down the priority list for France, as Leclerc focused on using France’s powerful position to force mediations of treaties between the warring powers of the Pandoric War. Naturally, securing France’s position in Europe also seemed more urgent at the time. Leclerc had managed to deliver many of the foreign policy goals that France’s monarchs had sought for centuries. On three frontiers (counting La Manche), France had made docile allies out of potential foes—Spain, Italy, and (for the first time in two centuries), England. Belgium remained bitterly hostile, but had also gambled unwisely and was isolated, consumed with its own problems. Maximilian IV’s near-personality cult had taken a number of blows, and his royalist ‘Belgian Party’ began taking losses to the opposition United Radicals even in the States-Provincial elections, which were normally more dominated by wealthy conservatives due to the property suffrage requirement. The Belgian establishment began to worry what might happen when the more democratic States-General elections rolled around in 1902, and began muttering about the possibility of delaying them, a dangerous gamble again.

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    One neighbour of France remained—Germany. For years during the Long Peace, French politics had been interrupted by paranoia over a war with unified Germany that never materialised. Even now, with Germany weakened, she remained France’s biggest potential foe. Russia, China and America might all be growing powers, but none shared a frontier with France as Germany did, none could potentially march troops straight to Paris.

    Leclerc saw the weakening of Germany as an opportunity for France—not to fight Germany, but to pull her into the Marseilles Protocol as another docile ally, or perhaps a partner.

    Example exam question: ‘The defeat of the Pandoric War unleashed similar forces and government responses in Germany, Danubia and the Ottoman Empire’. Do you agree? Compare and contrast key examples.

    For a question like this, it’s important to realise that there are many parallels that can be drawn between Danubia and the Ottoman Empire, but these fall down if you try to apply them to Germany. Danubia and the Ottoman Empire were both highly mixed, multi-ethnic entities which functioned by a geographically-unfocused version of federalism moderated by a strong central executive. Where they differ is that Danubia had unambiguously been a loser in the war, her only figleaf being that a strident defence had led to her holding on to more of Wallachia than had seemed likely at one point in the war. The Ottomans, by contrast, saw a much more mixed result, successfully winning back Servia from the Danubians (symbolically hugely important), but losing Trebizond to the Russians. Sectarian massacres took place on both sides, and in the short term the threat of Russia tended to help the Ottomans stay united. One can compare the Arab risings and Hungarian revolt of 1900-01, but whereas the former seemed easily quashed but left festering sores, the latter dragged on but ultimately led to a more stable settlement. In both cases, the struggles of running an unstable multi-ethnic empire led to more attention being paid by intellectual thinkers in Constantinople and Vienna to the ongoing Societist experiment, even before the later German expulsion.

    Germany, meanwhile, was not a multi-ethnic empire in the same way. Before the war she had had minorities, but they were unquestionably dominated by the German race and subject to Johann Georg’s disastrous Kulturkrieg. Now, in part because of the seeds sown by that conflict, she had lost her Jutlanders and her Czechs. Only the Jews and Lusatians[4] remained in large numbers, and the Government’s attempts to stir up public hatred against them as scapegoats met with flat stares by an unimpressed populace who remembered the Kulturkrieg. Elections were coming in Germany, too, and the Adel establishment were looking increasingly nervous at the chances of the High Radicals and their allies. Johann Georg and new Chancellor Moritz von Bruhl were keen to head this off, particularly nervous of the number of demobbed soldiers on the streets growing angry at the country that had abandoned them.

    What the German government saw as a crisis, Leclerc saw as an opportunity. By this point (April 1900), it had become clear that the Societist Revolution was far more serious than the French had initially guessed. There was no fully organised Societist government yet, with the feuding factions, disagreements over how to run things on Sanchezist ideological lines which had somehow not been thought about until now, and continued rebel and loyalist activity by General Antonelli and others. Because of this, the trade between the former UPSA and France—which had continued to a limited extent throughout the war—had been abruptly cut off. Leclerc needed good news, not bad, for a restive French public chafing under rationing. He also needed to safeguard French interests, property and subjects in a country collapsing into what appeared like anarchy.

    It should be noted that this was a particular cause for alarm, given that the Societists had also not agreed at this point how to treat citizens of countries outside the so-called Liberated Zones who were present at the time of the Revolution. Under strict orthodox Sanchezism, they should refuse to acknowledge the citizenship of any country, and welcome those citizens as fellow Humans of the Liberated Zones. However, as always, there were many whom had joined the Revolution out of self-interest and argued that those citizens were ‘traitors to Humanity’ for displaying loyalty to nations, and could have their assets seized by the Zones. All sorts of horror stories, some admittedly exaggerated, began to fill the French papers. And it was French subjects who were most at risk, with most Americans, Germans and so on having left the UPSA at the start of the war to avoid internment, whereas the French had continued trading.

    Leclerc was acutely aware that, having secured re-election on ‘he kept us out of war’, it was less than logical for him to then embark upon a military intervention. But the alternative was to sit by and lose access to Meridian markets, as well as potentially see French subjects threatened—hardly the act of the world power he wished to present France as. To quote the man himself, French subjects worldwide should be able to say ‘Civis gallicus sum’ like the Roman of old, and expect protection from the long arm of la patrie.

    It should be pointed out that Leclerc’s priority was not to strangle Societism in the cradle as a threat to the established order (or indeed the freedom of the nations). One must remember the context of the time in which he made his decisions. Talk of what the Combine would become would have been dismissed as alarmism at the time. Indeed, Leclerc’s decision exemplifies the failures of nationalism before Diversitarianism. Despite building a multi-national alliance (then known as ‘international’), he focused only on the threat to France’s immediate economic interests, and not the long-term ideological threat that the Societists posed. Easy as it is to criticise this in hindsight, we need to bear it in mind when evaluating the success (or otherwise) of the International Expeditionary Force. Though many frequently attempt to do so, it is not reasonable to condemn the IEF or the Duc de Berry for failing to carry out an objective which they were not, in fact, given.

    Leclerc regarded the ‘international’ aspect of the force as being a suitable get-out clause for him not having sent France to war, as well as being an opportunity to strengthen the Marseilles Protocol as an alliance. In practice, the force sent was mostly French, with largely token forces sent by England and Portugal (the old armourclad frigate Carrasco in the latter case) and larger ones sent by Italy and Spain. Greece and Bavaria sent what amounted to little more than well wishes, which did not stop their governments blowing their contributions out of all proportion, decades later, when hindsight dictated that the IEF was presented as a doomed but romantic attempt to destroy Societism at its root.

    Leclerc’s master-stroke was to approach the Germans about contributing to the force, ostensibly as an isolated project, but as an obvious tentative approach for the possibility of Germany joining the Protocol later. Johann Georg was naturally very suspicious, but (as von Bruhl realised), Leclerc’s insight was that Germany was effectively being given a plausible reason to send a large number of its demobbed angry veterans abroad, their wages paid by France. If they were restoring order in South America, they couldn’t be smashing up bierkellers and scrawling republican slogans on walls back home. Dresden agreed to Paris’ offer, and some conservative German thinkers began seriously considering the idea of an alignment with France as part of an alliance against the Russian Bear. It was far from their old dreams of a German powerhouse as the central axis of Europe, but it was better than potentially losing another war to the ever-increasing battle industry under Petrograd’s thumb. And it was a future-looking project that they might use to outflank the High Radicals’ electoral message focusing on the disastrous defeat in the war.

    ===

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    It is difficult for us to reconstruct events in Zon1Urb1 at this time. Judging by the eventual Biblioteka Mundial accounts, one might imagine that Alfarus was the only leader of significance in the former UPSA and that everyone sat around quietly waiting for him to come back from Chile. The reality, of course, is that years later, prominent figures were gradually deleted from the official histories as they fell foul of Alfarus’ increasing paranoia. Few accounts escaped South America, and those garbled, at the time. It is very possible that we are completely unaware of the existence of many prominent Societists who played crucial roles at that time.

    Three of the few Societists we do know about, and whom we know were influential in this period, are now described. MaKe Lopez was a Gwayese professor from the University of Lima, considered the last of the ‘old guard’ who had known Sanchez personally, and a key intellectual voice at this time. Pedro Dominguez was a former soldier who had badly been affected by his experiences fighting in Carolina, and became Alfarus’ chief lieutenant in controlling the Celatores. Friedrich (or Federico) Muller was a second-generation German immigrant and union leader who had become disenchanted with Mentianism under Monterroso, after initially supporting him in 1896. These three became close allies of Alfarus, and it is believed he never turned on any of them, though some questions were asked about the eventual death of Lopez. You will also see their names given in their Novalatina forms of Markus Lupus, Pedrus Dominikus and Friderikus Molinarius.

    With Antonelli and Chile subdued, the ‘Liberated Zones’ now had some degree of control over almost all of the former UPSA except the north bank of the Rio de la Plata. Once again, official histories are vague on exactly what was happening in Zon1Urb1 while Alfarus was in Chile, but supposedly the people had become discontented with the squabbling between factions. There is some evidence that no Zonal Rejes had been appointed since the assassination of Bartolome Jaimes, although the official BM history backdates the appointment of the Rejes appointed in 1901 to imply continuity. These were appointed following Alfarus returning to Zon1Urb1 (after passing through Zon1Urb2, formerly Cordoba) and allegedly being greeted with spontaneous public demonstrations approving of his victory over Antonelli. Perhaps there is truth in this; after years of defeat and retreat, the people of what had once been Buenos Aires might have been grateful for any victory. Antonelli was easy to paint as a villain due to his family’s unpopular pre-war corporate connections.

    Perhaps Alfarus would have been powerful enough to seize power regardless of the IEF’s intervention, but it appears that the news of the Duc de Berry’s army landing in Recife certainly quickened public support for a strong military leader. Having modelled their language at least on that of Rome, the Societists appeared to have skipped the Republic altogether and gone straight to the military dictatorship stage. It is hard to imagine what Pablo Sanchez would have thought, seeing armed soldiers in black marching in formation under the black flag, chanting his name.

    It is unlikely that Alfarus and his allies were such ideologues as to miss the great advantage the French had presented them. The Meridian people had first rallied to the Societists when the Scientific Attack had massacred the Anglo-American forces in December 1899, recalling their historic repulse of such a force over a century earlier in the First Platinean War, along with their less successful clash in the Third. Also in the folk memory was the French attack under the Duc de Noailles in the Second Platinean War, and how the nascent UPSA had fought that off with Anglo-American support. The Societists were meant to oppose such petty matters as clashes between nations, national pride and historical resonance. But, it seems clear, Alfarus would use any tool, any weapon he had to hand. Once again, the French were attacking; once again, they would be defeated. But this time, no allies would be needed, so long as the people stood for the values of Humanity.

    The analogy was, perhaps, not so forced. The Duc de Berry faced a similar problem as the Duc de Noailles, who had been dispatched by an indecisive Louis XVI in 1782 with orders unclear on whether he was meant to be supporting or opposition rebels against the Spanish crown. More than a century later, Berry’s briefings were vague on whether he was meant to deal with the new government (if it existed) to protect French subjects and commercial interests, or whether he was meant to try to overthrow that government and help forces loyal to the UPSA’s constitution. Although he did not quite have the same lengthy voyage as Noailles had had thanks to steamships, his was arguably the last major military operation to attempt to operate without the advantage of Photel. Though, of course, many later military commanders found the headache of Passeridic management from politicians in constant contact to be an undesirable trade-off.

    Berry landed in Recife and effectively took over the Pernambucano Republic. Until that time the Republic had been operating under its former puppet rulers supported by residual Meridian military forces, but had slowly been deteriorating with the cutoff of trade. Berry chose to work with these forces, led by General Guerin. He was subject to conflicting ambitions on whether Pernambuco should become a French puppet as part of the Marseilles Protocol, or whether he was meant to be using this as the starting point towards rebuilding the UPSA. His move led to heightened diplomatic protests from the ENA, whose Government had already taken a hostile stance against France due to Britain’s Third Glorious Revolution and alignment to the Protocol. America at this time still largely regarded the Scientific Attack as being the product of the former Monterroso regime, and argued that the Meridian military forces such as Guerin’s were complicit in crimes de guerre. Once again, we see how divisions at this time led to later opponents of Societism treating the nascent Combine as the lesser of two evils. There was even some unofficial American trade with the Combine, mostly via the Drakesland-Chile route (recall this was before the building of the Nicaragua Canal).

    Although Berry began in Recife, to the popular imagination the IEF is synonymous with fighting in Portuguese-Brazil. Berry was able to secure King Joao VII and his loyalists at the same time that Alfarus and Dominikus were leading the Celatores to secure the final former provinces of Cisplatina and Riogrande. The first direct clash between the Celatores and the IEF occurred at Zon3Urb1 (then Sao Paolo) on March 14th 1901. The conflict continued until 1905, though the French did not formally withdraw from their last footholds in Pernambuco and Guyana until 1907. Throughout the struggle, the French and their allies faced the same problems but were unable to come up with solutions. The French soldiers were undoubtedly better trained and equipped than the often-irregular Celatores, but they lacked the leavening core of Pandoric War veterans, and did not know the difficult terrain of the Brazilian Highlands and their rainforests. Notably, the Combine was eventually able to attract mercenaries from the Batavian Republic, Philippine Republic and Siam who had gained comparable experience in the war there. Morale also remained low on the French side, especially after the first winter in June-August 1901 where the Celatores managed to encircle and cut off Zon3Urb1. The average French soldier did not know what he was fighting for, the Marseilles Protocol allies were even less motivated, and the local Portuguese-Brazilian forces were less than loyal to their king. This was exemplified when Joao VII went to France on a tour to ‘raise support’ and it was rumoured that he had spent most of it wining and dining with French aristocrats.

    The Combine, meanwhile, was not only fighting but working hard on propaganda. The new Zonal Rejes Alfarus had appointed—he himself never had any title but ‘Kapud (Chief) of the Celatores’—administered the ‘Liberated Zones’ and industry was slowly restored under new management. Arbitary ‘meritocracy tests’ appeared which led to former poor workers rising to high positions and some wealthy men being reduced to the small homes and limited income that Sanchez had envisaged. He had probably not, however, imagined that the tests would largely be an excuse to elevate those who had backed Societism before the Revolution and demote those who had not. Indeed, Sanchez had naively thought that all classes in society would be considered equal.

    Regardless, propaganda presented a rosy view of the stabilising Combine. It particularly appealed to soldiers from Spain, who had grown discontented with their own homeland’s current status. It was no secret that the King’s current illness might end with his death and France inheriting the crown, reducing Spain to just the appendage of France that Louis XVI had dreamed of. Spaniards, perhaps descendants of the same men who had stoned Sanchez and led him to flee to the UPSA, were now listening to his ideological supporters. Germans, too, already angry with the Bundeskaiser and his government—sent here in part because they were—were open to propaganda specifically aimed at them by Molinarius. Sanchez’s Fever Dream began to take root among some of those soldiers, just as Meridian liberty had among Noailles’ soldiers of the 1780s.

    The long, bitter struggle had an impact on France as well as the Combine. It undoubtedly led to Mercier’s victory in 1905 on an anti-interventionist platform, following the crisis of 1904 where Italy announced it would withdraw her own troops. Leclerc’s Marseilles Protocol, if not quite demolished by the aftermath of the intervention, would certainly never be the strong alliance he had hoped for. England, Scotland and Portugal also began to distance themselves from France, and it seemed apparent that Spain would not be the easy acquisition that the French had hoped for. The French also granted Joao VII exile after the last of the former Brazil was lost to the Societists—a decision which they would come to regret.

    It would not be until 1908 that the situation had fully stabilised, with the Combine now in control of the whole of South America, but Mexico and Guatemala firmly under America’s thumb and a canal being dug across the former. Even before this, though, the seeds were being sown for the growth of Societism elsewhere. Those mercenaries from the Nusantara, a region so long under UPSA influence, brought ideas back with them. So too did those IEF soldiers, in particular the Spaniards and Germans. The Germans proved so influential that even the High Radical government chose to ban the local Gesellschaftischpartei in 1911, leading to many of those veterans of the IEF instead going to Danubia and plotting with their ideological allies there.

    To modern readers, it seems scarcely credible that for so many years the Combine was virtually ignored by world opinion, or just treated as the UPSA under a different kind of government. Trade resumed (after a brief ideological struggle among the Societists), lurid tales of the Garderista experiments circulated, but fundamentally those warning of the Combine as a threat were not taken very seriously.

    That would change with the Black Twenties.











    [1] There is obviously rather more to it than that, but this is coaching an exam question.

    [2] Metonym for the French Foreign Ministry, similar to ‘the Quai d’Orsay’ in OTL.

    [3] This has evolved from the ancien régime role of ‘Secretary of State for the Maison du Roi’ into something like an Interior Minister (which it is often translated as).

    [4] A Slavic people today in OTL better known as the Sorbs.
     
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    254
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part 254: Photel Killed the Lectel Star

    “Repeat. Orpington One Two. No. One Two. Neasden, Orpington Tyburn. Confirm, One Two...Don’t ask me...clear the pulses of chatter, Vaxuxhall Exeter. Repeat. Orpington One Two, approaching White Gate. Render all assistance. Deptford Hackney Abbey, Zero One. I repeat, this comes with Deptford Hackney Abbey, Zero One...Zetland Orpington! Confirm Rainham Rainham! ...No, this is not a joke—”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Pages MS070A-F [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    INVENTIONS THAT CHANGED THE WORLD INDEX PAGE!

    Welcome to the Motext index page for Inventions That Changed The World, now in its second season! For those of you who didn’t catch the first season, it will be repeated at midnight on Wednesdays on Public Pulsefeed 3 while the second season is broadcast at 8 pm the same day. But here’s the story so far. English Public Broadcasting has joined forces with publisher Longman to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of Jennifer Hodgeson and Peter Willis’ 12 Inventions That Changed The World, which began as a Photel show in 1988 before becoming a hugely popular book in 1990.[1]

    We always knew we would be able to go beyond the original 12 inventions, but our adaptation’s proved so popular that we were able to produce two seasons worth of content! If you keep watching and reporting your viewership to EPB, we may be able to produce more programmes and celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of Inventions’ publication as a book as well!

    The Inventions That Changed The World Motoscope show is presented by original author Dr Hodgeson and the familiar face of Stephen Arbury (of CEPB’s Exploding Science fame)—sadly Dr Willis is no longer with us.

    These Motext pages will include recaps and supplementary information that we didn’t have time to cover in the Motoscope programmes. Just select the code option below for the programme you want!

    MS070C The Ypologist

    MS070D Asimcony

    MS070E The Standard Crate

    MS070F Photel


    MS070F Photel

    Loading...


    Some inventions are discovered by serendipity (by accident). We often hear about these because they make good stories! But sometimes a technology is discovered because someone was looking for it. This is true of Photonic Telegraphy, better known across the modern world as Photel.

    It’s easy for us to take for granted that we can now send messages all across the world through the air, with no wires needed, and have them received almost instantly. Once, people thought that such a powerful technology would remain only the province of governments and militaries sending vitally important messages. But today, we use Photel to listen to live music, to communicate with artimoons in space, to map the weather and spot storms early, and much more. Even the Motoscope you’re reading this text on is ultimately based on Photel technology!

    So where did it all began? Well, oddly enough, the story goes back a long way. It goes back to when Buysse and Luns first reported an electrochemical array in 1827, just before the outbreak of the Popular Wars, and research into electricity was ignited across Europe and the Novamund.[2] This led to the discovery of Lectel in 1849 (which has its own dedicated programme from last series!). The power of Lectel to send messages meant that there was finally a practical reason for there to be many electrical cables in use across the world, which meant that there were many more people in a position to notice unusual electrical phenomena.

    This was also the time of the Telegraph Wars, where in many countries, the established Optel companies fought hard against the attempt by upstart Lectel companies to displace them. There were some exceptions to this, though, one of them being the North Italian Optel company Semaforo Italiano. SI’s directors decided to experiment with installing these newfangled Lectel lines, using their existing lines of Optel towers with supplementary pylons to support the cables. SI had seen some of its Optel lines damaged during the Patrimonial War by Neapolitan infiltrators, and the Board did not want to spend money repairing its infrastructure if it would soon be rendered obsolete anyway.

    The experiment by SI had mixed success, as the company was probably too much of an early adopter, and the Lectel project may have been intentionally sabotaged by the powerful Optel interests in neighbouring France. However, the project created a happenstance combination of circumstances that would change the world.

    On October 5th, 1855, SI signalman Giacinto Masselino was nearing the end of his long shift and was growing quite frustrated! The new Lectel line was hooked through his Optel tower and was not only in his way, but kept failing to work due to the poor insulation methods used at the time. It wouldn’t be until 1867 that gutta-percha from the Siamese Empire and the Batavian Republic would first be used, making both countries greatly rich from trade.[3] So poor Giacinto not only had to have a big Lectel cable running past his Optel console and forcing him to move his chair, but it wasn’t even working so he still had to run the Optel! Giacinto’s job on this shift was to watch the next tower for its signals and call them out to his fellow signalman working the shutterbox on the other side of the tower, as SI did not use a Derrault code interpreter. He was concerned that being forced to move by the obstruction of the Lectel cable meant that his view of the next tower was misaligned and he would be unable to view its shutterbox adequately. In order to prove it to his superiors, he took out his compass and theodolite to note down how his viewing angle had changed.

    As he did so, however, the Lectel cable came back on line and information began travelling down it. Giacinto saw to his surprise that the needle of his compass was wandering away from true north! When he held it near the Lectel cable, it turned toward the cable whenever electricity was flowing along it. It was just as if he had held the compass’ needle magnet near another magnet. Giacinto had discovered that moving electricity created a magnetic field. Today we call this electromagnetic induction.[4]

    Of course, Giacinto was uneducated and did not know what he had found, but he could see it was important. He took his discovery to Gianluigi Argante, a scientist and engineer working for SI. Argante published his experiments based on the phenomenon in 1856, rather minimising Giacinto’s role in his paper but at least not ignoring him altogether, as some scientists of the time would have. Giacinto would not receive full recognition until his home town of Macerata erected a statue to him in 1930.

    Argante’s paper led to interest in the phenomenon across Europe and the Novamund, and likely contributed towards the success of Lectel in the Telegraph Wars due to raising public interest. This took a number of forms, from inspiring young people to go into scientific research and engineering where they would become big names, all the way down to creating a new kind of charlatanry where con men and women would claim to be capable of receiving Lectel messages from the dead. The frequent invocation of ‘invisible waves’ in serious scientific publications made it difficult for these to stand out from the superstition. This, as well as continued argument over whether light was best described as a wave or a particle, led to the compromise term pulse gaining popularity in the scientific community.

    Of course, we shouldn’t ignore that there was an element of showmanship to serious science as well. In 1862 the Meridian inventor Osvaldo Vazquez wowed crowds in Buenos Aires when he used an electric current to move a magnetised needle on the other side of a desk, a phenomenon which must have poured fuel on the flames of the charlatans. Yet at the same time, Vazquez was one of many to write serious scientific assessments of the phenomenon and attempt to puzzle out the mathematics behind it. Like the others (such as France’s Claude Roubad and America’s Jack Samways), he was unable to produce a treatment that explained all aspects of electromagnetic induction, but did manage to predict some behaviour in specific circumstances.

    The scientific community as a whole, aided by money from Lectel companies hoping for new breakthroughs, continued to work on the problem throughout the second half of the nineteenth century. Slowly, a set of seven partial differential equations known as the Fundamental Laws of Electromagnetism were collectively constructed, reaching a coherent form around 1882. These equations managed to explain almost all examples of electromagnetic induction, but came with some remarkable consequences, as first codified by the German physicist Helmut Bietmann in 1881. Bietmann pointed out that the ‘electromagnetic pulses’ proposed by the Fundamental Model would also describe light itself. Thus the scientists trying to explain a particular modern phenomenon had ended up accidentally creating a model that would take in one of the most fundamental questions of the universe (hence why the name Fundamental was retrospectively applied to the work).[5]

    Bietmann also observed that light as we know it would only take in a small percentage of the possible pulse lengths that the theory proposed. It was already known from work earlier in the century that there might be ‘invisible colours of light’. Karlsson in 1825 had performed a Newtonian prism experiment near a thermometer, wondering if the heat of the sunlight was concentrated in any particular colour of the spectrum. To his surprise, he found that the thermometer was heated best when placed slightly below the red end of the spectrum, suggesting there was an invisible colour there that carried heat. Ten years later, Tatishchev had read Karlsson’s work and wondered if there was an invisible colour above violet which carried coldness. Of course, modern physics tells us there is no such thing as coldness, only an absence of heat, but that was not yet known at the time. Tatishchev naturally failed to discover what he was looking for, but found that a Paxman Process asimconic plate was discoloured more by the invisible space above violet in the prism-split spectrum than it was by the visible colours. Karlsson and Tatishchev had therefore discovered what became known as subrubic and supracynthic light (respectively).[6] This fit Bietmann’s observations, but there were many more possible pulse frequencies beyond these. The race began to find some of them and prove the Fundamental Model right or wrong.

    Once again, many scientists across the world worked on this problem. Alternatives were also suggested, perhaps not least due to frustration with how intractable it proved. ‘Action at a distance’ was repeatedly posited, eliminating the need for pulses at all, but (besides smacking of those charlatans with their death telegraphs) it could not explain crucial observations. It had been observed as early as Rømer in 1676 that it took time for light to propagate between the planets (notably even the estimates made then of the speed of light were not that far off the true value). Although more difficult to prove over the shorter distances involved, it had also been strongly suggested that electromagnetic induction was also limited by the speed of light, which would lend support to the theory that they were all manifestations of the same basic phenomenon. Debate also raged about whether electromagnetic pulses would require a medium to propagate through or not, but the so-called ‘aether’ filling space between the Sun and Earth proved enigmatically contradictory in its required properties. An experiment by Spaniard Miguel Rodriguez in 1895, just before the Pandoric War, only deepened the mystery. Rodriguez measured the speed of light from a star when the Earth was travelling towards the star along its orbit, then measured it again six months later when the Earth was receding. Newtonian physics said light should be faster in the first instance and slower in the second, but in fact it was identical in both cases. There was no so-called aetheric drag, and the speed of light seemed definitively absolute.[7]

    In 1886, the Scandinavian physicist and inventor Christian Ilsted was working on the ‘Bietmann Problem’, like so many others, but it was a side project while he worked to pay his bills. Contrary to popular belief, Ilsted did not discover the gnistgab (‘spark gap’) phenomenon whilst trying to solve the problem; it was an accidental, unrelated discovery. Ilsted’s later money-making invention was an improved metal detector, a cruder example of which had first been patented by Englishman Arthur Clarke in 1884. The detector used a coil of wire with a current running through it that would be rapidly switched back and forth, as in modern reversible-channel [alternating current] electricity distibution. When the coil passed over a piece of buried metal, or a bullet embedded in a patient, the Seven Fundamental Equations held that it would set up an eddy current in the coil and become detectable. Ilsted’s detector did work, but a better design produced by Frenchman Claude Idrac in 1887 would become more popular, and would go on to save the lives of many soldiers wounded by bullets in the Pandoric War.

    However, in the course of working on one of the finicky detectors, Ilsted found that a malfunction caused a spark to jump a gap in a second, disassembled detector some distance away. Initially, he assumed this was just an example of electromagnetic induction, wrote a few Lectel messages to friends and ignored it.[8] It would not be until 1892 that he would come back to the phenomenon when a friend found a reference to it in old notes and queried it. Ilsted by that point was at a loose end. He had made some money off his participation in a project based on building a mobile based on Gordon Mitchell’s then-new Mitchell Engine; it had come along too soon and flopped, but Ilsted was canny enough to sell up and get out while the bubble was still growing. He had time and money for new projects, but was not popular for his actions, and chose to shut himself up in his laboratory in Copenhagen and escape the world.

    The fact that it took Ilsted two years to replicate the experiment and recognise its import should illustrate that he did not consider it particularly important among his many projects at the time. However, when he realised that the spark gap leap could be explained by the transmission of one of the Fundamental Model’s pulses, with a frequency far lower than that of visible light or even subrubric light, he became excited and abandoned all other lines of research. Ilsted knew that he would need to prove himself to a sceptical audience, and brought in trusted colleagues to help him design experiments to rigorously test the phenomenon. The Fundamental Model’s consequences, as codified by Bietmann, said that all electromagnetic pulses should refract and polarise just as light did. But, of course, an invisible pulse was far more difficult to demonstrate this with.

    One of Ilsted’s colleagues, Magnus Herslow, also worked for the Scandinavian Government as a scientific advisor. Herslow successfully intercepted and prevented another colleague, Peter Eriksen, from unscrupulously attempting to steal Ilsted’s results and publish them first. Ilsted became paranoid about the betrayal of his former friend. He readily went along with Herslow’s suggestions that the Government would fund Ilsted’s research and ensure that he was presented unambiguously as the man who had solved the Bietmann Problem. All Ilsted had to do was agree to a publication blackout for five years.

    Herslow had that rare combination of scientific knowledge and political influence. He successfully persuaded Council President Fredrik von Blücher to give the project his full backing. Whereas Ilsted had mostly seen his research as purely a means to test the Fundamental Model, Herslow had realised that being able to transmit invisible pulses from sender to receiver would have interesting consequences for the future of communications.[9] And he was a patriot, wanting small and often unfortunate Scandinavia to squeeze every advantage from this breakthrough that she could.

    For the next three years, Ilsted and Herslow worked with others on practical applications for the project. It would appear that the name Photel was the creation of Herslow, who wanted a code name that would not convey the specifics of the research. While the Fundamental Model held that ‘light’ was just the everyday word for electromagnetic pulses, and therefore Ilsted’s pulses could still be considered an invisible form of light, it was not to these low-frequency pulses that the average person’s mind would turn to. There had been some fairly derisory research aimed at producing Lectel-style automated communication purely by heliograph-like flashes of visible light, and this would be a much more obvious technology to describe as ‘Photel’.[10] This helped keep the use of novel low-frequency pulses, Far Infralight as Ilsted called them, secret. In any case, many scientists at the time mistakenly believed that Photel pulses would suffer from the same line-of-sight limitations as visible light, missing their potential for communications.

    The apparatus used at this time was experimental and bulky. Ilsted improved his gnissgab transmitter, boosting its power and range. The transmitter drew electricity from a standard array, used an exchanger [transformer] to increase it to a high electric pressure [voltage] and jump it across the spark gap. The antenna, later improved to a dedicated component based on a Leyden condensor, transmitted the electromagnetic pulses produced by accelerating the charges, according to the Fundamental Model. At the reception side, an aligner [coherer], a glass tube with two electrodes and iron filings scattered between them, would pick up the signal; the filings would align to form a circuit between the electrodes and allow electricity to be conducted. With these early, very crude devices, the aligner would have to be physically shaken after each pulse of information in order to reset it.

    Despite this cumbersome setup, even primitive Photel nonetheless represented a huge leap over the limitations of Lectel—principally, that it relied on a fixed, pre-existing network of cables. Herslow had the idea of building Ilsted’s bulky spark transmitter into a sled and sending it up to the border with Russia. Scouts on skis illegally crossed the border to spy on Russian forces encamped there, then returned to the transmitter and beamed the report back to the receiver in Nya Sollefteå.[11] At this point, only Ilsted himself could get the machine working semi-reliably, had to accompany every mission personally. A persistent but unproven rumour circulated after the war, saying that Herslow had sent a ‘bodyguard’ with Ilsted who was equipped with a grenade to blow up the machine, and a pistol to shoot Ilsted in the head with, if the Russians had ever ambushed them.

    This was only one set of several tests performed with the early Photel apparatus from 1894-97, the others mostly involving naval craft (where the size of the apparatus was less of an issue, and it did not have to compete with Lectel). It has been argued that Ilsted’s work was what led the Scandinavian Government to decide to enter the war in 1897 on the side of the Diametric Alliance. The land scouts using Ilsted’s equipment had reported that the Russians had not stripped troops from the border, suggesting they were not under pressure elsewhere, and the naval vessels had been able to report on evidence of German merchant losses to Meridian ironsharks.

    Whether this was really what led to the decision is debatable, but Photel continued to help the Scandinavians following their entry into the war. The Germans’ defence of Jutland was implicitly based on the assumption that the Scandinavians would not have the easy communication of Lectel if the Germans destroyed their infrastructure as they retreated. However, Photel filled the gap and allowed Scandinavia’s generals and admirals to coordinate their forces across the front, resulting in Jutland falling far faster than expected. Photel was still greatly unreliable, of course, but it was far better than the nothing the Germans had.

    Scandinavia exited the war in 1899 with an unambiguous victory, or so it seemed at the time. As for Ilsted, the five years were up and he impatiently wanted to know when he could finally publish his work. But Herslow and the Government now dragged their heels. They had seen how effective the technology was in war, and had managed to keep the secret longer than they had imagined possible. There were already many others working on the Bietmann Problem, of course, and in reality it is likely that someone else would have duplicated Ilsted’s work independently before too long. But Herslow and the Government allowed fantasies of an eternal Scandinavian military advantage to inform their policy. Could Scandinavia stand up to Russia herself in a few years’ time and finally reclaim Finland, if she kept the secret a little longer?

    Following a few months of wrangling, Ilsted worked out that his patrons had no intention of keeping their end of the bargain. Disgusted and disillusioned, he successfully fled the country (ironically, Photel was used in an unsuccessful attempt to coordinate the police to stop him). Ilsted found himself in Belgium at the end of 1899, a refugee, and finally published his work. It was quickly seized on by the scientific community, with sceptics rapidly made to look ridiculous by the polished demonstrations now possible with a technology that had been quietly improved for years. The general public became aware of the Photel breakthrough around February 1900, one of two new transmission technologies to change the world at that time (see a future episode for the quister!)

    Scandinavia repudiated Ilsted and called him a traitor, but implicitly had to acknowledge him as the ultimate inventor of Photel, therefore at least keeping that part of the bargain. Lacking the funding to set uip a company himself, Ilsted decided to publicly release the details of his Photel technology. It would soon be improved further by others, and within months other countries were building their own Photel transmitters and aligners (soon true receivers).

    Unfortunately, these included the country that was no longer a country. It was not Alfarus himself but Pontifej Ramirus (Archbishop Ramirez) and Markus Lupus (MaKe Lopez) who first recognised the power of Photel. The first experiments in the former UPSA took place as early as 1901, while war was still raging against the International Expeditionary Force. With parts of the Lectel network destroyed from the civil war, Photel proved vital in the short term to plug the gap and rally Alfarus’ forces.

    But it would be in the longer term that Photel would transform South America, in a way so sinister that even Ilsted once stated that he almost regretted his invention. In this as in so many other cases, the Societists demonstrated that there is no breakthrough that cannot be turned to evil.

    In 1907, the organisation known as VoxHumana was officially created; that being the Novalatina name of what in English is called The Voice of Humanity. This, the only legal Societist Photel pulse—for choice implies division—was broadcast on high-powered transmitters throughout the so-called Liberated Zones. A single high-quality receiver was placed in each village or neighbourhood, with cables running off it to speakers in each home. It did not become long before it was officially a criminal offence not to possess a means of listening to VoxHumana. The speakers could be turned down at night, but never off. There was no way to turn off VoxHumana...










    [1] Longman is a publisher founded by Thomas Longman in London in 1724, and which still exists in both OTL and TTL—although in OTL it is now owned by Pearson and mostly just used as an imprint for educational texts.

    [2] See Interlude #11 in Volume 3. ‘Array’ is the term used in TTL for ‘battery’ (or more archaically ‘[Voltaic] pile’) in OTL. This information isn’t strictly correct, because Buysse and Luns only reported a single cell in 1827, not an array of them.

    [3] This is somewhat inaccurate, as gutta-percha insulation was used specifically for underwater telegraph cables (in both OTL, where it was suggested by Faraday about 20 years earlier, and TTL).

    [4] In OTL this discovery was made by Faraday in 1831. Note the term is the same in both TTL and OTL, mainly because the alternatives sound rather awkward.

    [5] This is very different to OTL, where Faraday observed induction and created his ‘lines of flux’ theory to try to explain it—which was largely ignored by the scientific community, which looked down on the self-taught Faraday and his lack of mathematical foundation for his empirical theory. However, the Scottish genius James Clerk Maxwell took on Faraday’s work and single-handedly produced a mathematically beautiful set of four equations in the 1860s which explained the phenomenon and predicted ‘Hertzian’ (radio) waves, as well as laying the foundation for Einsteinian relativity. In this sense, it’s OTL which is the ‘unrealistic’ one and TTL which is running along the bumpy, collaborative pa th that science is ‘meant’ to take.

    [6] This is similar to OTL events involving William Herschel in 1800 (for infrared) and Johann Wilhelm Ritter in 1801 (for ultraviolet). The TTL terms are from sub- (‘below’ in Greek, as ‘infra’ means in Latin) and rubric meaning red (as in an exam rubric), and supra- ‘above’ with cynthic being an abbreviation of hyacynthic, ‘hyacinth’ (as in the flower) meaning violet in Greek.

    [7] This is similar to the experiment carried out by Michelson and Morley in 1887 in OTL.

    [8] A similar incident happened to the Anglo-American inventor David Edward Hughes in 1879 in OTL, who probably discovered radio waves before Hertz but was persuaded he had only witnessed a manifestation of electromagnetic induction.

    [9] This was true of Hertz in OTL, who famously replied ‘Nothing’ when asked what the practical applications of his discovery of radio waves were. It took people like Marconi to capitalise on the breakthrough.

    [10] In OTL, in 1880, Alexander Graham Bell and Charles Summer Tainter experimented with a ‘photophone’ for sending sound data by visible light.

    [11] OTL Örnsköldsvik.
     
    255
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #255: Grooves and Moves

    “Orpington One Two. Requesting shipment to White Gate. See Manifesto Hackney Islington One Two. Addendum. Orpington One Two assembling additional Group. Leadership, Barking Barking Six. Reports directly to Orpington One Two...Barking Barking Six Group will require additional Manifesto. Repeat, Manifesto Hackney Islington One Two...to be shipped to, Outer, Clerkenwell Abbey Mayfair Barking Southwark. Clerkenwell, Abbey, Mayfair. Location: Ealing Rainham Abbey Southwark Mayfair Vauxhall Southwark...Rainham Rainham. Repeating... ”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Pages EX124C-G [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Remarks: These pages are listed under “SAAX History Revision: Syllabus B”. We speculate that SAAX stands for ‘Scholastic Achievement Award eXam’ or possibly ‘Scholastic Advanced Award eXam’ but this is presently unconfirmed. From context it would appear this is a (probably) optional and specialist level of study taken around age 19 or 20 by students in the Kingdom of England, likely as a precursor to university study, and follows on from the Higher exams.

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    Remember—be careful of parroting ‘accepted truths’!

    The skilful historian knows that there is not one ‘true’ historical narrative, merely the way in which each person perceives the events. That’s true even for those who lived through those events, never mind people looking back on records of times they don’t have personal experience of. It’s easy for us as all as naive kids to say ‘Yes, but what REALLY happened?’ Don’t fall into that trap! Not only does it smack of unsavoury beliefs, it’s also just silly. You know from your own personal life. If a troublemaker came into your classroom halfway through a lesson, made a rude sound at the teacher and then ran away—imagine asking your colleagues just what happened. Ask them about the troublemaker’s gender, hair colour, height, build. Whether they wore their school uniform according to standards or not. You’ll get as many answers as there are pupils in your class! This isn’t just because they weren’t paying attention. Alienists have studied problems like this, and found this inconsistency again and again, which has informed how lawyers approach witnesses in a court setting.

    So we all see the world in our own way. What about history? When we write about history, we’re often not even trying to be as unbiased as we can, or to see the other person’s point of view. We’re trying to convince others that our view is the right one. We’ll never truly succeed, of course—if we did then that would miss the point—but we can find new insights into the narrative through our debate. Remember that. When you’re writing about history, you shouldn’t be trying to find the ‘right’ answer—because there isn’t one! (However, there are plenty of WRONG answers that are based on events all would agree did not happen, like saying that the German monarchy ended because the Bundeskaiser spontaneously combusted!) Your focus when writing should not be to find any particular answer, but to ADD something to the conversation about that topic.

    ===

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    ===

    Let’s take an exam question like this one for instance:

    Why were world powers so slow to see the threat of international Societism following the Pandoric Revolution?

    (In real life the question might also hint to you how many sources or case studies you are expected to consider, depending on the mark balance devoted to it, but we’ll ignore that for now)

    Now this is a very simple question on the face of it. You might think you’ve seen something similar at Higher level, or your parents might have done a similar question when they were your age, when the education system was less criterial. But don’t be fooled into seeing this as an open-and-shut case! There is an ‘obvious’ argument to base your answer on. If you formed that argument well and supported it adequately with examples, you might get a good Upper Mid Decile grade—but you’ll never reach the Top Deciles.[1] At SAAX level the examiners expect more of you than to do something predictable, even if you do it well!

    Can you guess what the predictable argument we’re talking about is? If not, have a think about it before you scroll to the next page.

    ===

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    ===

    Aydub, did you get it?

    The predictable argument would be something like ‘The Nations did not see the threat of Societism coming, because in the years leading up to the Pandoric War and Revolution, the Societists were a minor presence and seemed far less dangerous than other revolutionary groups. Also it took the losses of the war for the Societists’ message to become appealing to a war-wary populace in different countries.’

    As well as being a very old argument, this is actually easy to criticise in some ways. For example, it would imply that countries particularly damaged by the war would be more vulnerable to Societist insurgent activity. This was true in some parts of the world, but there were also countries where Societism rose to prominence despite those countries being neutral in the war. Spain is the obvious example here. In that case, we could write about how the shared Spanish language and heritage meant that events in South America would be particularly keenly observed there, as well as pointing to the domestic factors that would enable a crisis.

    But as well as critiquing an old argument, we can also come up with new ones—or at least newer ones; it will be rare for you to truly find a viewpoint that hasn’t been considered before by more experienced historians, but you will be rewarded for trying!

    Instead, for example, we could look at the period immediately AFTER the war rather than the one before it. After all, another way we could critique the old argument above would be to say that countries’ governments still underestimated the Societists even after the Revolution, and after the expulsion of French and IEF forces from South America. The ‘First Black Scare’ was so called precisely because it was usually citizens’ militias and small political groups warning of the consequences of the Societist victory and consolidation in the former UPSA. Not governments or established interests, who saw the Societists as harmlessly eccentric, particularly when trade was allowed to resume in a controlled fashion. It is no exaggeration to say that as late as 1910, the average aristocratic or bourgeois voter in European countries (and many even in the ENA) would have regarded the Combine as very much the lesser evil to govern the continent of South America. After all, if things had gone slightly differently, it might still be ruled by Monterroso’s Mentians, and that would be bad for trade!

    We often encounter a picture of the period between 1900 and the early 1920s which was summed up by the American writer Jacob Linacre as the ‘Flippant Era’. Linacre took this name from the youth subculture of this period, seen to arise simultaneously in multiple countries, an example of one of the false cultural parallels which the Societists claimed. In America (and to a lesser extent England, Scotland and Ireland) they were called Flippants, while in Germany and Danubia they were called Schnodders, and in France Les Allegres.[2] Once again, many writers will argue this jaunty subculture came about as a backlash against the bloody losses and grave seriousness of the Pandoric War period, ignoring the fact that it arose in neutral France as well as in those countries which had taken losses. In France Les Allegres were often attacked in newspaper editorials as being a symptom of wider malaise, to be blamed on whatever political move or technological innovation those editors did not care for. Of course, many of those writers were of an age to have been involved in the equally raucous Sauvage subculture that had terrorised Paris a quarter-century before, but clearly they saw that as different!

    The Flippants (in the all-encompassing sense) were a diverse crowd, no matter how they were stereotyped in the press. Perhaps they were in part a reaction to the dark period of the war, but they can also be explained in terms of being the first generation (in many countries) to grow up with certain old political battles being won and settled. Female Flippants were the first generation of girls to grow up expecting a right to vote roughly equal to that of men of a similar socioeconomic class, which applied regardless of whether the country in question had universal suffrage or not. There was also a sense that the old arguments of the Enlightenment and the Jacobin Wars had also faded into the past. European countries had settled into a ‘default’ expectation that Government would be broadly democratic (in the modern sense), a representational parliamentary constitutional monarchy (or perhaps an Adamantine republic) with stable law and order, the bourgeoisie generally in the driving seat, but with the proletariat treated fairly and the aristocracy retaining some background influence. Though it took unrest in postwar Germany and Danubia to tilt them in this direction, it seemed as though all the old battles were won. And the Flippants took this as an excuse to party!

    There were other factors behind the Flippants’, well, flippancy. Don’t refer to Photel here, incidentally—it came about in this era, but its use for straightforward voice communication and broadcasting music, as opposed to simple Bicker signals that required constant resets, didn’t become common until the second decade of the twentieth century. This was, however, when practical ways of recording music first came about, the groovedisc and the groovetape (for more on these, check out the EPB’s ‘Inventions That Changed The World’ series!) Many Flippants had also been taught in school how to play musical instruments, which were becoming cheaper through process-line production. Informal bands could be formed at school or in pubs and bars after work, playing new innovative music styles different from the traditional folk and classical music of Europe. Unrest in different countries (see later) also led to musicians fleeing as refugees to different countries and bringing their different musical cultures with them. Maroon and Trance pioneers from the West Indies and Nouvelle-Orleans (such as Jojo Fontana) came to Europe, as did Turks and other Ottoman subjects who popularised the use of new drumming styles. New genres formed, such as Rattlebang in New York City, Funk in Dresden (named after the German word for Christian Ilsted’s Photel spark-gap, Funkenstrecke) and Sillon in Paris. The latter was named after the French word for ‘furrow’, used by the French to describe the grooves on groovetapes and discs.

    ===

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    ===

    Besides being musical innovators, the Flippants also shocked their elders by critiquing social mores. Drug use (partly inspired by the Nouvelle-Orleanaise Trance music) and polygamy were frequent rumours about their wild dance parties. They were also notorious for their behaviour on celeripedes, now sometimes enhanced with small engines. Flippants who supposedly ran over old ladies or burned passers-by with their steam exhaust were dubbed ‘Scalders’ in the press. Those wealthier individuals who did the same in steam mobiles were described as Mobile-Scalders, and ‘scalds’ persists today in English as a worn-down term for dangerous drivers. Some Flippants were also radical in areas of art and poetry, though these were less mainstream within the movement (if one can call it that) than some depictions of the period suggest. It might be more accurate to say that the sort of iconoclastic movements in the arts which always stem from rebellious youth were given a bigger voice by the wider Flippant phenomenon.

    Moral guardians in newspapers (and eventually on Photel) opined about the degradation of society’s values, even as they dismissively walked past the crippled Pandoric War veteran begging for coins outside their railway station. In reality, of course, the vast majority of young people in the 1900s and 1910s were no more wild or raucous than their parents’ generation had been; it’s just that they had more opportunities to have fun in novel and colourful ways. But there were individual cases of extreme behaviour, such as pseudo-Gnativist suicide cults, idolised musicians who were found to have sexually abused young girls, and gangs of nihilist indiscriminate murderers. The state of the news media in the 1900s and 1910s was such that these stories were endlessly circulated, amplified and exaggerated until Europe (and to a lesser extent America and China) had moral panics on their hands.

    So did the Flippants just not care enough about serious matters, and Societism was allowed to grow and fester in the background? No! Again, this is a cliched view. Even if we stereotype the Flippants in this way, not everyone was a young person and not every young person was a Flippant! There had to have been other reasons why society seemed ignorant of Societist machinations behind the scenes!

    To explain this, why not turn to that old aphorism—not being able to see the wood for the trees. Or you might think of the film adaptation of Constable Jacques from a few years ago, where a murderer with a specific target in mind hides his murder in a slew of apparently random killings to avoid being connected with that one crime. The Societists’ ability to mask their activities across the world in the Flippant Era were generally less deliberate, however. Most Societist agents were sufficiently fanatical ideologues that they would not deliberately stir up unrelated unrest even as a distraction, as they did genuinely believe that any division-inspired harm was a sin unless it explicitly served their ends. However, unfortunately, there was plenty of genuine low-level conflict going on without Zon1Urb1 adding any more to the mix. While many of these occurrences took place outside Europe, America and China (the regions usually identified with the Flippant-type subculture, sometimes including Russia as well) some did happen within their borders. This rather dents the popular picture of this time as being one of dull calm before the storm in those lands, and supposedly justifying the Flippants’ dismissive attitude towards matters of politics and war. Indeed, one could just as easily argue that the Flippants’ actions were motivated by escapism towards continuing bad news at home and abroad.

    Let’s look at some of these areas of unrest which meant the Societists’ machinations often blended into the whole mess. Some were explicitly driven by the aftermath of the Pandoric War and, for example, public anger at being on the losing side, or not sharing in the winnings. Others were driven by other events that were not necessarily a direct consequence of the war, some of which would have occurred anyway.

    The Irish Question. Following the Third Glorious Revolution in Great Britain (later England and Scotland) the Kingdom of Ireland was forced to choose whether to continue to acknowledge Emperor George IV (and his son Augustus) in Fredericksburg or the upstart Frederick III in London. The Lord Deputy, James Wesley, 2nd Duke of Dublin, and Prime Minister Finucane persisted with a policy that was described by opposition MP Martin Healy as ‘active dithering’. England and Scotland were the more geographically proximate threat and were backed by France, but America was the bigger threat in the long term if betrayed. The French were also keen on the idea of America not keeping a foothold in European affairs through Ireland. It was likely only because the Emperor and King kept on relatively good terms that the crisis did not come to a head. Eventually (1918) the Irish Question was resolved by the Treaty of Wexford, which saw both Augustus and Frederick abandon their claims to the throne of Ireland. Instead it was occupied by the Duke of Dublin, elevated to King James III. Ireland was politically bound into a mutually near-contradictory web of treaties that tied it both to England-Scotland and America in diplomatic, military and economic terms. By this point, any French hope for gaining advantage had largely been quashed by the decline of the Marseilles Protocol’s reputation following the defeat of the IEF. Between 1900 and 1918 (and for some time afterwards) political gangs and militia were active in Irish politics, ostensibly fighting as loyalists to Augustus or Frederick (or even for a United Society of Equals-inspired radical Protestant republic). In practice, many of them were simply criminals using politics as a shield, and would persist long after their alleged political cause had become obsolete.

    The Trebizond Backstab Legend. The Ottoman Empire had entered the war on the Northern Powers’ side in return for the return of Servia by the Danubians. Abdullah Seyyid Pasha had seen this as the culmination of the rebirth of Ottoman power began by Abdul Hadi Pasha’s Devrim period. However, the Turks had gambled wrongly and had ultimately been defeated by Russia. The defeat was not total, and paradoxically this may have hurt the Ottoman state’s stability. As far as the average Ottoman subject was concerned, the war had been presented as going well, right up to the point where they were told that the Sultan was handing Varna and Trebizond over to the Tsar. This naturally led to anger, backlash, rioting, and accusations of a backstabbing conspiracy organised by whichever group the speaker didn’t like. Armenian and Bulgarian Christians were often targeted in particular, being blamed for supposed treachery in helping the Russians in those conquered areas. Notably the Ordusu (Ottoman Army) deliberately isolated occupied Servia to prevent those riots from spilling over and creating more lurid headlines in European papers that might encourage foreign intervention. Sultan Mehmed VIII responded to the unrest in typical Ottoman fashion, by having Abdullah Seyyid Pasha executed and appointing someone from outside Abdullah Seyyid’s inner circle as Grand Vizier in his place. This met with mixed results for a number of reasons. Abdullah Seyyid Pasha had been popular with the Empire’s Arabs for being one of their number who had risen to such an exalted position, and Mehmed VIII throwing him to the dogs started a new and different period of unrest among the Arab populace, fanned by the Persians. Mehmed VIII’s choice of replacement, Fadil Karim Pasha, was also controversial. He had served ably as Governor of the Vilayet of Suakin, the key fortified Red Sea port from which the Ottomans suspiciously watched Russian Erythrea. He had fought hard before being forced to eventually surrender the port to the Russians due to broken supply lines, and was still regarded as a hero. However, he was Sennari-born and had ambitions to repair the Ottomans’ honour by pursuing a new period of expansion into the interior of Africa, including the annexation of his homeland and Darfur. This would not perhaps lead to the sort of consequences that Mehmed VIII might have imagined.

    The Red Sash Brigades. The defeat of the Empire of Siam to Feng China resulted in the loss of Tonkin and parts of Vientiane and Luang Prabang, which were annexed as the province of Jiaozhi. This was taken as a sign of weakness by restless minorities within the Empire, including the Burmese of Pegu, the southern Muslims and the Cambodians (while the Annamese and Cochinchinese mostly remained loyal out of fear of the Chinese troops on their borders). However, because Siam exited the war almost two years before its end, Sanphet XII and his Front Palace had some time of stability on their borders in order to crush these rebels. More of a serious problem were the Red Sash Brigades. These were groups of angry young men (mostly), comprised of a core of veterans of the war who felt they had been badly treated and betrayed by decadent and vapid aristocrats at home. They largely remained loyal to Sanphet himself, but phrased their revolt as being against his ‘evil advisors’. Their titular red sashes were meant to imply bloodied bandages, showing they had bled for their country, whereas their targets had not. They are also noted for mocking those aristocrats by portraying them as white elephants, an expensive luxury that served no practical use and which Siam could not afford. The Red Sash Brigades defy easy classification, with the class warfare (and veiled contempt for traditional religion) of radical Mentians coupled to royalism and the militaristic worship of strength. Some have even considered them, imperfectly, as an Ayutthai manifestation of the Jacobin tendency, given their racial supremacism and hostility to the minorities within Siam. Sanphet’s solution was similar to that of the Ottomans’, but somewhat more successful in the short term at least. Firstly, he passed dramatic but temporary super taxes on the wealthy playboys of Ayutthaya to assuage the public’s grievances. Then, as time had passed and the military had stabilised, he sent the worst aristocratic offenders—along with the Red Sash veterans—to expand Siam’s power in the wake of the war’s end and the collapse of the Hermandad. The Siamese worked indiscriminately with Meridian loyalists, Societist revolutionaries and Mataramese or Sulu avengers alike to carve up the corpse of the Batavian Republic. They also signed a treat with the Philippine Republic, now lacking its Meridian protector, which saw the Philippines become a junior ally and partner to Siam. This was a particular diplomatic master stroke which did a lot to repair Siam’s reputation and alarm the Chinese. Of course, now the Societists had been given the opportunity to get a foothold in the Nusantara, but surely nothing could come of that?

    Corporate Loyalties. The Royal Africa Company and its vassals had been mostly unmoved by the war, aside from the loss of trade and a minor Meridian-engineered revolt against the System in the Nupe lands which was rapidly crushed.[3] However, the RAC then faced a similar decision to Ireland over which Hanoverian monarch to owe allegiance to. It was clear that retaining access to the American markets would be more important for the RAC’s future, but there were more British (Anglo-Scottish) members of the Board of Directors than Americans and there was a feeling of loyalty towards the popular Frederick from his time as Regent. Paralysis ruled for some time in which the American government would probably have intervened, had it been led by someone other than the isolationist Faulkner. However, the Board eventually took inspiration from its counterpart in Bengal. With English, Scottish and American directors alike a minority in post-Privatisation Bengal, the native Bengali directors at this point took the opportunity to vote to dissolve formal ties with the Hanoverian monarchy. Both the Confederation of Bengal and the former RAC (now ‘the Directorate of Guinea’) pursued treaties with America and England that gave them favoured nation status and would allow those nations to continue to station troops and fleets at their ports (more relevant to America). However, as far as ‘colours on the map’ were concerned, this dealt with a large portion of the old Anglo-American empire. Arguably this had been foreshadowed by the fate of ‘Senhor Oliveira’s Company’ in India, which was officially renamed the Concan Confederacy in 1911 and fell largely under the rule of native Maratha princes and wealthy business magnates of both European and Indian descent.[4] However, France retained military power there. Movements also began towards a unified, native-led authority in the International Guntoor Zone (later the Guntoor Authority after two fo those words gained negative connotations).

    Other Troubles in Africa. Really this takes in a whole host of somewhat unrelated disputes. The Cape Republic had suffered relatively minor losses to Anglo-American Natali and later Belgian forces during the war, but with the collapse of the Hermandad, multiple governments vied for control. One of these managed to seize control of Kaapstad and called in the French at the height of the Marseilles Protocol’s reputation. A complex, many-faceted insurgency dragged on, with Natali and Belgian interference, Matetwa adventurers, internal native rebels and Societist activists all drawn into the mix. Notably Natal was the only colony that explicitly declared for Frederick, in part due to its local governors rejecting Bengal’s proclamation of separation from the Crown. Natal would become England’s only overseas colony for some time to come. Meanwhile, an attempt to preserve the old Braganza dynasty in Angola following the fall of Portuguese-Brazil was scuppered when João VII scorned it for exile in France. This, together with many other factors, led to the Societists getting their first serious foothold in Africa here in 1905. The neighbouring Kongo Empire reasserted its independence from European or Novamundine patrons at this time, but would soon find itself in the Societist firing line.

    The Prague Potato Riots. Actually only one of a significant number of food shortage-driven riots and other symptoms of unrest in the winter of 1904, where crops failed more due to a series of blizzards than record cold temperatures (as is often erroneously stated). The Prague riots are better known because they forced King John II of Czechosilesia (Ivan or Jonas Romanov, younger brother of the Grand Duke of Lithuania) to flee to Vilnius to escape. This illustrated the fragility of the nascent Czechosilesian state and foreshadowed trouble for the future. The fact that Czechs and Germans had joined together in the protests, despite the Russians’ attempts to play them off against one another, was also latched on to by Vienna School Societist thinkers in Danubia at the time.

    The Cotton Question and the New Spanish Ulcer Probably the best-known of these insurgencies other than the Iberian Crisis. America was politically deadlocked over exactly what to do with the conquered Kingdom of Carolina, which had long ago been one of the five founding Confederations of the Empire. Arguments also persisted over what to do with the conquered parts of pre-war New Spain (Mexico and Guatemala) and the West Indies. While some decisions were reached, such as the independence of Nueva Irlanda (New Ireland) and the annexation of Nouvelle-Orleans and North Arizpe, a lasting settlement in Carolina, Guatemala and Mexico persisted through times of domestic political crisis as well. Meanwhile, local Kleinkriegers (guerrilleros in Spanish), angry that the fading Empire had swapped a Meridian domination for an American one, launched attacks on American occupation troops and corporate interests attempting to take advantage of these new captive markets. This is probably the area in which the best argument can be made that Societists may have aided movements which were not formally aligned with their interests, not least because there was a great deal of overlap in all the rebel groups in the Hispanophone world at this time. The same was true of Spain, which brings us to the Iberian Crisis...






    [1] If we are interpreting this correctly, the Top Deciles would equate to a mark range of 70-100% and Upper Mid Decile would be 60-70%.

    [2] There should be a grave accent, Les Allègres, but the English Motext system can’t handle special characters like that.

    [3] ‘The System’ describes the arrangement by which the British/RAC, Freedonians and Fulani agreed to mutual spheres of influence and trade agreements, which had effectively left much of the Nupe lands under Fulani domination.

    [4] Concan is a historical 18th century European term for the coastline of the area in question, its origins obscure.
     
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    256
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #256: Power from the Needle to the Pseulac

    “White Gate to all stations. Barking Barking Six requesting Manifesto, authorisation, Orpington One Two...Repeat, this comes straight from Rose Eddie Rose, no arguments! ...Manifesto as follows. Greenwich Six, Jamaica Four, Queensbury Two One. ... No, the black and red one on page 14. ...Well Lewisham, Orpington, Orpington, Kensington it up in the Barking, Orpington, Orpington, Kensington, then! (inaudible grumbling)

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Pages MS070A;J [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    INVENTIONS THAT CHANGED THE WORLD INDEX PAGE!

    ...

    These Motext pages will include recaps and supplementary information that we didn’t have time to cover in the Motoscope programmes. Just select the code option below for the programme you want!

    MS070C The Ypologist

    MS070D Asimcony

    MS070E The Standard Crate

    MS070F Photel

    MS070G Gunpowder

    MS070H The Aerodrome

    MS070J The Grooveplayer


    MS070J The Grooveplayer

    Loading...


    Since the dawn of civilisation, it had been considered an unspoken law of the universe that one couldn’t preserve a sound and listen to it again at a later time. This was more profound even than the case for visual images. Long before the invention of asimcony, artists could at least attempt to record a memory of an image, even if their record was subject to their own skill, idiosyncrasies of style and limitations of memory. But there was no analogous way to record sounds. One could write down a speech, or the musical notes of a song. But the next person to read out that speech, the next musician to play that song, could never do it in quite the same way as the original.

    The closest that technology came to this dream of preservation was the invention of the music box (or “carillon a musique” in French) towards the end of the eighteenth century. The music box was then perfected in post-Jacobin Wars Swabia, with its inherited Old Swiss tradition of skilled watchmaking, needed for the small and delicate parts. A music box encoded a tune by means of specially-placed pins or holes on a rotating metal disc or cylinder; the pins or holes would pluck the tines of a carefully tuned metal comb, producing a twinkly sound of the correct note at the correct time as the medium rotated. The boxes became more advanced and sophisticated as the nineteenth century wore on, and in particular benefited from the “Automaton Craze” of fiction that began in the Watchful Peace era. Whereas before the makers of automata had mostly made sophisticated but hideously expensive clockwork animals or humans for the very rich aristocracy, the phenomenon started by Cuthbert Lucas’ “The New Eden” led to a mass market of middle-class people keen to buy cheaper clockwork amusements. These were frequently combined with music boxes, which grew smaller and more hard-wearing. Wealthier parents of the Democratic Experiment era frequently bought their young daughters ‘Singing Dolls’, consisting of a clockwork automaton baby which moved its limbs, mouth and eyes, but also included a music box which played suitable lullabies or nursery-rhyme tunes. By this point some boxes included the ability to swap out the disc or cylinder for different ones; the English wit Philip Bulkeley infamously experimented on a Singing Doll with an engineer friend, and managed to produce a ‘Crying Doll’ where the box instead ‘more realistically’ made a game attempt at imitating a cacophonous bout of crying. Ironically, what had begun as a society joke eventually became an actual product sold by the toy manufacturers, as the little girls loved it.

    More sophisticated attempts at the same basic technology came later on, such as automata playing simple instruments, boxes with bird automata that ‘sang’ through manipulation of a steam-powered whistle, or auto-pianos which played themselves.[1] In an important distinction, however, none of these machines represented a means of RECORDING. No matter how sophisticated their instruments grew from the original simple twinkly metallic combs, they were not recording music that a human had played; they were producing music programmed into them from scratch. Because of this, even at its most sophisticated, automaton music lacked a certain sense of ‘spirit’ that real human music would. The Persian writer Zahed Taleghani considered this to be a manifestation of the same reason why his country’s famous rugs were traditionally woven with a deliberate mistake, so as not to attempt to usurp the perfection of God. Without the ‘mistakes’ that any human musician would introduce into a piece, different ones every time, an automaton would never sound truly authentic.

    Taleghani’s monogramme was read in translation by the New Spanish engineer Arturo Galindo, who set out to try to find a way to introduce random ‘error’ variations in automaton music to improve the listening experience. Galindo’s work did not see commercial success, but is hugely important for the history of mathematics and science. He explored many ways to try to generate a truly random factor without human intervention—though at the start of his work he assumed this was impossible, and only tried combinations of many cogwheels whose pattern would repeat after ten or twenty plays of the music media. However, in the process of this he came across the fact that a double pendulum—a pendulum where a second weight is joined to the first by another pivot point—has behaviour which is thoroughly unpredictable, despite the apparent simplicity of the system. This was seemingly contrary to the assumed determinism of Newtonian mechanics, and came at a time when mathematicians were continuing to struggle with the three-body problem in predicting orbital mechanics. Galindo’s patents (1887) used the word ‘crisantemo’ (Spanish for ‘chrysanthemum) to describe an explosion of possibilities stemming from a single initial state of the pendulum, like a chrysanthemum’s blossoms spreading out from the centre. His wife, a Yapontsi who had escaped from the tyrannical possession of a Russian in California, likely came up with the idea. Cristantemo Theory remains a huge area of mathematical interest to this day and has resulted in practical applications.[2] There will be an episode of our sister series, “Theories That Changed the World”, devoted to it when that premieres in December!

    In the end, the technology of the music boxes and the auto-pianos would be a dead end for the problem of sound recording, but would have great implications for the programming of solution engines and modern ypologists. Sound recording instead stems ultimately from the unrelated work of two Russians, Sergei Kabanov and Mikhail Deryabkin. Kabanov was a lawyer, while his friend Deryabkin was a doctor who had published work on diseases of the ear. Deryabkin explained to an interested Kabanov that the ear detected sound as vibrations in the air, which made the tympanum (or eardrum) vibrate, and these were then transmitted to the inner ear by the three small bones known as the ossicles. Deryabkin had been able to partially restore the hearing of some of his patients, veterans who had suffered damaged eardrums from explosions during the Euxine War, by facilitating the healing of the membrane—though he could see that there was much more to how hearing worked than this. He even managed to patch a patient’s eardrum, albeit with more limited success than the story usually implies, using flexible silk as a diaphragm.


    Kabanov wondered if it would be possible to make a machine that would emulate the behaviour of the outer ear. With the help of the mechanic brother of a colleague, he and Deryabkin designed an artificial diaphragm connected to a needle by mechanical equivalents of the delicate ossicle bones. Vibrations from sound would be picked up by the diaphragm membrane and tranmitted to the needle, which would jerk up and down and scribe an ANALOGUE of the sound into a suitable material. The basic principle of the later grooveplayer was realised from the start, but the invention suffered from the problem of finding the right materials for both the diaphragm and the recording medium. Early experiments by the Russian pair used parchment for the latter and a piece of waxed paper for the latter. Initially, the waxed paper was simply dragged along beneath the needle by the operator so the different vibrations of a continuing sound would be recorded on a different part of the paper as a groove as time passed. This, of course, was not very precise, and it was later replaced with a rotating plaster cylinder with a wax coating, which could be hooked up to a motor for a regular speed.

    Notably, Kabanov and Deryabkin did not plan to be able to play the sounds they recorded back. Deryabkin wanted to study these physical analogues of sound for what they said about the nature of sound and hearing, while Kabanov had a different idea about commercialisation. He envisaged the device as being an unimpeachable physical record of someone’s voice—if the sound of each person’s voice was different, so too would be the resulting groove. To a lawyer, the use of this as a means of witnessing legal documents would be of great value.[3] Signatures could be forged, wills could be contested on the basis of mistaken identity. We must remember that this was an era before widespread asimcony, when it was possible for a fraudster steal another person’s identity if he took his calling card and acted with bold confidence. An ‘audio signature’ might be possible to fake based on a voice impression, but it would be another level of security. It could also be combined with a personalised wax seal, the relevant part of the wax cylinder removed and implanted within one. Kabanov mayalso have been influenced by the use of seals (or ‘chops’) in lieu of signatures in Beiqing China, although those were ink stamps rather than wax based. Because of this, the device was patented in 1871 under the name PHONOSPHRAGE, from the Greek words for ‘sound’ and ‘seal’ or ‘stamp’.

    Kabanov and Deryabkin’s Phonosphrage was officially sold as a product from 1875, but did not see commercial success. This was sometimes blamed on the product name, which was considered peculiar and hard-to-spell even by the standards of the late 19th century. The machine was mocked in both “The Ringleader” and the suppressed Russian equivalent, “Yashcheritsa” (“The Lizard”) with a joke based on this. A cartoon showed Kabanov and Deryabkin as snake-oil salesmen saying the machine could record any sound, and inviting a sceptical public to try it out by saying the name of the machine itself—only for no-one to be capable of pronouncing it, but buying the (implied to be nonfunctional) Phonosphrage anyway out of sheer embarrassment!

    Despite this damp squib, some inventors did continue to experiment with the concept for the next two decades. The problem was, again, always with the materials, particularly that for the recording medium. There needed to be a balance between a substance soft enough for a stylus needle to inscribe its analogue groove upon it, but not so soft that the needle would not destroy the groove on attempting to play the sound back. For, unlike Kabanov and Deryabkin themselves, the later inventors did foresee that the technology would eventually lead to that path.[4] Illustrative of the fact that science and technology is the product of many minds working at once, the problem would eventually be solved by two people, in two different ways, almost simultaneously.

    Preliminary breakthroughs included that of American Jabez Wilson, who invented the idea of creating a master recording on a tough material, which could then be copied onto an everyday recording on a softer material read by a gentler stylus needle. Variations on this theme also included the idea of making a recording on a soft material and then fixing it, analogous to the process in asimcony. The use of discs rather than cylinders as a recording medium (the basic principle of both had been used in music boxes) was partly driven by the fact that it was easier to ‘press’ a copy of a flat disc from a master copy than with a cylinder.[5] It would not be until 1892 that the Meridian inventor Alejandro Flores was able to perfect a workable recording mechanism for what he called the “Plato de Sonido” (Sound Platter) but which history knows as the Groovedisc player. Flores’ big breakthrough was the use of gum-lacquer[6] as a recording medium. Gum-lac was already a valuable product, used as a varnish, to produce small moulded goods, and as an early electrical insulator. However, its virtue as a recording medium would result in prices rising sharply, and would make the fortunes of many investors in the plantations of Siam and India from which the product originated. Gum-lac is extracted from the bark of trees in which the lac bug has dug tunnels, sealing them with the substance. Gum-lac was sold in the form of solid flakes, which could then be dissolved in alcohol to make the liquid lacquer with its miracle properties.

    Despite inventing the gum-lac groovedisc player four years before the outbreak of the Pandoric War, Flores continued to work on it in secret, worried about the rapacious pseudopuissant corporations of the day potentially stealing his work, as was not uncommon. He supported Monterroso’s presidential bid and was at first an enthusiastic supporter, but fled the country during the Pandoric War and escaped the Societist revolution. Flores went into exile in Russia, where his machine was finally produced commercially in 1903 by the Flores-Fyodorov Company (modern FFC/SeongCorp). The marketing campaign explicitly called back to the pioneers of Kabanov and Deryabkin, emphasising a Russian pedigree for the technology, and early recordings had a heavy emphasis on patriotic songs recorded by orchestras and famous opera singers of the day. With Russia one of the few countries in the world whose people felt it had had an unambiguously victorious outcome to the war, this was a good marketing move and discs sold like hot cakes to the wealthy middle classes.

    Meanwhile, a rival device was taking shape in France. Rene Bonnaire was a brilliant but eccentric and idiosyncratic engineer, who would never use an off-the-shelf method of doing anything if he could invent his own variation. It might have been clear for a few years that the disc would be the default sound recording medium, but that wasn’t good enough for Bonnaire. Bonnaire built upon the 1875 invention of Qeraxyl by Belgian Thomas Schollaert. This product, sometimes called God’s gift to Wordo players (since the rules were changed to allow trade names), consisted of combining the existing Belgian invention of Xylofortex with camphor to produce a manmade material similar to horn or ivory.[7] Qeraxyl had many useful properties that outweighed its high cost and flammability, and was produced in vast quantities in the chemical plants of the UPSA and elsewhere in the final quarter of the nineteenth century. At the time, there was no overarching term for such materials.

    Bonnaire had seen a demonstration (in 1891) of how Qeraxyl could be used to make thin films (which would lead to the Film Revolution a few years later). He realised that if a stylus could carve a groove on a flexible substance, it would be possible to make a long loop of that substance, which could potentially result in a longer recording time than a disc. The Qeraxyl alone did not prove a suitable recording medium, but Bonnaire coated it with other substances, starting with gelatin. The result, tested in 1894, was not entirely satisfactory, but as a proof of principle was promising. Bonnaire saw the primary use of his machine as a means of recording dictated speech, which could then be sent through the post to a secretary to be soloprinted up.[8] At this point, the Pandoric War intervened. Neutral France continued to trade with both sides, but inevitably the activity of ironsharks, and countries keeping valuable resources for their own war efforts, resulted in shortages in France. Bonnaire was called on by the French Government, along with many other scientists and engineers, to help develop domestic production replacing these. He continued working on his machine in his spare time. The Leclerc Government was particularly keen to offset its dependence on the chemical industries of the UPSA and Germany, and many loss-leading chemical plants were set up in France at this time, particularly the north. As well as simply replacing the existing imports, chemists at these plants worked on fully synthetic alternatives for biological substances imported from far, war-torn countries such as Siam and China.

    Etienne Roussel was one such chemist, who was one of the few friends of the abrasive Bonnaire. While experimenting with substitutes for some of the imported substances, he found references in an old Meridian paper to oinyl muriatide[9] changing to a white solid when exposed to sunlight for long periods. Able to replicate the process under more controlled conditions, he found the result was too brittle to be of much practical use, but he persisted, trying different additives. His first successful attempt used a derivative of phthalic acid, producing a form of the product which was far more flexible. He had discovered the first flexor, and the first practical form of polyoinyl muriatide (POM).[10]

    POM would go on to revolutionise the world in countless industries, but Bonnaire was able to secure it as an alternative coating for his Qeraxyl ribbons (and, later, was able to make ribbons entirely out of POM). He designed a machine whose stylus needle would read a groove cut into a length of Qeraxyl-POM tape, coiled around itself in an elaborate manner and moved on via a motor. There would be many variations on this theme in the future, but in 1903—remarkably, at almost the same time as Flores in Russia—he launched his product commercially.

    The Rubanphone, as Bonnaire’s machine was marketed as, was the first groovetape player.[11] From the very start, a format war raged between groovetapes and groovediscs. In the early years, neither technology was very mature, manufacturers who licensed the patent differed in quality, and it was easy for arguing camps to claim one device was superior to the other. With discs and tape cartridges both very expensive, and machines usually only capable of playing one or the other, consumers picked a loyalty and stuck to it. This is, of course, ignoring those applications to which the different technologies were specifically suited for. In a groovedisc it was easy to find a particular point in the recording and move the stylus to it by hand. This was not the case with a groovetape, which could not be moved backwards without unravelling the tape, but a tape could carry far more music (early ones carried 20 minutes, in comparison to the 4 minutes of an early gum-lac disc, and this was later extended to 3 hours). Discs would eventually become made of (a different form of) POM as well. By this point, companies were searching for a generic term for new wonder materials that replaced lacquers (and horn and wax). No-one is quite sure who first contracted the term ‘pseudo-lacquer’, perhaps originally a negative one, to produce the word PSEULAC. Even today, when we hear of the downsides of pseulac pollution affecting our natural world, it is hard to ignore how much it has changed our lives.[12]

    Groovetapes were also, as Bonnaire had correctly predicted, particularly useful for dictation, although the recording version was forced to rely on inferior softer materials so a home stylus could cut into them. However, a dictation recording only had to be played back once, so longterm replayability was not a major issue. Groovetapes were also useful for those wishing music to play continuously, as their tape was an endless loop that would loop back to the beginning at the end. Eventually they would therefore become the default for background music systems.

    Despite these important applications, popular culture renditions of the Disc vs. Tape format war tend to focus on the individual consumer looking for popular music. Some musicians at this time regarded any form of recording as a threat, either to their livelihoods or as an attack on their principles. Paralleling the earlier observations of Zahed Taleghani, the Maroon and Trance musicians of the West Indies, whose genres emphasised improvisation, saw a recording (which would always be the same) as having ‘killed music and nailed its skin to the wall’. The Nouvelle-Orleans Riots of 1908 are considered by some to have started with a protest by Trance musicians smashing up groovedisc shops, although there were likely other causes.

    Others, however, saw sound recording as an opportunity. It was certainly true that the limitations of live music had not prevented singers and musicians from becoming international sensations in the past, when the only way to enjoy their music at home was to purchase sheet music and play it oneself.[13] The Flippant subculture of the postwar period included many amateur musicians who sought to bring new ideas to the sometimes stuffy musical culture of Europe, North America and China. Old strictures on what denoted a ‘band’ were cast aside, with Turkish drums and Spanish guitars married to Italian pianos and American singing styles. Genres multiplied with bewildering speed. Experiments that in other eras would have vanished overnight were now preserved forever. And the role of musician’s agent became transformed. Rather than simply finding venues for a singer or group, the agent was now tasked with working with the grooveplayer companies to sell recordings. In those early, unscrupulous days, much of the profits often stayed with the agent and company rather than going to the young and inexperienced musicians—which we still hear about occasionally today. But it did mean that musicians developed fanatics around the world who had never heard them play in person, but had nonetheless heard them play live. The old contradiction had vanished, and music would never be the same.

    The final ingredient for a practical music player, one which could be played in a noisy grooveclub [discotheque], would have more sinister origins. Just as they had with the contemporaneous invention of Photel, the rulers of the early Combine were swift to realise the potential significance of groove media. Despite Flores having been a Meridian (or perhaps because of that) it was unauthorised variations on Bonnaire’s groovetape which would become more popular for use by the Combine. A longer recording time, and endless repetition, were very useful for propaganda purposes—though the Combine was also one of the pioneers of background music in the workplace. Societist ideological theorists constructed the idea of ‘Human Music’. By analogy to the idea that all languages could be traced back to a common ancestor, it was thought that by examining parallels in music traditions across the world, a core commonality could be extracted. Early experiments along these lines, many of them rather baffling (or so surviving records from refugees say) were tried at this time.

    Regardless, whether it be a propaganda tower overlooking a town square or a background music system in a noisy factory, the Combine’s engineers realised that their grooveplayers needed to produce a much amplified sound over what the weak early diaphragms could produce alone. The players sold by Bonnaire’s and Flores’ companies relied only on a physical horn, extending above the player or concealed in a cabinet below, to amplify the sound. None can ever accuse the Societists of not thinking big. Unsatisfied with this, an engineer (possibly former Chilean Karlus Karrerus) hit upon the idea of going back to the old Meridian brilliance with the manipulation of lufts. He devised a means to amplify a grooveplayer using compressed air, producing a sound loud enough to be heard even in those environments the Combine leadership desired. The technology was so useful that it was soon copied by the nations. England’s Coventry Augmentophone Company, one of the earliest to reverse-engineer the compressed-air player, was successful enough that the name Augmentophone remains the best-known one in many languages.[14]

    Even more so than asimcony, the invention of practical sound recording divided the world of history in two. The time before the end of the Pandoric War belongs to an era in which we can only guess how people sounded. The time after, for the first time, is truly RECORDED history!


    *

    “I thought this section was meant to be about minor political parties in Autiaraux?”

    “Be quiet, Sergeant Mumby.”


    *


    [1] All of these also existed in OTL, but they saw a wider market and cheaper mass-produced forms in TTL due to the interest in automata sparked by the Automaton Craze in fiction.

    [2] Cristantemo theory is known as chaos theory in OTL.

    [3] This work is similar to that of the French printer Édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville in OTL.

    [4] An example of inventions from the equivalent era in OTL is Charles Cros’ ‘paleophone’, so called because he thought its primary use would be in preserving the voices of people long after their deaths, so that future descendants could hear the voices of their ancestors.

    [5] In OTL, Edison’s first phonograph experiments used a disc, before he switched to wax cylinders as a recording medium, apparently because he considered the continuous rotation speed of a cylinder to be more ‘scientifically correct’. This proved to be a dead end due to the far more limited recording time on a cylinder, and discs became the norm. In TTL discs are selected more to facilitate a pressing method.

    [6] Or gum-lac for short, from the French gomme-lac. The OTL term used in English is shellac, an anglicisation of the German Schellack. Note that in OTL shellac records were introduced by Emile Berliner in 1895 following disappointing experiments with hard rubber.

    [7] Recall that Xylofortex is nitrocellulose or guncotton in OTL terminology; Qeraxyl (from Kerato, ‘horn’ in Greek, plus –xyl for Xylofortex, with a probably patent-driven spelling) is what we would call celulloid. The description here makes its composition and production sound rather simpler than it is!

    [8] Soloprinter is the TTL term for typewriter.

    [9] Oinyl muriatide is the TTL term for vinyl chloride—muriatine (from muriatic acid) being the TTL term for chlorine, and ‘oinyl’ being a variation of ‘vinyl’ from Greek rather than Latin. (In both cases it means ‘wine’, as the family of chemicals was originally derived from alcohol).

    [10] ‘Flexors’ in OTL are called ‘plasticisers’. MOM is, of course, PVC.

    [11] The Rubanphone is similar to OTL’s Tefifon (or rather its 1930s precursor, the Tephiphon—note different spelling). Being invented earlier than OTL, it has more of a chance to get established rather than having to compete with longer-established records and the rise of magnetic tape.

    [12] Pseulac is the TTL term for ‘plastic’.

    [13] This was true of the nineteenth century in OTL, with Jenny Lind being a prime example of the sort of international stardom that one might imagine would be impossible until the advent of recorded music.

    [14] Compressed-air gramophones existed in OTL, such as Britain’s Auxetophone and France’s Chronomégaphone. The former was said to be loud enough to broadcast from the top of the Blackpool Tower, and led to the front row in concert halls being abandoned by stunned audiences. The latter, meanwhile, was used to provide sound in early Gaumont cinemas. In OTL the technology soon died off due to the growth of amplification by electrical means, but the slower pace of electrical research in TTL means that this will not be happening for a while.
     
    257
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #257: Visions in Shadows

    “White Gate to all stations. Update and confirm. Barking Barking Six station, Ealing Rainham Abbey Southwark One, now established as Gold Dolphin. Repeat, record as Gold Dolphin. Established as Level Two station. Update records to reflect. Manifesto requests should go via Gold Dolphin. Authorisation from Orpington One Two and corollaries. Priority one.”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​


    *

    From: Motext Pages CU107C-E [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    The Lives of Artists, Series 3, Episode 1. These pages supplement the IMB moto series with further information – see page CU107A for index and time and date for the next episode to be broadcast.

    Albrecht Forcade is known today as one of Germany’s most famous artists of the twentieth century. He is noteworthy partly because he wasn’t part of the typical antebellum Old Brandenburg artistic wave, known as the Dorotheenstadt School as they operated out of that neighbourhood, forming the artists’ quarter in Berlin. Albrecht did not, apparently, express much interest in art before his experiences in the International Expeditionary Force.

    Albrecht was too young to be called up during the Pandoric War, even when Germany was at her most desperate. His father, Hubert, was also a moderately important businessman who helped manage the lignite coal mines of the Lausitz region, and suffered from a game leg. The family were safe from conscription. Nonetheless, controversy plagued their business throughout the war. Demands to increase coal production were relentless, as German steam protguns battled their Russian counterparts in a losing retreat through Poland, and German supply ships faced Scandinavian ironsharks in the Baltic.[1] The workers, understandably, complained about longer hours on poor rations, and a number of strikes were organised by the more extreme Mentian groups like the Volksfront (banned 1898 following the fall of the Dorflinger Cabinet and the ascension of the Treuliga doradist alliance in Dresden).[2] Later in the war, the Russians began rousing the Slavic peoples under German rule to their side with Panslavicist rhetoric. Lausitz was a large part of the homeland of the Lusatian Slavs, and Hubert Forcade was put under pressure by officialdom suspicious of his mixed workforce. Naturally, an official bootheel on the Lusatians’ necks became a self-fulfilling prophecy, and race riots in support of the Czech revolt in Bohemia eventually materialised at the end of the war—only to be bloodily crushed.

    The Forcades lost a great deal of their wealth in the war and its aftermath, as the demand for lignite declined with the demobilisation of the armed forces. This was something they were familiar with. Though the family had lived in Brandenburg since the seventeenth century, the fact that they had a French name made them objects of suspicion by some bitter of the activities of the ‘French Vulture’. (They were descendants of Jean de Forcade de Blaix, a Huguenot exile who had taken service with Frederick I, King in Prussia). They had built up an exalted position in the old royal Berlin through their close connections with the House of Hohenzollern, only to find they backed the wrong horse when Prussia lost its wars with Austria and High Saxony. The Prussian noble title they had obtained was worthless, and they were forced to start again. In some ways it is surprising that the Forcades did not follow King Henry Frederick into his American exile, but by this point it appears the Forcade of the day had already turned his coat to align with the new rulers of Berlin; first the Mecklenburgers, then the High Saxons.[3] They had rebuilt something of their wealth and social position, only to lose it again.

    In the end, Hubert sold up and moved to Grand Hesse to start again. Biographers disagree on whether Albrecht acquired his pro-proletarian views at this point, given Grand Hesse’s notoriously democratic government, or whether it was a consequence of the struggles with the government and the Volksfront unions over the Lusatian miners in Lausitz. Perhaps it was a combination of the two. Regardless, Albrecht looked for work, but at this time Germany was suffering from severe unemployment with the demobilisation of the armed forces and an inflating currency as the government paid Russian reparations.[4] When work did become available, bosses tended to favour the native Grand Hessians whom they knew well, rather than an unknown with a rumoured complicated past out east.

    In the end, the work Albrecht obtained was a supreme irony; after successfully avoiding conscription throughout the war, he volunteered for Germany’s contribution to the International Expeditionary Force. He was accepted, despite the presence of many more experienced veteran soldiers; the doradist government of Moritz von Bruhl had a desire to safely remove as many potentially awkward voters from the country as they could before calling an election. Though he was no Volksfront agitator, Albrecht’s surname evidently came up on a list of past troubles in the books of Erich von Trotha, the sinister head of the Feldgendarmerie, the German secret police.[5] Evidently the von Bruhl Cabinet’s inventive voter suppression tactics worked. A general election was called for November 1900, and—despite some gaffes from the Bundeskaiser about the Jews—the Treuliga alliance of doradist parties managed to scrape their way to a relatively strong minority government.[6]

    Albrecht was still not painting at this point, but he kept a journal (now a very valuable primary source) and eventually turned to sketching. Later in life, he attributed his eventual success to the fact that he had never had formal training in an art school (or been influenced by the Dorotheenstadt School in Berlin) so ‘no-one had told me I couldn’t do this or that’. His first subjects consisted of his comrades, the landscapes they saw when their convoy arrived in Recife, and (inevitably) the lovers he met while he was there. Albrecht records he was frequently mistaken for a Frenchman, not because of his name, but because he and his family had been eating relatively well for the past four years, as had the French troops in the IEF. He stood out from the scrawny, almost stunted veterans comprising much of the German force. The local girls of Recife tended to prefer the French (and Albrecht) over the malnourished Germans, and it was unsurprising that resentment was immediately sparked. This was recorded by Albrecht in his journal.

    Infamously, of course, it turned out that there were already Societist spies and agents in the Pernambucano Republic and Portuguese-Brazil. Even as the IEF pushed towards what was then Sao Paulo, the Societist propaganda mills were teaching the world of their mastery towards manipulating reality. Rambling quotes from Pablo Sanchez, and uncouth ones from Raul Caraibas, were cut down and paraphrased into cutting attacks by Amigo Alfarus’ lieutenant Molinarius, a man of German descent himself. Molinarius, putting words into the mouths of his enemies, portrayed Leclerc and von Bruhl (or King Louis and Bundeskaiser Johann Georg) as gloating over disposing over their annoying proletarian soldiers in a pointless conflict. He noted the clashes between the German and French troops, driven by German bitterness over French neutrality in the war, the French putting the Germans in the front line, and incidents like the one Albrecht recorded concerning the women of Recife. Molinarius’ propaganda called upon the French and Germans to lay down their arms and join the Societists as brothers, and to replace their hostile and inadequate rulers with a new, meritocratically-chosen class of aristocrats. Molinarius’ rhetoric was clearly influenced by his own Mentian past, before he had grown discontented with the Monterroso presidency, and was all the more effective because of this thorough grounding in what proletarian French and German soldiers were like. Unlike some Societists (and indeed Mentians), Molinarius was not an aristocrat issuing patronising and ill-informed statements to a sceptical peasantry.[7]

    ===

    DARE YOU FACE DR RIDDLE’S CHALLENGE?
    Answer 10 general knowledge questions correctly
    and you may have the chance to win
    a Jacquard Playcade or Xiandai Vidatelle!
    Page AD723V


    ===

    Albrecht first began painting during the miserable days of the IEF forces being besieged and surrounded in Sao Paulo the city. Societist Kleinkriegers and agents were active in the hinterland of Sao Paulo the province, as well as Minas Gerais to the north and east. Happily envisaged “guerre de tonnere” supply lines, dreamed up by some armchair general back in Paris, disintegrated as the Portuguese-Brazilian countryside proved unable to support the IEF forces. Food and supplies continued to come in through the bottleneck of overseas trade. The Combine acted against these in a subtler fashion. Only a part of the old Meridian Armada was under Combine control, and ‘officially’ the black-flagged ships of the ‘Peace-loving Liberated Humans’ would never fire on anyone unless provoked. It was the ironsharks that did the dirty work under a veil of plausible deniability, laying torpedo mines in harbours and attacking IEF convoys with steelteeth. Though parts of the Combine-controlled lands were short of food and supplies themselves at this point, Alfarus had a policy of never attempting to capture the IEF ships rather than sink them. There was too much risk of a hastily-repainted ship being traced. A popular rumour, though never substantiated, was that one of the most successful Combine commerce-raiding ironsharks was the former “General Ayala”, which had fired some of the opening shots of the war when she had sunk HMS “Conqueror” in 1896. According to this rumour, the “General Ayala” was renamed the “Inevitable Unity” by the Societists and still commanded by her old captain, Ernesto Corsini (now Gravus Korsinus).

    Another likely-mythical rumour says that Albrecht was first inspired to paint when he found a fellow soldier, starving in an isolated city that had once been the port to export a large portion of the world’s beef, about to bite into a ‘tube of meat paste’ that was actually pink-red paint. Supposedly Albrecht saved the illiterate man from poisoning himself, and felt the need to use up the paint to prevent the tragedy from recurring. Though it makes a nice story, there is no mention of this in Albrecht’s journal.

    Albrecht’s early pieces from this time, some of which have survived and were preserved (ironically, by the Societists, not usually known for their PRESERVATION of art!) typically resembled his earlier sketches, but accented by colour in a way that evokes Corean art.[8] This is likely a coincidence, as it does not appear Albrecht was exposed to such art before this time. it appears he found himself with little else to do for months, other than hide from periodic artillery bombardments (attributed to ‘dangerous nationalistic rebel militants’ by the Combine’s propaganda mills, and actually fired by Pedrus Dominikus’ Celatores). During this time, he developed his technique. He is thought to have traded portraits of wealthy French officers (and their paulista girlfriends) in return for better rations. A controversial suggestion by some biographers is that he also traded for guarantees that he would not be placed on one of the futile IEF raiding parties that periodically sortied from Sao Paulo, always to limp back with holes in their ranks and hollow morale.

    Albrecht began his masterpiece in September 1902, one month before the Duke de Berry finally decided to withdraw from the city. The hinterland of not only Sao Paulo province, but Portuguese-Brazil itself, had fallen under Societist control. The IEF forces in Rio de Janeiro, less reinforced than the ‘frontline’ (in practice isolated pocket) city of Sao Paulo, had already been pulled out. An attempted seaborne attack on the shipyards of Santa Catarina, in the former Riograndense Republic, had been bloodily repulsed by the Combine, who complained on the world stage of ‘unprovoked aggression by the nationalistically blinded regimes and their enslaved murderers’. (This was, of course, a different stance to that taken in Molinarius’ propaganda aimed at said ‘murderers’). At this point, some people and nations around the world were actually willing to take the Combine’s claim seriously, or at least regard the Combine as having the moral high ground over the interfering ‘French Vulture’. In a stance that seems starkly ironic in hindsight, the Tsar and the Imperial Soviet even made noises criticising the IEF intervention, and began shipping supplies to the former Lima and Valparaiso. This appears to reflect a secret, and highly unofficial, agreement negotiated in California between Russian and Societist representatives, by which Russian subjects in the Combine would be permitted to leave with compensation for their property. Ironically, this was exactly the sort of guarantee the French had launched the intervention over desiring in the first place; contrary to many modern narratives, the IEF was never intended to strangle the Societist Revolution in its cradle.

    De Berry made some ruthless decisions in ordering the retreat. By this point, the only way to evacuate was by sea (by the port of Sao Vicente), and the sea was a hostile place full of Societist torpedo mines and ironsharks. Meanwhile, the city was surrounded on land by Celatores playing the role of the fictitious ‘bloodthirsty rebels’. By this point, the Celatores had sufficient heavy equipment, having secured most of the resources of the old Fuerzas Armadas, to seriously threaten the retreating IEF. De Berry decided the only way to save the majority of his forces was to sacrifice a rearguard. Such might be regarded as callous by an inexperienced civilian, but was the sort of hard decision generals had to make all the time. Where de Berry came under more criticism is in how he chose that rearguard. Perhaps nearer the start of his mission, he would have approached the question in a more nuanced manner, but by 1902 things had changed. Leclerc’s dreams of the Marseilles Protocol as a world-dominating alliance were proving to be a damp squib. Morale was at rock bottom, and Italy was making noises about withdrawing her troop contingents; the only reason Portugal had not joined her was that her contributions had always been cursory in the first place. Spain and Germany remained on side, the former because her government was in Paris’ pocket, the latter because it still served the interests of von Bruhl to keep potential troublemakers out of the country. But it was clear that the old dream of a true alliance was dead. Meanwhile, Leclerc’s government was under fire and being accused by the opposition of wasting French boys’ blood for a futile struggle against an enemy no-one understood.

    ===

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    ===


    Albrecht put the finishing touches upon “Diese Leute” (“Those People”, sometimes rendered into English simply as “Them”) only a few days before de Berry began his evacuation. The oil painting was completed, in part, from Albrecht’s station on the interior-facing defensive fortifications of Sao Paulo that the French military engineers, ‘les petits Vaubans’, had built. Contemporary quotes suggest Albrecht was know for his cool calmness, or perhaps obsessive focus, in painting whilst enemy mortar fire whizzed overhead and led his comrades to cower in their trenches.

    “Diese Leute” combines elements of the ultrarealist and Sensualist schools of the late nineteenth century—or so analysts have claimed, but the untutored Albrecht may not have consciously known the styles he was using. The landscape of the Sao Paulo hinterland was captured, looking more washed-out than it ever did in reality (even in a Southern Hemisphere winter), with hard ultrarealist lines like that of a contemporary asimcon. Dominating the picture is the mountain of Pico do Jaraga, with the ‘rebel’ Celatores camped in defensive positions in its foothills. Whereas the landscape is ultrarealist, the human figures of the Celatores are decidedly Sensualist, blurred and potent with emotion, oversized and unfitting of the scale, to the point that some art critics have even described them as proto-Allomedia.[9] The painting captures Albrecht’s feelings about the bathetic paradox of the conflict between the IEF and the Societists. The landscape is hard, deterministic, knowable. But who are the opponents? And who, indeed, were his comrades? A dark patch covers part of the canvas, at first suggesting a campfire lying near to the ‘asimcon lens’ of the painter; but it can also be interpreted as the blurry, dark edge of another of the inhuman figures, this one standing near the ‘lens’ and facing the enemy on the mountain.

    Though Albrecht completed many later works of great import (see page CU107F for continuation of this biography) it was “Diese Leute” which remains synonymous with him. It did not become well known until after his return to Europe in 1905, but after that set European critical opinion alike. Because of the circumstances of his return, some accused the painting of having a pro-Societist message, dismissive of the identities of people and critical of them being on opposing sides. Others, conversely, saw it as a critique of the Societists as much as anyone else, dreaming they could impose a new reality on the hard, solid world when they were just wisps of dark candle flames themselves, evanescent and soon forgotten.

    To return to those circumstances: de Berry ordered the retreat on October 14th 1902. The rearguard forces left in Sao Paulo proper included a disproportionate number of Germans, while the French were prioritised to flee to Sao Vicente for the evacuation. In fact the Societist ironsharks had a field day, and the French who drowned in the waters of the South Atlantic would likely not have seen their position as one to envy by the Germans left behind. Indeed, many Germans were captured alive, including Albrecht, and treated relatively well (though Societist domestic propaganda implied they had been imprisoned in brutal penal colonies for their ‘crimes of murder’).

    Nonetheless, this is not how it was viewed in Europe when the full details of the story gradually leaked out. There was outrage in Germany at de Berry’s actions. By this point (February 1903) the country was already gripped in the Abdication Crisis. A bitter veteran had hurled a bomb at Bundeskaiser Johann Georg as the latter went in his open-topped steam mobile to the Christmas service at Dresden Cathedral. Ironically, if the assassin had succeeded, Germany might well still have a federal monarchy to this day! The bomb killed three bystanders but the Bundeskaiser survived with only minor injuries—to his body. To his mind, the attack had inflicted a terrible wound. Johann Georg had never been the most mentally stable of monarchs, but now his paranoia went into overdrive and he began making pronouncements that his government could not follow (such as randomly deciding to declare war on Siam after taking a dislike to their celadon pottery). With royal doctors hinting at insanity, the Treuliga government—which had always defined itself by its loyalty to the crown in the face of radical opposition—was faced with the awkwardness of trying to remove their Federal Emperor. Things would have been easier if the heir, King Anton of High Saxony, had not refused to accept his father was unwell, and instead backed him to the hilt.


    ===

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    ===


    De Berry’s ‘betrayal’ fed into this chaos, and in the end the Bundeskaiser vindictively dissolved the Bundestag in April 1903 to get rid of the ‘traitor’ von Bruhl. He succeeded in that respect, with the German people voting in a High Radical-led government under Fritz Ziege. The new Ziege Cabinet passed emergency legislation to temporarily frustrate the Bundeskaiser’s madness, then withdrew German forces from the IEF and immediately sought negotiations with the Combine for the return of their troops. This was eventually successful, with Albrecht and the others returning in 1905. They had spent some time in the alleged ‘prison camps’, actually rather pleasant small villages, with Molinarius making a personal effort to try to convert them to be Societist thinkers. He succeeded with some, who usually ended up being exiled from Germany to Danubia after their return home, when the High Radicals banned the German Societist Party, the Gesellschaftischpartei, in 1911. Albrecht, who spend those two years known as ‘Alberdus Forkadus’, was unmoved by Sanchezism, must as his enemies tried to claim otherwise afterwards. He did, however, fall in love with a local lady who accompanied him back to Germany; a rare concession from Molinarius, who probably hoped that Juana a.k.a. Joanna would convert him to the True Way. She did not, but also remained an object of suspicion on the part of the Feldgendarmerie, even under Ziege’s Hochrad government. The latter remained more embroiled in trying to resolve the Abdication Crisis, which was eventually achieved in 1908 when Johann George ‘agreed’ to step down with his son’s reluctant assent.

    Albrecht’s journals provide much of a valuable primary source about the early years of the Combine, although he never got to see that much of it, of course. Remarkably, he did meet Amigo Alfarus himself once, when Alfarus came to consult with Molinarius and the latter was in one of the German prison villages. Albrecht’s description of Alfarus has been pored over relentlessly by historians, who disagree on essentially everything about it. A common interpretation of the artist’s rather vague words is that Alfarus was not truly as senior at this point in the Revolution as the Biblioteka Mundial would have had us believe. But Albrecht is frustratingly unclear about whom the other early leaders might have been, presumably purged and deleted from the records by Alfarus later on.

    A point more seized upon by those desiring a more trivialistic version of history concerns Alfarus’ height. Like dictators throughout history, Alfarus is associated with the overly heroic proportions of the statues and busts erected in his honour throughout the later Combine. It is small surprise that the real man’s stature was probably less impressive, but Albrecht seems to imply he was even shorter than an average former Meridian of the day. It is not clear, however, whether Albrecht had already seen some early examples of those heroic images and meant that Alfarus was shorter than those. A project by the University of Paris wishes to disinter Alfarus’ remains to provide more evidence for one argument or the other; at present, the ASN estimates that del-para levels[10] will have dropped to a sufficient level by 2054 for the Osiris-4 concrete plug to be safely drilled into to locate what became of the tomb...









    [1] The Germans called tanks Panzerkanone and the Russians called them armarts, but this source is just using the English term protgun generically.

    [2] This is passing over a great deal of events as unnecessary to this individual’s story, of course. The pre-war German government was a mixed, broad-church Populist Alliance under the leadership of moderate cobrist Alois Dörflinger (the English Motext interface cannot manage the umlaut!). It included aristocratic cobrists (commonly called High Radicals, Hochradikalen or Hochrads for short, in Germany) as well as more extreme proletarian groups like the Volksfront. When war was declared, an all-party (almost) cabinet was formed behind Dörflinger, and conservative doradists gradually secured more power for themselves, banning groups like the Volksfront and toppling Dörflinger. The High Radicals became the primary opposition force, and are commonly referred to as though they represent the whole opposition.

    [3] By contrast, in OTL with its ascendant Prussia, the Forcade family were still producing important nobles in military and other fields up until 1840, by which point the paternal line died out.

    [4] Although a reader from OTL may naturally think of Weimar hyperinflation, this is very much not on the same level. The financial reparations demanded by the Russians are relatively minor due to the blood price obtained in land and souls, and the fact that the French mediated the Treaty of Marseilles (not to be confused with the Marseilles Protocol) to deliberately not weaken Germany too much.

    [5] This is a hindsight-laden description. The Feldgendarmerie at this time, though certainly overstepping their intended bounds, were not regarded as secret police, and von Trotha was just beginning in his role following his predecessor’s resignation.

    [6] In other words, the Treuliga (Loyal League, i.e., loyal to the Bundeskaiser) had a majority before the election and took losses, but just about managed to hold on. The description in the Motext, naturally rather briefer as it’s only background material, is slightly unclear on this point.

    [7] Indeed, such problems likely hurt the aforementioned High Radical-led opposition election campaign in Germany in 1900, indicative of how the Populist Alliance had failed to compete so well with the lack of the (banned) Volksfront to give a common touch. This led to reorganisation under new High Radical leader Friedrich ‘Fritz’ Ziege, who had won plaudits as a High Saxon Landtag deputy for his campaign against abuse of police powers, but was now a deputy on the Imperial Federal level in Dresden. Ziege sought to recreate genuine proletarian representation within the Alliance to circumvent the ban; however, his success meant that the later Alliance as a whole ended up being (confusingly) referred to as ‘the High Radicals’ by some more casual historians.

    [8] This is actually referring to the minimalist colour of (some varieties of) Japanese ukiyo-e art, but in TTL a lot of Japanese cultural achievements tend to be misattributed to the Coreans, Aynyu, Nivkhs, etc.

    [9] Allomedia is a TTL term loosely cognate to OTL’s surrealism and dada, but perhaps more expansive in its definition, describing anything that goes against ‘convention’ in art.

    [10] Del-para is an abbreviation for ‘deleterious paralight’, the term in TTL for ionising radiation.
     
    Last edited:
    258
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #258: A Land Fit for Heroes

    “...Nin Nin Four. New transmission. Barking Barking Six, at Gold Dolphin, requests Pimlico Abbey Rainham One. Repeat, Pimlico Abbey Rainham One. To be delivered to Gold Dolphin. Orpington One Two confirms...yes, of course it’s authorised! ”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Pages EX124L-P [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Remarks: These pages are listed under “SAAX History Revision: Syllabus B”.

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    History isn’t like subjects like Maths, where usually an equation has only one solution. Maths deals with an idealised, human-created, simplified version of reality, not reality itself. It’s a useful tool, but anything that only yields one possible answer can never reflect the complexity of the world we live in. If you study Science subjects, you’ll know that there isn’t one ‘correct’ way of looking at a problem, but multiple different models that were constructed using maths tools. None of them give unambiguously the ‘right’ answer, but some will be a more appropriate way of looking at the situation than others, depending on what the problem is.

    You’ll find that history questions are often structured in a deceptively brief and simple way, to test whether you understand this principle. If you see a 45-minute essay question that looks like it can be answered in one line, then beware—you’ve not understood it!

    For example, let’s take a look at the example question below, from North American Political History:

    “Was the Faulker Presidency a success?”

    What a devilishly vague question! A success according to whom? By what metrics?

    You may have already realised that this question has deliberately chosen a subject where a ‘simple, unambiguous’ answer circulates through the public consciousness, especially in the ENA itself but also elsewhere. The Faulkner Presidency is widely regarded as a disaster. Indeed, even those who will defend President Faulkner today often seem to be doing so more out of a sense of obligation, to promote a healthy diversity of opinions, than because they truly believe Faulkner met with success. But just what is ‘success’?

    The widespread view is formed on the basis that priority number one of any government in the 1900s, especially that of the ENA, should have been to oppose Societism and the Combine. But we must be careful not to be anachronistic. Very few people in the 1900s predicted that the Combine would become the level of threat to the civilised world that it eventually became. The American voters who elected the government certainly did not regard it as a priority; nor did they five years later when called upon to vote again. We might as well criticise George II for exiling Frederick the First when he should have been planning how to respond if France suffered a revolution decades later. The only reason this does not seem as absurd as that example is because the Combine already existed during Faulkner’s time in office; but the Combine of the 1900s was not the Combine of the 1920s.

    Another reason to regard Faulkner’s presidency as a failure (highlighted by American nationalists) is the retreat from overseas empire at that time. But, again, was Faulkner a man to regard the amount of land coloured in on a map as the top priority for a leader? For that matter, did American voters think so?

    Instead, let’s look at the priorities that Faulkner himself espoused, and judge his presidency by how successful he was in accomplishing those. To do this, we need to consider his own biography.

    ===

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    ===

    Lewis Faulkner was born in St Lewis, then in western Virginia, in 1854, months after the Armistice which ended the Great American War.[1] His father Robert, a successful carpenter and joiner, was a staunch Supremacist. He had been a strong opponent of Henry Frederick Owens-Allen’s rule as Governor. He was also outraged by the election of the Patriot ‘Peace Government’, which he (like other opponents) referred to as the Capitulation Government. He named his son after Lewis Studebaker, impressed by the fiery speech which the then-obscure Pennsylvanian businessman had given at the Supremacist Convention. Ironically, Lewis Faulkner’s future political opponent, Lewis Burwell, would also be named for Studebaker, illustrating how much impact the speech had had.

    Robert Faulkner and his wife Mildred decided to move on to pastures new in 1856. As part of Francis Bassett’s desperate, futile push for ‘normalcy’ in the dying days of the Peace Government, economic incentives were provided to encourage northerners to move to the ‘redeemed’ portions of pre-war Carolina under American rule. The eastern provinces remained unstable and seething with hostility (exemplified by the Infernal Device Rage of 1857, in which bombs were mailed to numerous MCPs by a terror group based in Martinople[2]). However, the western provinces, largely inhabited by Carolinians without much connection to the institution of slavery (some of whom had even been Imperial loyalists) looked more attractive.

    Robert was very receptive to the ‘self-evident birthright’ pro-western settlement rhetoric of the Supremacists (and some Liberal) and saw the former Carolinian western provinces as a land of opportunity. He and his family moved to Coppertown, Gualpa,[3] and he was able to set up his own business. Robert had wisely seized the moment; a year later, the Supremacists would be elected, and soon afterwards (with Liberal help) would redraw the map of North America. Gualpa would no longer be part of a rump loyal Carolina, but a province of the new Confederation of Westernesse. It was this which Lewis identified with as he grew up.

    The young Lewis grew up in this land of opportunity, and saw both its promise and its flaws. It was a land where a man like his father could rise from humble beginnings to achieve wealth and security; but it was also a land where the less fortunate immigrants, gambling desperately on a second chance, could find themselves stuck down a mine, working for a pittance on a job that was slowly poisoning them.

    Lewis initially worked for his father’s business and then, after some part-time education at one of the new Provincial Colleges set up under Michael Chamberlain, made his name as a country accountant and lawyer. Biographers generally consider this to be the reason why Lewis chose to enter politics as a Liberal rather than a Supremacist like his father. He remained a lifelong admirer of Chamberlain and, in interviews, would always cite him as the greatest President of the ENA, over legendary figures like George Washington and Alexander Hamilton. “Our children can learn of the exploits of those great men on the pages of their schoolbooks,” Faulkner explained in 1891, “but the reason why they can read them—why they have schoolbooks—why they have a schoolroom to read them in—is Mr Chamberlain!”

    ===

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    ===


    Lewis was forming his own political ideology as he worked throughout the 1870s and early 1880s. He felt that the Supremacists had moved too far away from their original ‘American Supremacy’ views, and that they had been infiltrated by many aristocratic former Patriots due to the decline and reinvention of the old Patriot Party. Indeed, his future opponent Lewis Burwell definitely fell into this category. Lewis regarded the Supremacists of the 1880s, men like Henry Foxbury, as being purely generic doradists, and too close to the east coast Arc of Power establishment.

    By contrast, he felt there was room inside the Liberal Party to speak up for the interests of western Americans, a constituency that dated back to the tradition of the old Neutral and Democratic Parties. Unlike some of his ideological predecessors, who had practised anti-Godwinist,[4] devil-take-the-hindmost attitudes, Lewis considered it his duty to speak for the poor and less fortunate as well as the stereotypical hardy frontiersmen. As a lawyer, he was known for taking cases “pro bono” when the plaintiff was poor and disadvantaged, as in the case of miners mistreated by the powerful Gualpa mining corporations. His political enemies accused of him doing so purely as a publicity stunt, but this won him great popularity with the people of Gualpa. The corporations often appointed expensive (and more capable) Harvard lawyers from the East, and Lewis became notorious for his habit of emotively appealing to the (local) juries and attacking his opposite numbers as stuffy outsiders. In this he formed part of a longstanding American tradition, which may be described as anti-elitism or anti-intellectualism depending on where one stands.

    Lewis moved to the capital of Pinckney[5] in 1881 and continued to rise in prominence. Active in his local chapter of the Liberal Party, he put his name forward for the Westernesse confederal elections of 1883 and, to his own surprise, was elected. He found himself in St Lewis, the city in which he had been born, now the capital of Westernesse. The confederal Liberals had won the election, and despite his freshman status, Lewis found himself appointed to the Confederal Cabinet as Councillor for the Treasury.[6] He won the notice of Arc of Power newspapers when his investigations exposed a bipartisan case of embezzling and corruption which had taken place under the former confederal government. This did not win him many friends among the confederal Liberals, who hastily suggested he run for Imperial office in the 1885 general election to carefully remove him from the scene.

    Lewis indeed ran and won election as one of Gualpa’s provincial MCPs. Ironically, he entered Parliament just as his hero Chamberlain retired from it, and the Liberals lost power to Foxbury’s Supremacists on the Imperial level. Lewis was not considered senior enough to appoint as an opposition Critic by new Liberal leader Dennis Cooper, but he nonetheless made a splash on the Fredericksburg scene. With charisma and rhetoric, he spoke on many topics in the Continental Parliament, critical of the Supremacist Government on most issues, but defending them on the seizure of the “Lionheart” from Great Britain in 1886. A year later, the shaky Supremacist minority would collapse, and Lewis found himself speaking for President Cooper’s Government instead.

    It was during these debates where Lewis codified his views and principles to the public. These are the same views and principles you’ll need to know to answer the question we started with. What would Lewis Faulkner “himself” consider to be a success or failure for an American Imperial Government?

    In 1888, during a (brief) period of mutual sabre-rattling with the Orantes government in the UPSA, Lewis called for peace and a continuation of prosperity, rather than spending money on doubling the number of lionhearts ordered from the shipyards over what might just be a rumour of a Meridian buildup. (Indeed, it turned out to be one, strengthening his case). His stance was criticised by Thomas Gedney, Supremacist Critic for War, who accused Lewis of espousing Bassettite Patriot-like ‘peace at any cost’ views.

    Lewis angrily retorted that Bassett had stood for ‘peace born of weakness and insecurity; but war born of weakness and insecurity is little better. Let this country, the greatest country in the world, speak from a position of strength and security, a security born of the prosperity of the American people. ... If we must induce one of the Seven Deadly Sins among the lesser nations of the terraqueous globe, let it not be wrath, but envy! Why should we fear the Meridian people, or any people, calling on their government to build engines of war to attack us—when they should be demanding their government spend that money on raising their own standard of living to that which is the birthright of all Americans? Their pensions, their schools, their colleges, their free hospitals.[7] So long as America remains the envy of the world, why should she fear attack?’

    Lewis’ speech was criticised as naïve even at the time, but struck a chord with many ordinary Americans. Prior to that time, the issue had often been characterised as a simple binary choice—raise taxes to build lineships, or view taxes as an outrageous imposition that should always be kept low. The idea that taxes should be raised to fund more Chamberlain-style social programmes had not been codified in the context of the present debate. In the short term, this probably hurt the Liberals, as Cooper did not strictly endorse Lewis’ position, and the Mentian Party capitalised on the public feeling raised instead. The Liberals would go on to lose the 1892 general election to Stuart Jamison’s Supremacists.

    At no point before the Pandoric War was Lewis Faulkner appointed as either a Minister or Critic, in government or in opposition. At first seen as too junior, he was now regarded as a dangerous loose cannon, but one too popular to quash. There was a powerful ‘Faulknerite’ faction growing within the Liberal Party that must be appeased if Cooper (and then his successor Michael Briars) wanted to form the next government. Lewis won back some more support from the stuffy mainstream of his party in 1894, when he was serving on the Parliamentary Fisheries Committee. Amid a dispute between New England fishermen based out of the Kingdom of Iceland and their Scandinavian counterparts, Lewis found a legal loophole that allowed a settlement that both sides could agree to. What might have been a minor war scare was smoothed over. President Jamison also felt that Lewis was a man he could work with, as a result of this. When the Pandoric War broke out in 1896, Lewis played a role in the formation of the War Coalition government between the Supremacists and Liberals.

    ===

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    ===

    Scarcely had the war began when Lewis put a foot wrong. His rhetoric at this time led observers, those previously unfamiliar with his career, to see him as a Patriot-like irredentist who wanted to reclaim Carolina for the Empire at any cost. They noted that he was from a formerly Carolinian province (Gualpa) and sometimes regarded him as a crypto-Carolinian viper in the bosom of the Empire. He was also often regarded as arrogant and egotistical, not least by establishment Arc of Power politicians who looked down on his humble background. Satirical magazine “The Wiener”[8] once captioned a caricature of him as “MR FAULKNER, who, on days when he is feeling especially well-disposed towards the World, may occasionally concede that he is only the “SECOND” Greatest Man whose Mother was Married to a Carpenter.”

    However, in the words of Lewis’ acquaintance (and professional diamondball player) Joseph ‘Joe’ Holliday, he ‘did not care two figs for the fate of everyone in Carolina, be they black, white or green. He only cared about America, protecting America so Americans could prosper’. Lewis was privately against the war, seeing it as at best a distraction, but if it must take place, he saw it as an opportunity to eliminate threats to his idealised America. This meant ejecting other powers from the continent of North America, or subduing them as vassals. Beyond that, and perhaps protecting the Confederation of Cygnia, he cared not for the outcome of the war. Lewis was always fairly open that he felt no sense of loyalty to the mother country of Great Britain; he wrote that the seizure of the “Lionheart” had been ‘no different from seizing a valuable coal seam from Natives too Foolish and Weak to defend and exploit it’. Equally, he saw the overseas empire as a drain and a distraction. ‘Its alleged wealth has never trickled down to ordinary Americans, who instead are called upon to pay taxes to defend it’. He regarded trade with Bengal, Guinea and Natal as being a rich Arc of Power man’s game, and Venezuela as being nothing more than a card to be dealt or discarded as part of a geopolitical power play.

    Lewis therefore saw the first priority of the war as being to finally reconquer Carolina and deny it to the Meridians as a forward base that could threaten America via a land border. He felt that any strategy that would accelerate this process was worth trying, especially as he thought (optimistically) that the war might peter out and be stopped only a few months in. If that did take place, he wanted to ensure that the tentacles of the Meridian octopus wrapped around the rattlesnake’s throat (in his words) had at least been hacked off.[9] Knowing that white Carolinians had been unhappy with the Meridian yoke for decades, he pushed a propaganda offensive (together with John Wyatt and Albert Babington of the ‘One Carolina Movement’) suggesting that the ENA would ‘restore the historic privileges’ of those whites. Which in practice would be interpreted as allowing slavery to return.

    Lewis had no intention of actually following through on this promise, of course, fully intending to ruthlessly go back on his word when Carolina was surrendered by its eager white populace. He did, at this point, hope that Carolina would be readmitted as a Confederation, but only comprised of its current land area. The OCM, on the other hand, were Patriots who wanted to restore Carolina to its traditional borders (including Gualpa) and perhaps even reverse the 1850s Reforms altogether, returning to the ENA to its ‘Original Five Perfect Confederations’.

    The propaganda offensive badly backfired, with white Carolinians thoroughly untrusting of any pronouncement by those they had been raised to regard as demons in human flesh, and black Carolinians thoroughly alienated by this. It is thought that some early ENA offensives may even have been sabotaged by black American groups from Africa Nova[10] out of fear sparked by the propaganda. Jamison, who had reluctantly signed off on the proposals, turned on Faulkner and exiled him to the poisoned chalice job of ‘Minister for Carolina’. John Wyatt was appointed to head up the ‘Wyatt Plan’ for how to administer the ‘liberated’ parts of Carolina, which was seen as taking him away from his role in the OCM.

    However, both Lewis and Wyatt proved to be too good at their jobs, helped by the fact that Carolina was conquered faster than expected, and that Cyrus Wragg was captured in November 1897 and appointed as a plausible puppet Governor. A band of rebels in Tallahassee claimed to be protecting the son of King William V Daniel (who had been assassinated in Ultima earlier that year), Prince John William. Whether the boy in question was really the Prince of Jamaica[11] or not remains a matter for debate, as chaos had reigned in the immediate aftermath of his father’s assassination. The rebels were defeated by forces sent by Wyatt and the boy captured, thereafter to become a pawn in other people’s games.

    Following the disaster of the Scientific Attack and the Third Glorious Revolution, Americans went to the polls and punished the Supremacists who had led the war government. The Liberals’ position was more complex, making small net gains at the expense of the Supremacists, but also losing seats to a rising Mentian Party, independents, and even a resurgent Patriot party. Though Michael Briars had been the party’s de jure leader, Lewis had impressed his party’s caucus, and it was he who gained the chance to form a Government from the depressed, soon-to-abdicate Emperor George IV.

    The Liberals had too few seats to realistically form a minority government, and both Lewis and the Supremacists had no desire to resume the wartime coalition. Instead, Lewis approached both the Patriots and Mentians, two parties whose aims might seem contradictory, and managed to create a shaky but workable government based on support from both simultaneously. This was possible for two, very personal, reasons. Firstly, the Mentian leader Ernest Newman—newly appointed, as they had only just gained major party status—was an admirer of Lewis’ fighting for pensions and workers’ rights within the Liberals. Secondly, the Patriots had appointed John Wyatt as leader due to him gaining popularity for his work in Carolina. With good personal relationships on both sides, Lewis managed to govern.

    The Supremacists, after the resignation of Lewis Burwell VII and the election of Thomas Gedney in his place, criticised the ramshackle and ideologically incoherent nature of Lewis’ government. Lewis, however, had an answer for them. In his maiden speech as President, he described his government as a ‘Social American Coalition’, and outlined an ideology which history has called Social Americanism. This largely consisted of simply codifying his own existing views: that the purpose of government was to ensure its people enjoyed both economic opportunity and protection, and that foreign policy was relevant only in that foreign powers might pose an external threat to those things. ‘If we shall name ourselves patriots’, Lewis gestured to Wyatt on his right, ‘then let it not simply be because we happen to be born on the soil of a nation, but because we can point to the evidence that that nation is truly the greatest in the world, that its people,’ he gestured to Newman on his left, ‘are the happiest and most secure’.

    Social Americanism has been a controversial ideology within the American political landscape for the past fifty years and more. There are many who would not disagree with most of its tenets, who nonetheless feel the need to say they reject it. Partly this is because Lewis’ appeal to objective evidence of greatness (such as well-funded pensions and schools) feels outdated in the modern world of knowingly subjective supremacy in nationalism; partly it is simply because ‘Social’ looks similar to ‘Societist’. Mostly, however, it is because of its very association with Lewis himself and his presidency.

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    The new Government had a number of conflicting priorities, and it is a measure of Lewis’ political skill that he was able to keep it together, like a juggler keeping several plates in the air at once. Lewis initially benefited from lack of opposition outside his party, with the Supremacists still reeling and the new Emperor Augustus finding his feet. Many decisions that would set the stage for the twentieth century, and have repercussions even into this one, were taken by Lewis almost by default at this point. Trying to get his complex coalition to do anything was difficult and required political capital, meaning that Lewis had a tendency to default to doing nothing when it was on an issue he cared little about.

    Hence Venezuela was abandoned (with the Societists’ blood money accepted almost in passing—Lewis would likely have abandoned it even without this) and Lewis always referred to Princess Daniela, a popular society figure in exile in Fredericksburg, only as ‘Danielle Stonor’. Hence Bengal fell into native Bengali hands by means of a stock transaction, with only military ties retained, and much the same (albeit with more of a continuing role for white directors) occurred in Guinea. Hence Natal, which had even been nationalised by the American Imperial Government in the 1880s (a move criticised by the young Lewis at the time) was now allowed to fall into exclusive British, later English, hands. And, for that matter, hence how the ties between Great Britain and America, long under strain, were now allowed to break not with a shout but with a sigh. America also made little moves at holding a position in Ireland, whose monarchy eventually separated in 1918. If anything, Lewis may have seen this as an advantage. ‘Europe is the past—we now have no vestigial appendix left there, no excuse to waste the time and attention of America, which is the future, on that realm,’ he once commented, unguardedly, at a dinner party. He was accused of “ferdinandismo” as a result.[12] It is telling that there was relatively little backlash, however, with even the rump Patriots having largely abandoned more than lip service to the old ties.

    This is not to say that Lewis’ government was a lazy or ineffective one. He simply prioritised what he saw as the more important matters. Lewis’ big concern coming out of the war was that America had retreated from the Northwest, losing strategically important parts of her West Coast to Russia/the RLPC and being attacked through the Superior Republic. Russian forces had even operated east of Lake Winipick at their height, and come relatively close to the bounds of the Confederation of Ohio. Though the Russians had been pushed back and the Republic effectively partitioned, Lewis saw all his as a major threat for the future. ‘We have removed the knife to America’s throat that was Meridian-controlled Carolina,’ he explained in a speech, ‘but now we must remove the knife to America’s back that is the Russians’. He regarded America’s top priority in any future war to be the ejection from the continent of all Russian settlements and the vassalisation of California, currently leaning towards the Russian orbit. Notably, some of Lewis’ few defenders nowadays point to the fact that he ordered the Imperial Navy’s ironsharks to sink clandestine Russian convoys sending help to the Societists in Lima and Valparaiso. The reason for this was, of course, purely to frustrate Russian policy (the Russians were helping the Societists to hurt and embarrass the French-led International Expeditionary Force fighting them). Yet, in a manner which is tellingly indicative of how the debate is usually framed today, those defenders draw attention to this incident as though Lewis’ goal was to hurt the Societists.

    In collaboration with the Mentians, probably the grandest project of Lewis’ time in office was to commission an expanded Imperial Census in 1904. There had been censuses taken in the ENA before, of course, but this one saw considerable additional funding, data gathering and analysis facilities designed by the talented statisticians of the Cooke Institute in Stratford, New England.[13] It came with the aim not merely to create a more detailed and accurate description of the ENA and its people, but to highlight those areas which required improvement. This met with considerable opposition by those who felt the Imperial government was exceeding its remit, but Lewis benefited from the fact that Imperial supremacy (like some of his other views) was more of a traditional Supremacist position. The opposition under Gedney therefore found it difficult to criticise, although some Liberals and Patriots in the government grew jittery.

    Of course, it didn’t escape the notice of wags that someone commissioning a census under Emperor Augustus had a certain historical resonance. The Supremacist-supporting paper the “Pittsburgh Advertiser” promptly dubbed Lewis ‘Cyrenius’, a name which caught on in some of the other newspapers.[14] There appears to have been one or two millenarian cults who genuinely saw it all as an imminent sign of the Second Coming, helped by the fact that it was a new century. Of course, it seems very strange to us now that anyone could miss the genuine apocalyptic threat growing at that time, but is important to recognise that this was far from obvious to people there and then.

    The census was a triumph of contemporary organisation and technology, with solution engines used to speed data processing and new data visualisation techniques used to track poverty, disease and deprivation across the ENA. The government passed a number of new social measures to respond to these, though many of these did not have noticeable impact until long after Lewis ceased to be President (hence why he rarely gets credit for them). Modern analysts consider that the actions of Lewis and his government probably increased the average American lifespan by at least two years. However, there is also controversy in how those reforms were designed and implemented, with some contemporary views on what constituted ‘progress’ which now smack of Superhumanism [eugenics]. The prohibition of alcohol was also generally seen as a desirable goal in and of itself at this point.

    If you’ve done exam questions on earlier parts of American history, you might be thinking that it sounds strange that the Patriots would go along with all this—aren’t they supposed to be the stick-in-the-mud old-fashioned ones? Well, you’d be right that there was muttering among the Patriots, but they remained loyal, not just because of Wyatt, but another factor. Cythereanism in the ENA had been a stop-start process, with decisions over women’s suffrage largely in the hands of Confederal governments. When the Social American Government was elected in 1900, only Westernesse allowed women to vote in all elections and stand for their corresponding offices. New England and Drakesland allowed women voters and candidates in Confederal but not Imperial elections. Ohio and Cygnia allowed women voters in both Confederal and Imperial elections, but only to stand as candidates in Confederal elections. Michigan (strangely) allowed women to stand as candidates in Confederal elections, but only to vote in Imperial elections. Pennsylvania allowed women to vote in Confederal elections but not to stand as candidates in any office, and New York and Old Virginia did not allow women to vote on any level of government.

    As a political movement, Cythereanism had mostly manifested itself as a force within the Liberals, but with a significant minority of more upper-class Cythereans (‘Blue-Gold’ to use English terminology) within the Patriots. The Supremacists and Mentians were, broadly speaking, both considered too macho and roughhouse in their organisational style, tending to repel women from participation within their structures (with, of course, some exceptions). After John Wyatt, undoubtedly the most powerful and influential person within the Patriot caucus was Liberty Grey Manders, prophetically named by her parents after the influential early American Cytherean and Patriot, Libby ‘Liberty’ Grey. Commonly known as LG Manders after her deliberately ambiguous “nom de plume”, she was instrumental in pushing for women’s suffrage to become an Imperial, constitutional mandate. At the same time, Newman pushed for the enforcement of universal male suffrage, which in several Confederations had proved vulnerable to legal tricks such as excluding convicted felons from voting, and then inventing trivial crimes to indict poor workingmen and other ‘undesirables’ of.

    Women’s suffrage remained a contentious issue in some quarters, but a somewhat watered-down version of LG Manders’ desires was pushed through Parliament and Imperial Assent granted by Emperor Augustus. The 1905 general election would be fought on a larger electorate than ever before, including all married women and all women above the age of 30 regardless of their marital status. The stricture was supposedly implemented out of fear that otherwise the male electorate, depleted by the military losses of the Pandoric War, would be outnumbered!

    Though some grumpy Supremacists claimed this was tantamount to rigging the election, it is likely that the Social American Coalition would have been re-elected regardless. The Supremacists did make gains, somewhat at the expense of the three coalition parties but also through sweeping up the seats won by the short-lived independents elected in 1900. Gedney stayed on as leader.

    If you read about Lewis’ second term in your average school history book, especially in America itself, you’d be forgiven for thinking it was dominated by the question of what to do now the Combine had ejected the IEF and dominated South America. Of course, again, this isn’t how it was seen at the time. Lewis’ government had unquestionably improved the lives of millions of Americans, as well as gaining the country crucial new ports by annexing North Arizpe and Nouvelle-Orleans. In 1906 the fate of Nueva Irlanda was belatedly settled by plebiscite, and the country became an independent kingdom in personal union with the ENA. (In 1927, another plebiscite would change this to personal union with old Ireland’s now separate monarchy). America dominated Mexico, Guatemala, Cuba and the rest of the West Indies. In Lewis’ own estimation, surely things were going more or less exactly as he wanted, Russia in the north-west aside.

    But if Carolina was no longer a knife to America’s neck, it became a sword of Damocles over Lewis’ head (as depicted by a cartoon in the “New York Register” ). What to do with Carolina was the question that persistently split the Social American Coalition, not merely between parties but within them. The One Carolina Movement in the Patriots wanted a return to the Confederation of Carolina on its pre-1849 borders; Lewis himself wanted a Confederation of Carolina with its current borders, many Liberals wanted a separate Kingdom in personal union with the ENA; some others wanted to restore a puppet Kingdom under the alleged Prince John William. The Mentian Party, largely free from Neo-Jacobin influence , argued that lands should be given over to Carolina’s Negroes; some also advocated the Cherokee Empire’s independence be restored, but this was a less popular position given the public association of natives with the late rebels in Superia.[15]

    The only thing nobody wanted was to do nothing—and yet that is what was done. Not even Lewis was able to resolve this political deadlock, though he worked into the night trying to reach a consensus. In the meantime, Carolina remained treated as a set of occupied provinces. It was surprisingly quiescent for the most part—after all, its people had gotten used to being ignored, and it was small difference to go from rigged and irrelevant elections to no elections at all. The black population, very suspicious of Lewis after his activities in the first part of the war, often went to Africa Nova rather than risk being attacked by local whites when the occupation forces were looking the other way. However, a substantial population of Negroes did remain, and even established a de facto black state in Talugisi[16] where a successful slave rebellion had overthrown the Cherokee slavemasters. (The Cherokee themselves remained holed up in Nevadoheyadav and tried carefully not to attract ENA attention).

    It was while Lewis was working into the night that he suffered a heart attack in June 1908. He was advised by his doctors to stand down, and began planning for a successor, but kept working at a high pace while he did so. At this time, with suffrage passed, the electoral debate had moved on to whether to implement the Modified American Percentage Representation (MAPR) voting system nationwide, which had been used by New England for confederal elections since 1890.[17] In the end, this would be a bridge too far for the present, but would be implemented some years later. Regardless, even as the Liberal caucus was ready to vote, Lewis suffered a second heart attack and died on July 17th, 1908 at the age of 54.

    A state funeral was held for this vigorous American politician, who had burned like a bright candle and burned himself out (in the words of the eulogy given by Joe Holliday). Perhaps moved by the loss of their leader, the caucus battle of ‘The Two Mikes’ unexpectedly went against the veteran Michael Briars in favour of Michael Chamberlain Dawlish, a younger MCP who had been named by his parents in honour of Lewis’ hero.

    Dawlish could not hold the Social American Coalition together for long; it is doubtful that there are many who could have. The government finally collapsed in early 1909 and the American people voted Gedney’s Supremacists back in. Gedney himself would suffer health problems after two years and hastily retired, doubtless thinking of Lewis. Ironically, these would turn out to be exaggerated, and Gedney would live another 25 years after retiring, before passing away in 1936 at the age of 85. By this point, of course, it had become very clear what the consequences of Lewis’ inaction on the Combine and other foreign policy during his presidency had been. It is not an exaggeration to say that the modern popular view of Lewis is driven in large part that in the 1930s, his old enemy Gedney was still around to criticise him, but he wasn’t there to defend himself...













    [1] Though it was only described as an Armistice in hindsight, initially being called a temporary ceasefire (see Part #194 in Volume IV).

    [2] OTL Asheville, NC.

    [3] OTL Muskogee, OK. The name stems from the green Verdigris River.

    [4] I.e. Malthusian or Darwinian.

    [5] OTL Oklahoma City.

    [6] Ministerial roles on the confederal level in the ENA are referred to as Councillors. Mostly, that is; there is a fair amount of variation between the Confederations.

    [7] The late 19th century Liberal governments in the ENA also set up some free hospitals as well as schools and colleges, albeit on a rather less ambitious scale than in the People’s Kingdom, and often backed by private charity as much as taxes.

    [8] The Wiener is descended from the 1840s satirical magazine Weinig Petrus, or, The American Ringleader, mentioned in Volume IV.

    [9] The rattlesnake is the traditional animal emblem of the ENA (going back to Franklin’s ‘Join, or Die’ cartoon); the octopus is not an emblem of the UPSA, but rather a typical choice to describe a grasping, manipulative power with its finger in many pies (used in OTL political cartoons to describe Tsarist Russia, the British Empire, the European Union and many others).

    [10] Formerly Raleigh Province (i.e. the eastern half of OTL North Carolina) – see Part #205 in Volume V.

    [11] A made-up title created for the heir to the throne of Carolina in the 1860s, which was obsoleted when Jamaica stopped being a Carolinian territory and instead became a neutralised but slightly pro-Meridian republic like Cuba, but stuck around out of inertia regardless.

    [12] I.e. Novamundine supremacy and a contempt for Europe or the Old World in general—named after Ferdinand VII of New Spain.

    [13] Stratford, CT in OTL.

    [14] “In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.)” (Luke 2:1-2, NIV). Note that in the Biblical translations used at the time, the name was usually rendered as Cyrenius rather than Quirinius.

    [15] Note an inadvertent anachronism here.

    [16] OTL Birmingham, AL.

    [17] See Part #223 in Volume V.
     
    259
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #259: The Serpent’s Apple

    “White Gate to Crocus Vale. Confirm authorisation. As Greenwich Greenwich is now complete, personnel identified in memo Barking Abbey Two are released from usual duties. Personnel are to report to White Gate for preliminary interview with Orpington One Two. Depending on the outcome of those interviews, some or all of these personnel may then be stationed at Gold Dolphin. Ensure transport arrangements are made. White Gate, out.”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Pages EX521G-J [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Remarks: These pages are listed under “SAAX Political Studies Revision: Syllabus A and C”.

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    There’s a question that’s very commonly asked by students of the political history of this period—though they not always vocalise it in these exact terms. Sometimes they just show it by a subconscious attitude! But we need to address this before we begin, or it will taint your attempts to understand the era.

    This question is, simply, ‘How did Societism become so popular?’

    We are, of course, specifically talking here about the 1900s and the 1910s, the aftermath of the Pandoric Revolution. People in this era had a very different mindset towards Societism—not only Societists themselves, but the average person in the street in different countries across the world. it can be very hard for us to appreciate this, here and now. Oddly enough, though, you might be able to do it better than many of your teachers. You have been born into a world without the Combine (at least in a form anyone would recognise) and can therefore view its history with fewer preconceptions and filters. Your teachers, on the other hand, may well be of a generation whose formative years were in the 1980s or 1970s. Many of them may not be able to separate the earlier history of the Combine from the ideas that they gained when they were your age. To them, the Combine will always signify a decaying, ineffective entity, unable to come to terms with the fact that it no longer represents the radical cutting edge of ideological boldness. Apparently, superficially, it seemed harmless or even comical. Yet behind the blank face it presented to the world, deep within, suppressed anger was slowly building towards the tragedy of 1990. It takes a very flexible mind to cast aside those impressions if one lived through those years.

    But people in the 1900s and 1910s could not foresee the future, of course. Their impressions of the Combine reflect ignorance of days yet unborn, history yet unwritten. Just as commentators in the early 1700s might have imagined Prussia would grow to become a great power, or those in the 1840s might think that the rift between Carolina and the ENA would be a passing dispute and easily resolved. We are more tolerant of examples such as that, and too often more punishingly judgemental of the first case, just because our minds are filled with what the Combine became. Do you see now just how crucial your generation will be for historiography? In his speech at the ASN in 2015, German Interrex Ludwig Steinburg called upon the youth of the nations to deliver older generations from the taint of the Quiet War. Interrex Steinburg argued that by seeking to become the antithesis of Sanchezista views, Diversitarianism ran the risk of merely preserving the indent of those views on the world, much like an asimconic negative. (Perhaps before too long we will have to explain what an asimconic negative is, but hopefully your generation has not yet entirely been converted to bimeric cameras!) Only your generation, who have grown up without your worldview being defined by that struggle of ideologies, can truly move the world forward rather than being stuck in those old, now obsolete, disputes. No pressure!

    In many ways, in fact, you’re closer in attitude to those people in the 1900s. You’ve been taught about what Societism wrought on the world, but you didn’t experience it firsthand; it’s history to you. Let’s try to immerse ourselves in a mindset of people who didn’t even know that...

    The pre-Iversonian Soviet philosopher Yuri Kazmirov argued (1969) that Societism was an inherently attractive forbidden fruit to young people and the naturally rebellious, that its revolutionary attitude in tearing down the old world was a simplistic solution that the nuanced views of cooler heads could not compete with. This was soundly rejected outside Russia. Klaus Wenediger (1970) fluently demolished Kazmirov’s view as fundamentally defeatist, and essentially motivated by attempting a “post hoc” justification of repressive Soviet policies. If Societist writings were to be treated as an infectious disease with no vaccine or cure, then of course the Soviet regime was justified in keeping its people away from those books—and any others it decided they didn’t need to see. C. Raoul Lebrun (1972) further suggested that Kazmirov was setting up a self-fulfilling prophecy, and it was the very authoritarianism of the Soviets that was making Societism into a forbidden fruit. Drawing upon some of the Carltonist economics espoused and debated in France in the early 1970s, Lebrun suggested that Societism simply could not survive in a truly ‘free market’ of ideas. He argued that it would wither on the vine if national governments ceased to draw attention to it.

    ====

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    One man must bring peace to the People’s Kingdom – bandits beware!
    Starts December 3rd at 9:00 pm on ETV!

    ====

    The ideas of Lebrun, Wenediger and many others (check your reading list!) influenced Angus Iverson and the other architects of Propagation Protocol A, better known as the Iverson Protocol, which came into effect in 1978.[1] But though we can debate the effectiveness or otherwise of the Iversonian approach—Interrex Steinburg evidently believed it had run its course, four decades on—it is also possible to argue that global Societism was already in decline by the time Kazmirov was writing.

    This is a controversial viewpoint, and rightly so. No number of graphs depicting falling numbers of ageing Societist groups across the free world can stand against the self-evident attitude of the Diversitarian thinkers of the day. But as we said about your teachers, even the most intelligent minds are inevitably shaped by preconceptions driven by their formative experience. For the first half of the twentieth century, Societism (usually synonymous with the Combine) had gone from strength to strength, advancing repeatedly in three huge waves and never in retreat. Fear and peril for the future were the order of the day in the free world, and the drive to prevent the ‘Liberated Zones’ from expanding further possessed a visceral urgency that your generation can scarcely appreciate. There was a sense that the nations had their backs to the wall and the floor beneath them was being undermined. Some were pessimistic enough to think that Societist victory and world conquest was inevitable, and all that could be done was to fight to keep one more generation free before the inevitable collapse.

    Men and women across the nations held to this attitude as a central pillar of their existence, and found it very hard to adapt to a world in which it might no longer be true. Indeed, it can be argued that when the nations did begin to accept this, in part due to generational change, it mirrored a similar epiphany on the part of the Combine, its rulers suspecting their glory days were over—and so the descent to 1990 began.

    More recently, Ertegun (2017) even suggested that these assumptions on the part of the European, Chinese and American Diversitarian theorists of the 1960s and 70s could be recognised in a parallel attitude towards the Soviets themselves. Russia had traced an almost unambiguously ascendant trajectory throughout the same first half of the twentieth century, and indeed before that. It mattered not that the Sunrise War had ended that ascent by breaking the old Russian Empire; Ertegun argues that men like Lebrun and Wenediger were still subconsciously viewing Soviet Russia as a threat to their nations almost as great as that of Societism itself. It is an interesting lens through which to view the struggles between Novgorod’s Empty Throne and the other ASN nations with, but a view many on both sides would reject.

    But if we accept that the viewpoints of people are in part driven by their formative years, what does that say about that earlier generation of the 1900s? How was Societism seen at this time?

    It’s often exaggerated by writers trying to prove a point, but it’s fair to say that before the outbreak of the Pandoric War, Societism was generally seen as a minor, eccentric ideology. Given its relative popularity among certain fashionable sectors of Cordoba and Buenos Aires society (no pun intended) in the 1880s, it was sometimes put on the level of a bourgeois cult akin to the Freemasons. The writings of Sanchez were treated as something between a well-meaning but naïve affirmation made with knowing cynicism[2] and a purely ritualistic rite of passage. However, evidently, some of those young man (such as Bartolomé Jaimes, often cited as a key early figure but on the basis of little concrete information) took those rituals more seriously to heart than others.

    An alternative (but sometimes simultaneously held) view of Societism was that it was an ideology sincerely held by earnest young men who wanted to change the world, and lacked the experience to recognise that there were no such easy answers to the world’s problems. This view is the one which aligns best with Kazmirov’s later position, but fundamentally fails to explain why Societism appealed to such a minority of a minority at that time. Furthermore, there were many other simple solutions for such young men to sink their teeth into, from radical Mentianism to Superhumanism to Gnativism and other heterodox religious movements. Societism was considered obscure even among that lineup to many.

    Of course, that obscurity did not prevent a small number of representatives identifying as Societist from being democratically elected in that era. At the outbreak of the Pandoric War, Societist politicians in later ASN nations included Henry Palliser in Great Britain, Jules Degenlis in France, Walther Schmalz in Germany and Godfrey Rockefeller in Pennsylvania/the ENA.[3] These men were generally regarded as well-meaning purists unwilling to sully themselves with party ties, often with great loyalty from their voters. But some also said that they would become dangerous if entrusted with power, drawing comparisons to Mo Quedling. Indeed, many of these early Societist politicians were admirers of Quedling (as Sanchez himself had been) and also members of his Pacific Society.

    The previous paragraph says ‘these men’ and for good reason. Even in an era where politicians were overwhelmingly male, and women were only just beginning to make their mark on politics, 1890s Societism was described by contemporaries as male-dominated. Perhaps its character owed too much to those bourgeois secret societies and clubs that were male-only. Some have suggested the Garderista tendency might have repelled female members, but this is questionable given how theoretical that debate was at the time.

    There were also proletarian Societists drawn from the Caraibas tradition, and in practice these may have been the most influential pre-Pandoric group in the long run, but typically, at the time these drew the least interest from chroniclers and little is recorded about them.

    ====

    “This House believes that to spare the rod is to spoil the child”
    The Debate Union comes to PRESTON, LANCS in next week’s episode.
    Tickets available from page MT21B

    ====

    Now we need to unlock this problem further. Just what exactly attracted that small number of people to Societism in the 1880s and 1890s—and what changed so that much larger numbers found an appeal later on?

    We need to try to look at Societism with the eyes of those people and ignore our own preconceptions based on what came after. What was Societism’s biggest ‘selling point’ to the average person? It certainly came with many problematic aspects beyond those which we now think of. Sanchez’s description of his Universal Hierarchy, no matter how much he emphasised that he considered a peasant equal to a king (they merely did different jobs) could easily be seen as patronising. To turn Kazmirov’s claims back on him, in this respect it was the radical Mentians who had the ‘simple’ ideology to appeal to the rebellious (poor) youth—overthrow the ruling classes and break the chains of the workers—and the Societists who had the more ‘nuanced’, superficially ‘sensible’ approach that supposedly could not compete.

    Historically, the core aim of Societism can be summarised simply as ‘prevent war by eliminating division’. While Sanchez’s writings could become far more esoteric and philosophical in terms of what the ultimate goal was—or perhaps merely the ultimate prophesised outcome, in the more passive way he regarded such matters—in terms of the average person rather than the expert, it boiled down to that. Everyone could agree that war was, in principle, a negative phenomenon. It ended lives, destroyed property and consumed resources that could have been directed to other ends. It was this argument that ultimately allowed Societism to successfully compete with radical Mentianism’s revolutionary approach to ending poverty, and for it to appeal to those working-class people who otherwise might have regarded Societism as patronising towards them. Societists adopted the Godwinist view that there was not a natural shortage of wealth or resources in the world, but that poverty existed because war consumed such a large percentage of those things.

    Societist thinkers argued that a world without war would be a world in which all men and women could possess sufficient wealth and property to have happy and fulfilled lives, “without” needing to remove substantial wealth and property from those who presently possessed it to excess. In this they were influenced by Sanchez’s 1862 critique of Carltonism. Despite coming from a seemingly obscure book review, this proved significant enough to be incorporated into the 1879 “Societist Primer” compiled by Raul Caraibas.[4] Sanchez had drawn a distinction between what he called ‘inequality of necessity’, in which one man lives in excess while a second starves, and ‘inequality of luxury’, in which one man lives in excess while the other lives in adequacy. Sanchez, and later Caraibas, had attacked Mentian thinkers for treating these two kinds of inequality as the same. They argued that the first should be regarded as an obscene outrage, while the latter should be considered a tolerable state of affairs. Caraibas (or possibly his ghost-writer) wrote that ‘It is not that inequality of luxury is necessarily an image that appeals, particularly to those of us who may feel we are much more likely to be the second man living in adequacy. But we must not only consider that state of affairs, but the alternative likely to result if we seek to redress the balance through violent action in the paleo-Jacobin manner.... revolutionary violence is a form of warfare, and is likely to consume so much of the resources that our jealous second man desires, that it cannot end in any state ... other than both men living in adequacy—or, more likely, both men starving’.

    Caraibas’ ‘revolutionary violence is a form of warfare’ quote was repeatedly reused and expanded by other Societist writers. Later this often took the logical form of ‘X is war, war is wrong, X is wrong’. Of course, in the Combine’s years of decline ‘X’ was often anything that a Zonal Rej had decided was undesirable. This is an example of how people of your teachers’ generation may be unable to take this seriously (or understand how people of the 1890s and 1900s did), because they only know it in this farcical context. Indeed, the phrase was arguably finally buried by Yan Mathews’ cutting remark summarising the Combine’s actions in the crisis of 1990: “Peace is war, war is wrong, peace is wrong.”

    It’s because of how the Combine ended that it may be difficult now to appreciate that Societism was once considered a form of Pacifism; indeed, that that was its defining characteristic. Caraibas might have coined the Doctrine of the Last Throw, but fundamentally before the rise of Alfarus and the Celatores, the dominant manner of Societist thinking was nonetheless that violence was never justified, and that the world could never be united by force. It is this early, naïve, paleo-Societist view that we need to bear in mind when considering how the people of the 1900s viewed Societism as an ideology.

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    The key point is that this appeal of Societism waxed and waned with time and events in the leadup to the Pandoric War. There were always people who were attracted to it not because of ‘prevent war’ but because of ‘by eliminating division’. The world had reeled under Linnaean Racism, Burdenism, Neo-Jacobinism and plain old prejudice. Slavery had been largely abolished, but the abolitionist movements in many countries (especially the ENA) had scarcely come out of the struggle well. Even in nations where many different races and languages came together, as in California or the UPSA, division and mutual resentment remained. It was, lest we forget, Manuel Vinay’s successful appeal to anti-immigration sentiment in the 1843 presidential election that led Sanchez to sour on the UPSA, and drove him into writing his most significant works.[5]

    Many people of African, native or mixed-race background had similarly grown discontented with Meridians frequently saying one thing and doing another when it came to alleged equality. This was true no matter how much those people deliberately turned their back on their ancestral culture and tried to fit in with Meridian criollo norms. The same was true in the northern confederations of the ENA, where religious identity was also a particularly contentious issue. There, as in Ireland and Belgium, it was possible to find examples of sectarian violence between gangs of alleged ‘Catholics’ and ‘Protestants’ who never went to church and had no real religious faith, but the division lived on in its absence.

    With these sorts of examples, it is easy to see how some people had begun to despair that there could ever be true equality and acceptance across racial, linguistic and religious boundaries. The Societist view, that the answer was to actively destroy those boundaries, would naturally have more appeal to people who had already been willing to abandon their former culture to fit in, yet had still been refused acceptance by society.

    Nonetheless, this was a relatively small group, and we must return to the first part of the summary: ‘to prevent war’. Sanchez wrote his books and gathered his original following at a time when the Great American War had inflicted damage and losses on both the UPSA and the ENA, and when both countries seemed to have foreign policies directed to ends which their people scarcely approved of. We often focus here on how Sanchez lost his faith in democracy as a consequence of the war, but he was not alone in being upset and angry that war had not been prevented (by any means). With this recent example, many families having lost their sons on a far foreign field fighting for a cause nobody understood or believed in, it was a fertile ground for the original generation of Societists to become established.

    But the Great American War was followed by the Long Peace. In this era, it shouldn’t be surprising that the Societists faded into pseudo-masonic societies and the like. The ‘war is wrong’ appeal did not work when there were hardly any (major) conflicts going on throughout the world—at least not the sort that the average person was consciously aware of. There also seemed to be other ideological challenges. Some pointed to the work of Braithwaite and Aranibar and said that democracy had demonstrably prevented wars and promoted peace; others argued that any negative consequences of democracy had been neutralised by the grown of multinational corporate entities. War would no longer be ‘allowed’, those thinkers claimed, as it would be bad for business. Both sides called attention to Alain Tourneur and the ‘voyou’ movement in 1860s France, albeit in slightly different ways, pointing out that a long-foreshadowed Franco-German war had entirely failed to materialise. Caraibas also wrote on this topic in 1873, from a Societist perspective, which began his rise to eventually lead the movement.[6]

    The status quo of the 1890s was unquestionably good for many, but despite the (mostly) global peace and trade, still presented much of the inequality of necessity that Sanchez had written of, particularly in the UPSA. It would seem that the most logical point of criticism of the status quo would not be from the increasingly obscure Societists (their key argument apparently undermined) but from radical Mentians. Indeed, speculative romantics have argued that Societists might still be obscure today if the very beginning of the Pandoric War had gone slightly differently. Monterroso’s Mentian victory over the corporate status quo could have preceded the outbreak of war, or Monterroso could have decided to back down and disown Captain Hiedler’s Auxiliaries for their actions at Mount Zhangqihe. Instead, he doubled down, launched the UPSA and the Hermandad into war, and—when this did not go well—blamed internal saboteurs and launched a campaign of repression every bit as nasty as the old Sancion Roja. It is not surprising that the Meridian people were receptive to a message that the political interests of Capital and Labour were indistinguishable opposites, as equally unpleasant for them as being immersed in a corrosive acid or a caustic alkali. The Societist message of balance, both forces tamed and subordinated to the Universal Hierarchy of Classes, was an attractive one for a desperate Meridian people.

    We all know of the Scientific Attack. From a Meridian perspective, the Societists had saved them from a destructive Anglo-American invasion, a fate which their history had led them to exaggerate the significance of. Meridian Presidents-General had repeatedly pledged that never again would the Plate be occupied by the old enemy which their ancestors had defeated, and it had seemed that the UPSA had been at the height of her powers. The humiliation of being proved wrong would be crushing to the nation’s soul, and the relief unleashed by the attack, for which the Societists took credit (domestically), led to a giddy people willing to embrace their supposed saviours. Watson and Drake (1995) make a comparison to the 1993 film “Anita”, in which a mother saves her daughter from drowning, but in the process is washed away herself, hits her head and loses her memory. “The Meridian people were grateful to the Societists, in part for reasons connected with their national identity—despite the fact that the Societists’ ultimate goal was to delete that identity from existence.” Again, this seeming contradiction must be viewed in the context that few really understood the Societists’ aims, and the Anglo-American attack had seemed like a much more immediate threat.

    Sanchez had also always been hostile to the idea of Societism beginning in one country (or ‘region’) rather than being a simultaneous global epiphany. Caraibas’ writings had tilted the movement more in this direction, but had not really considered whether one country might be a more fertile ground for the movement to take control than another. It is only in hindsight that the UPSA seems an ‘obvious’ setting, as Watson and Drake also write. Not only was it a melting pot in which many races and peoples had come together, but it was one in which conventional democratic politics seemed to have failed to entirely address inequality and intolerance between them. Watson and Drake point to other potential sites, such as California or even the ENA, if the war had gone differently—typically courting controversy. They also call attention to the fact that the Meridian identity was young and still being constructed, and lacked the solidity of, say, Germany—which might be a young entity as a political unit, but had a coherent identity stretching back centuries. This led Drake to famously compare the destruction of the Meridian identity as ‘the murder of a child’, which equally famously led to a hot rejection from the Russian Confederation ambassador at the ASN. Ambassador Petrov stated (in 1998) that ‘the killing of a child is a tragedy, but one which sadly takes place across the world on a regular basis; the murder of a nation is a deeper kind of evil, and one which we hope never to see again’. Naturally, many have in turn attacked this as hypocrisy given Russia’s historical actions towards Yapon.

    Let us leave those debates aside. We have discussed some reasons why Societism was viable in the UPSA. But what about overseas? Why did many people suddenly turn to Societism, after being dismissive of it in the pre-war years?

    Partly this must be that the impact of the war was universal, even in those countries which had been neutral. Death, destruction, and shortages were all concrete negatives, but even for those lucky people not directly impacted by the war, there was a broader alienistic sense of the rug being pulled out from under them. The comfortable old certainties of the Long Peace had been swept aside. Something new was required; and Societism, the way Alfarus and the Combine ‘did’ Societism, seemed a novel and bold way of looking at the world, not something from the stuffy old books of a stuffy old Spanish writer. Societism seemed not only a potential model for the future for those whose nations had been on the losing side of the war, but also those who had lost faith in democracy, international diplomacy and the basic decency of people. Across the world, many battered and injured veterans returned home to find their jobs were gone, many families had lost sons and husbands and even wives and daughters (to dangerous factory work). The Pacifist movement in general took a huge surge, and part of that spilled over into Societism. It was around this time that large numbers of women first became involved in Societist chapters around the world.

    The First Black Scare took hold, with many paranoid commentators arguing that their country was ‘full of Blacks in the Backroom’ (it is around this time that capitalised ‘Black’ became more commonly applied to Societist politics rather than skin colour – an ironic victory for those opposing racial division?) But, as Lebrun argued decades later, clumsy attempts by the governments of the nations to ban Societist chapters only made the ideology the forbidden fruit. It also meant that those suppressed chapters, formerly autonomous and only vaguely linked to one another, turned to Zon1Urb1 for support and guidance so they could stay in existence. Amigo Alfarus was only too happy to give it...














    [1] See ‘Interlogue: Perfidious Albion’ in Volume IV.

    [2] Consider the comparable use of ‘wishing for world peace’ in OTL twentieth century events.

    [3] The Rockefeller family moved to Philadelphia in 1723, predating the Point of Divergence. They are still around in TTL and Godfrey’s brother William runs a significant trading company, but they have not obtained the extreme degree of wealth they did in OTL.

    [4] See the opening quote to Part #171 in Volume IV.

    [5] See Part #162 in Volume IV.

    [6] See Part #210 in Volume V.
     
    260
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #260: As the Sparks Fly Upward

    “Crocus Vale to White Gate. Please confirm, authorisation level GALAHAD, Greenwich Abbey Lewisham, GALAHAD...understood. Documents, Finchley Rainham. Individual, Finchley Rainham. Code name: DESCARTES. Deptford, Ealing, Southwark, DESCARTES, confirmed. Crocus Vale personnel to meet DESCARTES and escort to Gold Dolphin. Confirmed...”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Pages SX211K-M [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Remarks: These pagse are listed under “SSAAX Foreign Literature Revision: Syllabus A”. The additional ‘S’ does not appear to be a typo but a different acronym, possibly standing for ‘Special’ from context.

    It should also be noted that this page was encrypted and would theoretically require a code to be entered to decipher it, although the code was a relatively simple cipher method and was easily broken by Thande Institute computers by the method of brute force attack.

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    “Refugiado Literature” is a phrase you will frequently encounter in studies of literature in the first three decades of the twentieth century. Frustratingly, though, the term has two very different meanings! Firstly, it can refer to writings, usually in Meridian Spanish originally, made by the “refugiados” who escaped the Pandoric Revolution. Secondly, it can related to works written by people in other countries who feature such refugiados as characters. The latter is often subject to stereotypes that it applies particularly to low-grade, sensationalist ratiocinic novels and sequents. It is certainly true that the Meridian Refugiado was a frequently-applied character archetype in these tales, a mysterious foreigner with something to hide. Often the Refugiado is not the murderer in the tale in question, but are instead an “aniseed rag.”[1] Their secret is not relevant to the case, but involving the fact that they are not a dispossessed wealthy scion of a corporate oligarch, but rather a con man or woman from a humbler background, pretending to have that romantic identity in order to worm their way into higher society for criminal purposes. This is a cliché, but clichés start for a reason, and newspapers of the era in many countries do record examples of both genuine and fake Refugiados moving through society.

    Despite the stereotype, Refugiados also regularly appear in more respectable literature from this era. They are a reflection of the spirit of the age of the Flippant Era, a reminder (like the equally frequent archetype of the ‘crazed’ Contrasanchezista with his First Black Scare pamphlets) that serve as reminders of the threat of the Revolution, beyond the horizon of the superficial world of groovetapes, cocktail parties and celebrities. Of course, precisely how these two character archetypes are treated is often highly diagnostic of whether a piece set in this era was written at the time or in hindsight!

    But English Literature is a field open to all; you elite students are here for rarer treats. Let’s go back to that first definition of “Refugiado Literature”, the works written by refugiados themselves. This term may itself be misapplied, if you were worried things were not complicated enough(!) Properly, there should be a distinction between “Antebellum Meridian Literature”, describing works written during the Long Peace period in the leadup to the Pandoric War, and Refugiado Literature. You might think that these two are easy to separate, but in fact they’re not.

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    Plenty of Antebellum books survive, though sadly often in either imperfect translated form, or else in genuine Spanish but subject to the censor’s scissors of the Internal Security Bureau in Mexico or the Office for Public Decency in Spain. Often no trace remains of the original, expurgated versions originally sold to readers in the free UPSA. The Biblioteka Mundial may well have held these in its fabled Grey Archive, whose contents were allegedly open only to a single figure number of senior Societists, and which (according to rumour) was manned by illiterate archivists in order to avoid polluting their minds with ideologically unsound writings. However, if this Archive truly existed, it was unquestionably destroyed in the Last War. We can choose to decry this loss of heritage, or resolve to treasure what remains.

    There are rather fewer Refugiado books, as one might imagine; not that many potential writers were able to flee the Revolution, after all. The problem emerges in how we define what constitutes a Refugiado book. Many people described in biographical dictionaries as Refugiados were not, strictly, fleeing from what had been “the UPSA”. Instead, before the Revolution, they had dwelt in other Hermandad member states. Some had had Meridian citizenship and merely lived abroad, whereas others were strictly Pernambucanos or Peruvians or whatever. In those early days before the ASN’s rules, the distinct identities were not strictly enforced, and besides, a Refugiado would get more respect if he described himself simply as a Meridian. With the strength of the Hermandad, many outside the Novamund did not draw strict distinctions between the people of the UPSA and of their vassals.

    The second complication involves the fact that the Revolution did not spread across South America in a matter of days, no matter what the opening narration of a dozen sensationalist films might suggest! It’s important to understand what exactly was going on in the former Hermandad states from which many of the Refugiado writers were drawn. All the states in South America that were not part of the UPSA, with the exception of Portuguese-Brazil, were sometimes called “Los Ecuatoriales,” or even “Los Ecuadores” for short, meaning ‘the equatorials’. From west to east, these comprised the Kingdom of Peru, the Kingdom of New Granada, the American-controlled Kingdom of Venezuela, the Republic of Guyana, the colonial outpost of French Guyana, and finally the Republic of Pernambuco. All of these were effectively under the control of the UPSA with the exception of Venezuela and French Guyana, but this was not to say they were the same. There was a great diversity of culture and practice in these states that was lost to the world, and even the most fervent Diversitarians today will frequently forget that they were not just another part of the antebellum UPSA.

    Paradoxically it was Peru, which had been part of the UPSA between the Second and Third Platinean Wars, which was most fiercely defensive of its independence, and followed orders from Cordoba on a more transactional basis. King Gabriel II was a reformer who, if his reign had not been interrupted by war and revolution, might have done great things for his nation. Peru’s participation in the Pandoric War was always rather reluctant and half-hearted, sending artillery to Carolina and ships to battles in the Pacific. The criollo people of Peru were very cautious of Alvaro Monterroso’s election victory in the UPSA at the start of the war, fearing (accurately) that given the chance, he would wish to reclaim Peru for the UPSA. This was an ancestral fear for Peruvians, whose patriotic songs and stories emphasised how dreadful it had been for proud Lima to be ruled from upstart, distant Cordoba (and unaccountably never mentioned that it had formerly been the other way around). Gabriel kept his throne in part because he was seen as a bulwark against Meridian rule, and any radical revolution to overthrow his sleepy regime might end with Fuerzas Armadas troops on the streets and Peru reduced to a handful of provinces in someone else’s country.

    Monterroso was also particularly feared by Peruvian criollos because he enjoyed support from the Aymara and other native peoples within the UPSA (helped by his key political ally Katari Martinez). This put fuel on the flames of the ever-present fear of the Meridians helping the Tahuantinsuya revolt again. The Tahuantinsuya had been granted more civil rights by Gabriel II compared to the oppression of his father, but many of them still dreamed of the days when they had had full autonomy within the UPSA, ruled by an openly-proclaimed Sapa Inca.

    One might imagine that Peru’s national spirit therefore burned hotly against the Societists, but this was in fact not the case. Societists were already tolerated within Peru before the Pandoric War, and surviving eyewitness accounts suggest that they were somewhat more visible there as a mass movement than in the UPSA. As has so wearyingly been the case throughout the twentieth century, when Societists preached the idea of homogenising all cultures, the Peruvian criollos imagined that the result would look more or less like what they already had, whilst eliminating the troublesome Tahuantinsuya as a people. It was portrayed, effectively, as a more humane alternative to the paleo-Jacobin ideal of exterminating ‘lesser’ peoples, without all of that inconvenient blood on one’s hands and phlogisticated bodies to dispose of. This was very much not the ideal of Sanchez, but it was politically convenient for a movement seeking support. The leadership of MaKe Lopez (Markus Lupus), a Gwayese professor at the University of Lima who had been one of Sanchez’s first converts, illustrates the fact that this was a knowing deception rather than a sincerely-mistaken alteration of Sanchez’s ideas.

    Lupus’ influence was part of the reason why Peru was the nation beyond the UPSA which was most closely involved with the initial phase of the Revolution, despite its distance. Societists staged a coup in Lima shortly after word of the Scientific Attack arrived. Crucial government institutions were in Societist hands, and pseudo-Societist ‘militias’ (not Alfarus’ later Celatores) defending them against alleged cobrist and Septentrophile revolutionaries plotting to overthrow the King. Gabriel II, bereft of genuine supporters in the sudden absence of an external threat, was forced into an unquestionably difficult position. He met with the local Societist leader Raphael Quinones[2] (later Rafolus Quinonus) who was also the brother-in-law of Lupus. Following this meeting and discussions elsewhere, Gabriel announced he would abdicate from the throne, but his son the crown prince Francis (Francisco) would be made a Zonal Rej by the Societists under the name Franziskus Borbonus. Lima would become the capital of its own Zone, and would explicitly not be ruled from Cordoba (or Buenos Aires a.k.a. Zon1Urb1). This agreement was honoured by the Societists, but in practice under Alfarus the Zonal Rejes were rather less powerful than they were on paper.

    The Refugiado writings of former Peruvians are dominated by the question of how they portray Gabriel, either directly or in passing by implication. A minority fall into the category called ‘Gabriel the Good’ by analysts, in which the king is portrayed as a man making a bitter decision to spare his people conflict at the cost of their national soul, and who washes his hands of the decision like Pilate through his abdication. The others, conversely, castigate him for his ‘capitulation’ and suggest that it was the Societists who forced him to abdicate, rather than it being a principled decision on his part.

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    The Kingdom of New Granada was also part of the Empire of New Spain, but lacked Peru’s unique history. It was far distant from the centre of political gravity in the City of Mexico, but lacked Peru’s drive to operate independently. The degree of vagueness and drift in New Granada’s rule was illustrated by the fact that President Studebaker of the ENA had managed to successfully split off rebellious Venezuela in 1862. Following the defeat of New Granadine forces at the Battle of Barinas, the country fell into the orbit of the UPSA via the Hermandad. However, with the accession of King Diego to the throne in 1889, matters changed somewhat. Diego saw the reclamation of Venezuela as being the key victory needed that would allow New Granada to assert herself once more and throw off the Meridian yoke. He began reorganising and building up the New Granadine armed forces accordingly, being one of few leaders (royal or otherwise) to accurately predict that the Long Peace was coming to an end. Of course, this is not to portray him as a great prophet who foresaw a global war—surviving writings suggest he merely expected that Venezuela would collapse on the death of King Albert if not before.

    When the Pandoric War came in truth, Diego attacked Venezuela, but was surprised by the strength of the Venezuelan resistance. The country only fell after ove a year of resistance, and the final collapse was largely driven by a small but modern Meridian army under Juan José Pichegru. Pichegru, the grandson of (Jean-)Charles Pichegru, was a man whose military decisions were usually better than those he made in civilian life. From a storied military family known for their adherence to the old Colorado Party, named for the controversial Castelli, J. J. Pichegru had instead become a rather conservative Adamantine Party member and close to many corporate interests. Some have suggested his decision was motivated by the cynical notion that traditional Colorado interests had become irrelevant to the calcified political landscape. Equally, he may have gone into the Fuerzas Armadas because it was expected of him, and because it seemed that peace would never end. If his decisions were truly motivated by those assertions, they were very badly timed. War broke out and Monterroso won the election. Someone like Pichegru was an awkward inconvenienceto Monterroso; he did not fit the narrative. However, Pichegru was also a reasonably effective commander whom Monterroso did not want to waste. The Venezuelan front was the ideal solution, being somewhat important, but safely a long way away from core Meridian territory or the crucial Carolinian front where the war journalists were.

    There was bad blood between Pichegru and King Diego following the fall of Caracas, which continued as Pichegru (on Monterroso’s orders) continued to run a military occupation rather than handing over Venezuela to Santa Fe [Bogota]. Pichegru was far from unique; his army, in fact, seemed mostly comprised of the sort of officers who were good at their jobs but had been a bit too close to the Priestley regime and its corporate backers. Even as the war turned against the UPSA, Monterroso was in no hurry to bring them home.

    Following the Scientific Attack, the Societists infamously sent Jorge Suarez to the ENA with a gold ransom for Venezuela. Already an audacious move, this becomes even more of a bluff when one realises that Venezuela was not even under Societist control at the time. Pichegru was still military governor. In order to understand the following dynamics (and their influence on Refugiado Literature) we must now broaden our scope to the east.

    The French-led International Expeditionary Force (IEF) landed in Recife in 1901 and took over the former Republic of Pernambuco, which had been held by rather confused Meridian and Auxiliary[3] garrisons. The Duc de Berry approached the governments of the other Ecuadores for support. It must be remembered that his mission was not to crush Societism and restore the UPSA, but to secure and safeguard French interests in South America. Stadtholder Anthonius Verbeek and the Lords Nineteen in Belem swiftly responded to Berry’s envoys, signing agreements that the Republic of Guyana would maintain the Hermandad’s pre-existing agreements with France and protect those French subjects resident in Guyana. This is often portrayed in Refugiado Literature as a hypocritical move, but it is unlikely Verbeek would have seen it this way. Of all the Ecuadores’ leaders, Verbeek was probably the only one to actually have any in-depth knowledge of Societism, having read and admired Sanchez’s works. Some previous Stadtholders elected by the people of Guyana (those few who had the right to vote) had sincerely believed that one day the Dutch Republic might be freed from Flemish tyranny and they could return. But Verbeek believed that was now an atavistic dream, and his role was to secure the best and most profitable place in the world for his people and himself. He was no longer particularly wedded to Dutch language, culture or religion, and saw Societism as a path that could deliver peace and prosperity. Unlike Gabriel of Peru, Verbeek unquestionably knew what he was getting his country in for, which makes his actions all the more damning in the public narrative.

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    Berry’s envoys also came to Diego of New Granada, who hemmed and hawed over them, and Pichegru in Venezuela, who angrily rejected them. Pichegru regarded himself as a Meridian patriot and declared himself appalled by the French’s intrusion into Meridian and Hermandad territory. His actions may have been driven by the fact that, as a third-generation French immigrant, he came from a family used to having to proclaim their loyalty to the UPSA and rejection of being French cryptic reservists [fifth columnists].

    This left Pichegru isolated, a situation which led to many later American critics attacking President Faulkner for not intervening at this point to take back Venezuela. Some of Faulkner’s defenders argue that the full details of the situation there did not reach Fredericksburg until the moment had passed, but the reality is more likely that Faulkner was simply indifferent. Nonetheless, the ‘betrayal’ became a cause celebre of Princess Daniele’s exilic Venezuelan community in the ENA.

    If Faulkner would not take advantage of Pichegru’s isolation, Diego would. In a move that generations of schoolboys and –girls read about whilst slapping their foreheads in disbelief, Diego ignored the shadow to the south and attacked Pichegru’s forces. He cared only that the UPSA was no longer around to protest. Of course, this is only how it seems in hindsight. At the time, almost no-one realised the full implications of the Pandoric Revolution.

    Pichegru fought the New Granadines for six months. Berry refused to respond to Diego’s appeals for assistance; his role here was to promote peace, not war. Diego angrily therefore rejected calls to join the Marseilles Protocol, at a time when French protection might have saved New Granada from the Threefold Eye. Following the successful conquest of Venezuela, Pichegru and many of his officers fled overseas via Guyana (willing to help anyone with money). Pichegru became an important Refugiado voice himself, pointedly not in France (where many Refugiados went) but in that old nominal ally of the UPSA, Russia. The third country to see many Refugiados arrive was the Philippine Republic, now aligned with Siam, the country that had arguably dragged the UPSA into the Pandoric War in the first place. The Philippines was the only nation where Meridian Refugiados arrived in sufficient numbers, and from sufficiently powerful backgrounds, that they had a large impact on its politics and culture. It is likely this success we have to thank for the fact that the Combine, in the radical 1930s, rejected an ambitious (but very ideologically heterodox) proposal to use mass armies of assassins to hunt down and kill every last self-declared Meridian exile in the world, deleting the last trace of the UPSA identity. The Philippine example convinced the Rejes that there were simply too many to kill.

    Meanwhile, Verbeek had approached the Combine government in Zon1Urb1 with his proposals for Guyana to join the Combine. Although it is believed Alfarus suspected a trap, secret treaties were signed. In 1906, with the IEF intervention having come to an end in name and almost in reality, the Republic of Guyana formally announced it was dissolving and would voluntarily become part of the so-called Liberated Zones.

    1907 saw the French presence in South America once again reduced to French Guyana, which had been guaranteed by the Republic of Guyana as part of the agreement with Berry. Though the Combine would obviously not recognise a treaty signed with a nation (or the continued existence of national territory) as legitimate, this was allowed to stand de facto. The continued existence of French Guyana fit well with informal agreements that French subjects in Combine territory could retain their property. Having made those agreements, the Combine could then turn the screw on its laws to pressure those French subjects to leave its territory and go to French Guyana as a sort of enormous refugee camp. Many Frenchmen and –women living in what had been the UPSA thought twice about their decision to stay when speaking or writing their language became a legal offence, for example.

    At the start of 1908, aside from the aforementioned French Guyana, the only remaining non-Combine territory in South America was part of New Granada. Having had his famous army worn down through the conquest of Venezuela, King Diego then proceeded to lose it. This came by a combination of Guyanese-aided Kleinkrieger activity, followed by Celator armies. These openly moved in following Mercier’s victory in the 1905 French elections and the drawing down of French and IEF forces. By now, the Celatores had swapped their pre-war surplus blue or tan uniforms[4] for new bright white ones, at least when on parade. This aligned with Pedrus Dominikus’ rhetoric that the Celatores would be ‘spotless’, and any who committed the unforgiveable crime of slaying another human being would have permanently stained his uniform with blood, the mark of Cain that would lead to his (very, very delayed) execution. In practice, even when the impractical white uniforms were actually used in combat, well, those former PAWC chemists working on improving the Scientific Attack death-luft would have to find time to make some very, very good new stain removers.

    Venezuela was lost, and then much of antebellum New Granada, with former-Peruvian celatores conquering (and removing from the map) the provinces of Guayaquil, Quito and Loja. Santa Fe itself fell in the sweltering heat of July 1908. The New Spanish Emperor Charles VI, along with the Mexican and Guatemalan Kings Antonio III and Felipe, urgently pressured their Bourbon relative to allow them to appeal for help from President Faulkner and the ENA. It is doubtful whether they would have succeeded in any case, but Diego angrily rejected the call. He had become paranoid from his experiences, increasingly reluctant to rely on any of his ministers, seeing traitors everywhere. Gabriel had thrown in with one foe, he argued, while the rest of them had thrown in with another, and he had no more desire to be an American puppet than a Societist Zonal Rej. New Granada, his increasingly histrionic rhetoric stated, had thrown off her Hermandad shackles, and now she would stand or fall on her own merits.

    And she fell.

    Diego, it is believed, was killed in the ruins of San José, dying in almost the proverbial last ditch. This did not prevent many imitators claiming to be him from appearing in subsequent years of course. Such con men almost represent a separate genre of the Meridian Refugiado stereotype!

    Though the criticism of President Faulkner is often excessive and driven by hindsight, even his defenders will concede it was a mistake to allow the entirety of antebellum New Granada to fall into Societist hands. For that included the province of Panama, meaning that the divide between the ‘Liberated Zones’ and the free world would not lie at the edge of South America, but a little way along the isthmus. And that would have a remarkable consequence in the leadup to the Black Twenties...

    ====

    New art exhibition
    Marijk de Vries
    “The New Wave”
    Mayfair Exhibition Centre – X-Authorised Entry Only
    Page AX211 for tickets

    ====

    So you can see that the literary works created by the Refugiados from these different nations will have been driven by different factors. The enthusiastic embrace of the Fever Dream by Verbeek (and Guyana’s existing Dutch distinctiveness), the grim acceptance of Gabriel, the violent independence of Pichegru, the quixotic foolishness of Diego. All of these factors coloured the writings of the Refugiados from these lands of the Ecuadores, who so often are unthinkingly, crassly lumped in with ‘the Meridians’.

    This is not to say they always worked alone. Though their cultural work was not strictly literary, a great collaboration was seen at the Munich Declarations of May 4th 1909. The Pandoric War had ended a number of multinational celebrations and competitions, including both the Global Games and the WorldFests. The Munich Declarations were a joint effort by the governments of the Kingdom of Bavaria, the United Kingdom of Italy and the Scandivanian Empire (formally the Nordic Empire). Italy and Bavaria had grown discontented with the Marseilles Protocol after the failure of the IEF intervention, while Scandinavia was becoming increasingly nervous about its increasing subordination to Russia. The three countries united, not to proclaim a political alliance, but in a global call for a ‘return to normalcy’. Nonetheless, the subtext was clear, and it was from that day (now Multinational Day of Nationhood) that the Marseilles Protocol ceased to have much meaning outside of France’s most immediate vassals. The Governments of Bavaria, Scandinavia and Italy pledged funding to restart the dormant Global Games and WorldFests, as well as calling for new treaties to prevent the worst excesses of warfare from reoccurring. The latter became the Ratisbon Conventions, which among other things banned the use of death-luft in warfare, and codified protection of medics and journalists.

    It transpired later that while the Global Games revival was largely driven by Italian Marcello Portoghesi (and the first new games, in 1910, were held in his home city of Milan), the WorldFest programme was masterminded by two Ecuadores’ Refugiados. These were Piet de Groot of Guyana and Miguel Montoya of New Granada. Though the first restarted WorldFest (in 1911) was held in neutral Bavaria, in Munich itself, soon other countries were once again becoming involved in competing with one another for more and more ambitious hostings. In 1915, despite attempts at sabotage by Combine agents, France pointedly held a WorldFest in Bordeaux that was symbolically hosted by ‘absent friends’. The architecture and design of the WorldFest was unmistakably Meridian, and it was fronted by the Refugiado sculptor Rodrigo Campos, who had recently built his Telegraphy Enlightening the World statue.[5] Many theorists trace the beginning of Diversitarianism itself to this event, born from a combination of spite over the failure of the IEF, and growing concern over what was happening deep in the Combine.

    Alfarus and his dwindling number of yet-unpurged allies decided that this insult could not go unavenged. France had also volunteered to host the Global Games in 1916. Therefore, in an action that many commentators mistook for a return to antebelum normalcy merely under a different regime, in 1916[6] the Combine took the unprecedented step of sending athletes to compete...













    [1] “Aniseed rag” is the term used in TTL in lieu of “red herring”. Both phrases ultimately stem from the analogy that they were used to train scent hounds to follow a scent (or by hunt saboteurs to throw them off the real scent) but are not the actual intended prey of the hounds. In the same way, a ‘red herring’ (or ‘aniseed rag’) is a misleading clue in a detective (ratiocinic) novel that points the wrong way. In OTL ‘red herring’ was first popularised in a metaphorical sense in connection with an alleged defeat of Napoleon being incorrectly reported by the news in 1807.

    [2] NB this should be spelled Quiñones, but the Motext is not capable of displaying the tilde.

    [3] I.e. half-mercenary troops recruited from all over the Hermandad.

    [4] Traditionally the UPSA used blue uniforms, which by the time of the Great American War had become a sort of faded ‘horizon blue’. In the Pandoric War they used newer tan uniforms for better camouflage on many fronts, but many soldiers in non-frontline positions were still using the older blue ones.

    [5] See Interlude #16 in Volume IV.

    [6] See “Interlogue: Silence in the Library” from Volume V.
     
    261
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #261: Give Me Some Time, I’m Living in Twilight

    “No, that’s a negative. NEGATIVE. Neasden, Ealing, Greenwich...yes. Yes, no I mean! That’s a negative on bringing DESCARTES to White Gate. Authorisation GALAHAD is for Gold Dolphin only. Please acknowlerdge and confirm. And there’s an authorised French restaurant next to the Hoddesdon service station on the R14...yes, Hackney, Orpington, Deptford...yes. Just take him there. No, no-one will blame you if this leads to war with France over tubecooker-reheated dolphinish potatoes. White Gate out.”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Pages MS070A;L [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    INVENTIONS THAT CHANGED THE WORLD INDEX PAGE!

    ...

    These Motext pages will include recaps and supplementary information that we didn’t have time to cover in the Motoscope programmes. Just select the code option below for the programme you want!

    MS070C The Ypologist

    MS070D Asimcony

    MS070E The Standard Crate

    MS070F Photel

    MS070G Gunpowder

    MS070H The Aerodrome

    MS070J The Grooveplayer

    MS070K The Printing Press

    MS070L The Quister


    MS070L The Quister

    Loading...


    Patrick Neil Fitzgerald was born in the town of Macroom, Ireland in 1851. To all schoolchildren (at least in the English-speaking world) he is the inventor of the quister. In reality, as with most inventions, the quister was the result of painstaking work by many people in many different nations. However, given what Fitzgerald went through before the quister was accepted by the world, perhaps he deserves more credit than most!

    Fitzgerald studied law at Trinity College Dublin. It was still a time when academia tended to sneer on his real area of interest, engineering and the electrical sciences. This was especially true in the stuffy academia of Ireland, containing many old-fashioned British academics who had fled there from either Blandford or Populism. Trinity had always been an Irish answer to the old Oxbridge; now it preserved a memory of the old days in the age of a bonfire of tradition over St George’s Channel. Fitzgerald was never more than a moderately competent lawyer, but his studies in that area did at least stand him in good stead when it came to managing his patents later on.

    Electricity had been regarded for a long time as a scientific curiosity with no practical use. This rapidly changed with the introduction of Lectel by the Carolinians during the Great American War, shortly before Fitzgerald’s birth. However, even when Fitzgerald was a young man, things remained contentious due to the so-called ‘Telegraph Wars’. The existing Optel companies mostly sought to suppress and attack the new rival of Lectel, sometimes by open sabotage, sometimes by campaigns of character assassination in the press. A few of those companies instead embraced the new technology and tried to control it, but their rivals had succeeded in fogging the waters to at least some extent. Even after Lectel came out on top in the late 1870s and 1880s, the Optel companies could rely on a shrunken but loyal customer base—older people who believed the propaganda that Lectel was flawed and error-prone, or that their messages were being intercepted and read, or even that the cables themselves gave off dangerous invisible energies. With a breathtaking lack of self-awareness, some of the Optel companies even encouraged paranoid Sutcliffist gangs to cut Lectel cables and smash their pylons—these being very much the same kind of people who had been burning Optel towers and lynching their operators not so many decades before.

    Perhaps the contentiousness of this question is one reason why Fitzgerald’s electrical hobby did not take him into the field of Lectel. Ireland, quite conservative and adequately served by an extensive Optel network criss-crossing the relatively small island, was almost uniquely well-equipped to resist the siren song of Lectel, at least until the final decade of the nineteenth century. Instead, Fitzgerald looked into other applications of electricity. He was one of many inventors to experiment with precursors to the incandescent coalstuff lightglobe, which finally became commercially viable in the years following the Pandoric War.[1] He also worked with chemist Sean Alfred Doyle on electrochemistry, which contributed to the development of superior battery technologies.

    But Fitzgerald is, of course, best known for the quister. His work would have been impossible without that of his predecessors. Antonio Correa, a Portuguese exile working in Madrid (and later Lyon) secured a patent in 1885 for a device he called a “Phakophone”, Greek for ‘sound lens’. The name was derived from the idea that the device could be used to magnify sound, in the same way that a lens could magnify an image. In practice, it seems Correa’s claims in this regard were exaggerated. His device could convert sound into an electrical signal and then reconvert it back to sound, but there was little to no magnification (amplification) involved, as well as a dramatic reduction in sound fidelity. Correa’s device worked using a diaphragm to capture sound, a technology that had already been pioneered the previous decade by Kabanov and Deryabkin’s Phonosphrage (see our programme on The Grooveplayer).

    Correa had deduced that if a metal rod was joined to a vibrating diaphragm, then placed within a substance whose electrical viscosity would vary in response to the rod’s moment, the sound vibrations would be converted to an electrical analogue and then back again. This was in accordance with Riedel’s Rule, published in 1859, which related conductance, electric pressure and viscosity.[2] His choice of substance was water containing a small amount of vitriolic acid. His device worked as a proof of principle, but produced very poor quality sound when the electric signal was reconverted back again after being amplified. It might have been considered acceptable if Correa had transmitted the signal across Lectel wires and reproduced (imperfect) human speech on the other side of the country, but oddly (in hindsight) this does not appear to have occurred to him.[3] Some have suggested that Correa might have held some of the holdover anti-Lectel views circulating thanks to the Optel companies’ propaganda, or perhaps his wife did and he did not wish to antagonise her by going into that industry. Other historians have suggested that it really did never cross Correa’s mind due to his focus on one specific application for the technology, which is something which has frequently taken place with other inventors throughout history.

    Another set of early experiments stemmed from the work of Jeremiah Maybury and B. Franklin Holmes, two mining engineers who worked for the powerful First Westernesse Mining Corporation. Maybury was a workingman by birth who had fought his way up to management through practical experience, while Holmes was a middle-class academic who had studied at the University of St Lewis before taking employment with FWMC. Despite these disparate backgrounds, they were great friends and both were fascinated by the properties of the minerals they mined. In particular, Maybury was an advocate for the idea that FWMC should not simply seek to extract those minerals currently prized, but to seek applications for those that were presently thrown away as scrap. He had had a long career, and had become self-educated through libraries in what had come before. In particular, he cited the fact that the Spanish in New Granada had once thrown away vast amounts of platinum, dumping it in the sea, as they had seen it only as an adulterant for gold coins. It was not until research in Spain, funded by Charles III, that platinum could be successfully purified and worked. But then, its properties had led to it being in high demand, initially for non-tarnishing silver-coloured jewellery, and then in powdered form as a catalytic ignition device for gaslights. Maybury pointed out that many of the ‘useless’ materials being abandoned in the polluted slagheaps of Gualpa and Verdigris might be valuable in a few years as technology changed.

    Holmes, meanwhile, had been raised by an ornithologist father who was a Taxonomist—someone who celebrated Carl Linnaeus’ scientific achievements, and was angry that his legacy had been hijacked by Racist ideologies from the Jacobins to the Burdenists. Holmes had grown up reading his father’s Linnaeus books, and had come across some work that that versatile Swede had produced in 1747. Linnaeus (along with some other natural philosophers) had discovered that some minerals, such as tourmaline, could generate an electric pressure gradient [potential] in response to a temperature change.[4] This aspect of Linnaeus’ career, at least, had been largely ignored at the time, as the late eighteenth century had seen a temporary decline of interest in electricity as a field of research. However, Holmes was fascinated by the idea of what was dubbed ‘pyroelectricity’. As well as replicating Linnaeus’ results, he wondered if some materials might produce an electric pressure gradient if subjected to mechanical force rather than heating. He proved that this took place with Linnaeus’ tourmaline as well as other substances, including the quartz crystals that were largely abandoned (other than a few attractive examples as semi-precious jewellery) as by-products of the Arkensor mines. He and Maybury had discovered what was dubbed piezoelectricity (piezo- from the Greek word ‘to squeeze’).

    Piezoelectricity would go on to have important uses in later years, but was initially just a curiosity. Holmes did work with gunsmiths Martin Lovell and Julius Strecker on producing an ‘electro-lock’ firing mechanism for weapons as an alternative to compression-lock firing caps. However, this did not appear to bring any advances over the latter, and the project was abandoned when a shed was blown up during one experiment, burning fragments landing amongst the surprised folk in Coppertown market square.

    It is Holmes’ second attempt at a practical use, with Maybury, which interests us here. In 1889 Holmes used a crystal of Rochelle salt (kalium natrium tartrate)[5] as the basis of a Phakophone of his own (though he did not use that name). Possessing strong piezoelectric properties, the crystal’s electrical viscosity changed when subject to pressure (such as that from a voice against a diaphgram). Ironically, Holmes did realise the potential of being able to transmit the human voice over a long distance through wires, unlike Correa, but also unlike Correa he did not have the idea of electrically magnifying the signal to make this practical. Piezoelectric phakophones did become useful later on, but not for several decades after their invention.[6]

    We might, therefore, assume that Fitzgerald was the first to put those two concepts together. Even that is a contentious statement, however, with many other nations claiming other inventors as the ‘real’ one—as is their right. Many inventors were working on the concept at the same time. Fitzgerald is remembered for three reasons. Firstly, his earlier work on coalstuff filament lightglobes had given him familiarity with coalstuff’s electrical properties, which led him to invent the coalstuff phakophone in 1895.[7] Fitzgerald’s phakophone consisted of two metal plates, one thinner than the other, separated by a layer of coalstuff granules and with an electric current passed across the whole, imperfectly conducted by the coalstuff. The outer, thinner plate functioned as a diaphgram in response to the vibrations of a voice, which altered the pressure on the granules and therefore changed their electric viscosity. The variation produced by the sound pressure was therefore reproduced as a variation in the electric current, which could be magnified and transmitted through Lectel lines. The technology was very crude by later standards, but hard-wearing and functional.

    Fitzgerald experimented with one phakophone in his office at Trinity and a second down in the porters’ lodge, connected by a wire, with the idea that important visitors could be announced to him as they arrived. He was not secretive about the experiment, but it is believed that those helping him believed his device was a purely acoustic speaking-tube, as were already somewhat well known.[8] The idea of two tins joined by a taut string through a hole in the wall as a primitive communications device was also known, being notorious in contemporary fiction as a way for two lovers in adjacent rooms to get around their chaperones.[9]

    This was where Fitzgerald’s second advantage came into place, although it turned out to be a double-edged sword. He was a showman. Though only a mediocre lawyer, he was most effective when functioning as a counsel who could play to the court with his theatrical, dramatic rhetoric. He brought this same style to marketing his new product. Having tested his machine to the point that it was capable of transmitting sound of adequate quality across the city of Dublin, he decided to launch it. Using capital from a wealthy friend, he staged a demonstration in Temple Bar Square—a deliberately lower-class location where novelty would be viewed with interest rather than snobbishly rejected. This took place in July 1896, immediately prior to the outbreak of the Pandoric War. Passers-by gasped in wonder as they were invited to stand in a booth on one side of the street and speak into a horn, then heard it return the voices of their friends in the booth on the other side. Though the sound was crackly and imperfect, the demonstration worked. Hundreds of Dubliners became fascinated by the latest craze of the day.

    Unfortunately for Fitzgerald, the means he had chosen to demonstrate his new patent—though effective—led to him being shunned by higher society. His machine was dismissed as a mere toy to appeal to the credulous lower classes. The name ‘Phakophone’ for the speech input devices did not help, sounding uncomfortably like the words ‘fake’ and ‘phoney’.[10] As for the whole system, Fitzgerald had wanted to call it the Televox (far-speaker), already envisaging that Lectel-style lines would carry voices from Belfast to Cork and beyond. However, dismissive write-ups in the Irish Register and the Dublin Comet would give it the name it has born in most countries since: the Ventriloquist Machine, or Quister for short.

    Undaunted by the fact that he was now being shunned by legal high society, Fitzgerald persisted with his work. This was his third advantage; the Pandoric War had intervened, and he had several years to perfect his invention. The combination of the war distraction, and the press’ cold reception to his demonstration, meant that other inventors around the world were slow to jump on the bandwagon. The Quister did not seem to have many war applications, even to those who actually believed it was real and not an elaborate hoax, so the Irish government did not trouble Fitzgerald during the war years. Finally, in the immediate aftermath of the Third Glorious Revolution in England and Scotland, with panicked crowds on the streets of Dublin, Fitzgerald approached the new government of Brian Mulcahy (Xavier Finucane having just tendered his resignation to the Duke of Mornington). Fitzgerald offered his invention to Mulcahy as a means to speed up voice communication between government buildings without needing Lectel couriers. At a time when it seemed likely that Ireland was about to be invaded by either English or American troops, Mulcahy seized upon the idea as a way to look like he was doing something.[11]

    The rest of the world had become used to dismissing the Ventriloquist Machine as a hoax or toy, when they thought of it at all, and it was quite a surprise to see the refined, reliable product of a few years’ extra work in use by the Irish government. Companies around the world rapidly began building their own machines under patent, though Fitzgerald’s hopes for the name’ ‘Televox’ remained vain ones. Ever afterwards, men and women would speak of quisting one another. The one exception was Scandinavia, which did adopt ‘Televox’ because ‘quist’ sounded like the Swedish word for ‘twig’ and sounded absurd.

    Fitzgerald’s design had mostly been built around the assumption that there would be a closed loop of two, or at most three or four, Phakophones, and there was nothing to prevent everyone speaking at once. While adequate for Mulcahy’s government buildings, this was unsuitable for a network stretching across a whole country with thousands of users. Two Polish engineers, Tadeusz Lomacz and Dawid Kuszczak, were the first to develop the Quister Hub, so called by analogy to railway hubs.[12] Hubs had already been in use for Lectel systems, but proved even more useful for quisters. In the early days, hubs simply had all the electrical cables from the quisters coming together at a single switchboard, where the operator would physically link one cable end to another using a linking wire. Typically, the person placing the quist would first tell the operator whom he or she was trying to contact, and then the operator would find the relevant cable end and link them. The link would only be broken when the call was over. Soon, the numbers of people using quisters meant that more elaborate, hierarchical switchboards were needed, and numbers and location markers were used to simplify finding a user in the increasingly large list. Books of quist numbers were produced almost as soon as the system appeared, with the earliest subscribers typically being doctors and other essential businesses. Public quist stations first appeared in Prague in 1905, where members of the public who lacked their own quister at home could place quists to these businesses for a fee.

    Indeed, Prague soon eclipsed Dublin as the centre of quister research, and for good reason. King John II’s Russian-imposed throne was very shaky, as the riots of 1904 proved. Tsarevich Paul, an enthusiast for new technologies (as later events proved) saw the quister as a potential means of controlling dissent and coordinating imperial forces. Given the vast gulfs of the Russian Empire (which both Optel and Lectel has struggled in turn to link up), he decided to start smaller by attempting to stabilise the Czechosilesian kingdom. The Russian secret police, the Okhrana,[13] was already in the habit of opening and reading the postal letters and Lectel messages of Russian subjects on a routine basis. Not a few Okhrana men had done well for themselves in exploiting the stock-trading information they encounted in such important state security operations. But the quister...the quister was already proving popular, and people even in other nations were accustomed to the idea that the operator was potentially listening in on their conversation. Yet, as a number of newspapers had remarked, quist users seemed to forget this and talk as though the operator was not there even when they certainly were. It was a perfect opportunity to expand state surveillance of those subversive elements.

    The real breakthrough in Czechosilesia, however, was the realisation that the system could also be used one-way to transmit music or audio-only plays from a single source to many recipients. Starting in 1906, operas, concerts and other media were transmitted by the Vzdivaldo state company. At this time, Photel sets were banned or heavily restricted in Russia and the other Vitebsk Union states.[14] The Imperial Soviet feared that the technology was too difficult to control and there were too many possibilities of unauthorised stations. (This fear was, of course, unjustified, as the Combine quite successfully ran an autocratic Photel system in the same years—whilst ironically being suspicious of quisters!)

    The centralised quist system, generically dubbed Dalekodeon (from the Russian word for ‘faraway’ and the Greek word for ‘theatre’) provided an alternative source of entertainment for Czechosilesian, and later Polish, Lithuanian and Russian, subjects. It was also sometimes used in other countries, but generally could not compete with Photel.[15] The much larger rollout of Dalekodeon systems in Russia itself was masterminded by the Imperial Tarefikhov Company, a corporate body which had begun as a railway company (as the name implies) but had moved on to Lectel and now a new technology in turn. ITC was able to use its existing Lectel infrastructure and experience to speed up the development of the Dalekodeon network.

    From the point of view of the user, the Dalekodeon node (commonly abbreviated by its users) was a large, roughly conical or pyramidal device whose outer case was made of tough hardwoods. The more expensive ones were typically decorated with impressive Slavicist artwork or carvings. The node often occupied pride of place in a living room. The content of programmes available became more diverse, with comedies and more populist dramas, and systems were developed to allow switching between multiple channels. The nodes became a status symbol for the Russian middle-classes, with state-backed schemes helping even the poorer end of this bracket afford a node via breaking up the cost or rental. Isolated villages and city slums typically got one larger version (later often amplified with an Augmentophone compressed-air device) run by the mayor or other local authority figure, to which passers-by could listen in exchange for a small fee.

    What was ‘known’ to everyone, of course, was that the Dalekodeon nodes could be made more cheaply than ‘proper’ quisters because they were only one-way; they only produced sound, rather than detecting it. Any engineers who pointed out that the diaphragms could always work both ways were quietly silenced. Tsarevich Paul had successfully persuaded a large portion of his vast empire’s population to place a listening post for the secret police into their own homes...

    *

    From: Motext Pages MS191A [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    Welcome to the Motext tie-in page for our new historical documentary series, “The Bear and the Basilisk”. In this series, historians led by Sir Roger Palfrey and Anna Weatheringham will be taking us back to the days of the turn of the last century. They will try to answer the question that a generation of kids in history classes always ask—why didn’t people in the 1900s see how dangerous the Combine and Societism would become? Why didn’t they try to stamp it out then and there, when it was weak? How could they be so blind, so stupid?

    Of course, they weren’t blind or stupid. This is an illustration of the folly of trying to make sense of the past when viewing it through the tinted lenses of hindsight. Today, it seems ‘obvious’ to us that Alfarus’ regime was the most dangerous one around at the time. But that wasn’t the case back then. South America was far away. The Societists had barely fought off a French intervention, something which we’d have expected the old UPSA to do anyway. And a lot of people still thought of the Combine as being just the UPSA, or its wider alliance the Hermandad, under a new regime. It would take a long time for the truth to become clear.

    That’s a negative point, why people underestimated the Combine. But you’ll probably have heard that before. Instead of talking about why they underestimated the Combine, let’s talk about why they overestimated other potential threats. Or did they, in fact, overestimate them? Do we only call those judgements wrong now because of how history turned out? As the speculative romantics will remind us, it could have been very different!

    If an ultratellurian[16] looked upon the world of 1910, he might well say there was one regime that was obviously going to be a major threat to world peace in the future. But it wouldn’t be the Combine, still slowly rebuilding after the war and the intervention, painstakingly constructing the nightmare of the Final Society. Nor would it be the ENA, retreating into self-accusation and dreams of Social Americanism; nor France, the lofty ambitions of the Marseilles Protocol brought crashing down by the embarrassment of the failed intervention. Perhaps it might be powerful China, but China had got what it wanted, for the most part; it was newly reunited, that ancient scar was healing, and its people were consumed with deciding what the future now looked like.

    No, the obvious threat to the future was the one empire that had come out of the Pandoric War virtually unscathed, save for the loss of its largely useless Beiqing puppet state. The empire that had crushed its rivals in Europe, swatted away its old Ottoman foe and pushed back the Americans on their own home continent, yet whose rulers remained unsatisfied. That land was confident in its swagger, fuelled by ever-growing industrial production, convinced of its cultural special place in history.

    Russia.

    And, of course, one could not strictly say that ultratellurian was wrong. We think back on the Black Twenties by focusing on their aftermath, the vile harvest of the Doctrine of the Last Throw. We do not stop to think about whose actions produced the circumstances which made it possible for Alfarus to throw the dice at all...







    [1] In OTL the carbon filament lightbulb first became practical in the early-to-mid 1880s, and was eclipsed by the tungsten filament lightbulb about twenty to thirty years later. ‘Coalstuff’ for carbon is the agreed scientific term in TTL, based on an anglicisation of German Kohlenstoff.

    [2] OTL Ohm’s Law, published in 1827, though not widely accepted until the 1840s. Note that while TTL still uses the term ‘current’, ‘pressure’ is used instead of ‘voltage’ and ‘viscosity’ instead of ‘resistance’.

    [3] In OTL Alexander Graham Bell’s famous first telephone experiment did use a liquid microphone of this type.

    [4] Linnaeus also did this in OTL. He got about a bit.

    [5] AKA sodium potassium tartrate in OTL. It was first isolated by an apothecary in Rochelle in 1675, hence the name.

    [6] In OTL piezoelectric or ‘crystal’ microphones were often used in valve / tube radio sets, but were typically subject to high levels of noise from the electrical impedence of the crystal.

    [7] I.e. the carbon microphone.

    [8] These were already in use by the turn of the nineteenth century. In OTL, the wheel of HMS Victory was shot away by enemy fire during the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, but a speaking-tube was used to issue steering orders from the quarterdeck all the way down to where sailors were working the tiller manually.

    [9] In OTL this was dubbed the ‘lovers’ telephone’ by the Victorians.

    [10] The word ‘phoney’ is thought to have originated in Ireland in the eighteenth century.

    [11] Properly this should be ‘British or American’, but this writer, like many people, tends to act as though Great Britain was split up immediately after the Third Glorious Revolution.

    [12] Called a telephone exchange in OTL, similarly by analogy to railway exchanges.

    [13] This term was also used in OTL for the Tsarist secret police. It long postdates the POD of TTL, but simply means ‘guards’ and would be a likely choice for any similar organisation.

    [14] ‘Vitebsk Union’ is a (largely anachronistic at this point) term used to describe Russia and her allies and vassals, the name stemming from a series of treaties signed in the city of Vitebsk across a period from the 1880s to the 1920s.

    [15] A similar OTL system, the Théâtrophone, was first demonstrated in France in 1881 (and listened to by, among others, Victor Hugo). Coming a decent time before radio, it managed to hang on as an alternative until the 1930s.

    [16] Alien.
     
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    262
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #262: Indian Spring

    “What do you mean, DESCARTES doesn’t like cur—I mean, Clerkenwell Uxbridge Rainham Rainham Yiewsley? He’s French, isn’t he? ... How did White Gate find the one Frenchman who doesn’t like curry? ... Fine, take him to the Refugiado steakhouse instead.”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​


    *

    From: Motext Pages MS118A;F [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    THE GREAT CIVILISATIONS INDEX PAGE

    Welcome to the Motext index page for The Great Civilisations, Series IV: The Indian Subcontinent. (Information on the previous series, The Orient, The Nusantara and The Mediterranean, can be found on Motext Archive index page AR118A). The previous series are regularly repeated on Public Pulsefeed 3, on a two-year delay after the initial broadcast of that series on the HorizonStar MotoSub Service.

    Thank you to all our viewers for continuing to push our reported ratings to record levels! To quote a Mote-letter we received from Mavis H, 32, from Chorley—let us hope that we are able to keep making new series of The Great Civilisations until we are able to make an event about the as-yet-nonexistent civilisation of Australia!

    This series is presented by Dr Jemima Tibbetts, descendant of the great adventurer Edgar Tibbetts, and the University of Calcutta historian Prof Jagadish Bhattacharya.[1] There will always be information that even these fine presenters cannot cover in an hour, so to go alongside the magnificent vistas of their travels through space and time, see the pages below for supplementary information.

    MS118B Indusians, Aryans and Dravidians[2]

    MS118C From Alexander to Ashoka

    MS118D Gupta, Bisnaga and Delhi
    [3]

    MS118E Moguls, Marathas, Europeans

    MS118F The Retreat from Empire


    MS118F The Retreat from Empire

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    As we’ve seen in previous programmes, the one common factor to Indian history is that the subcontinent, which seems simplistically on maps to be a natural choice to become a single empire, has proved surprisingly resistant to unification. That innocent triangle shape on the map hides many complexities and perils for the would-be conqueror. The great Indo-Gangetic Plain stretches from the fertile river valley of the Indus in the west, with its ancient civilisations, to the Ganges and Brahmaputra in the east. The Plain is hemmed in from the north by the great Himalaya mountains of Gorkhana[4] and the Thar Desert, while to the south, numerous lesser mountain ranges carve up the rest of the subcontinent. The Vindhya Range and Balaghat Range form the northern and southern bounds of the great valley of the Godavari. Farther south still lies the Deccan Plateau and the two ranges of the Ghats, dividing the coastlines from the interior. The important point is that the region we may so dismissively called ‘India’ is almost predisposed towards division and diversity. BEIC Governor-General James Pulteney Howlett foreshadowed the precepts of later Diversitarian writers when he described the subcontinent as ‘that great rough gemstone with a thousand many-coloured facets...to cut and polish her would be to kill her magic’.

    Few empires have managed to unite even most of this region for any length of time. We’ve already seen how the great conqueror Ashoka of the Mauryan Empire, on finally bringing the rival nation of Kalinga (modern Chola[5]) under his control, became sickened at the bloodshed he had unleashed, and converted to Buddhism as a consequence. His empire collapsed after his death. The later Gupta Empire, although responsible for what many view as a golden age two centuries long, nonetheless failed to bring all of the south under its control. The original Moguls (also spelled Mughals) came closer, but still remained unable to subdue much of modern Bisnaga, at the southern tip of the Deccan Peninsula, even at their height under the great Shah Jahan.

    What of the Europeans, those brash conquerors from beyond the seas who, elsewhere in the world, thought nothing of casting ancient empires into the flames and arrogantly drawing straight lines through the middle of ancestral boundaries? If anyone could unite India as a single, enduring entity, surely it would be them. Yet the men of Europe, above all else, desired wealth; and that, not simplifying the map, was their driving impulse. Like their Roman ancestors, they established trading posts on the coastlines of India; unlike those ancestors, they were in a position to take advantage of the declining power of native empires. The original Moguls had decayed since the reign of Aurangzeb and would eventually be displaced by the Afghan Durrani dynasty, who also proceeded to destroy the power of the Hindu Maratha Empire at the Third Battle of Panipat. The Durranis themselves would suffer from infighting, of course. The Nizam of Haidarabad, originally a viceregal role appointed by the Mogul Emperor, gradually became ruler of an independent empire, as did the Nawab of Bengal and the Nawab of Arcot (among others). Mysore, a southern Hindu kingdom which had broken away from the original Bisnaga Empire, also asserted its independence and power.

    These were only the largest of the crucial states, of which there were many. Germany’s Holy Roman Empire has been named a ‘cartographer’s nightmare’, but even it pales into comparison beside India, in almost any era of history. Like the HRE, India’s complexity stems from the fact that there is no firm dividing line between battles between independent states and struggles between competing dynasties in one state. Historians struggle to find narratives, when hindsight suggests one such dispute should be seen through the first lens and another through the second—but this may stem from later, unconnected acts of chance which saw borders redrawn.

    Into this chaotic mess, as we saw in episode 4, European trading companies jammed in their metaphorical crowbars and began opening cracks to reach India’s wealth. The British began in Calcutta, Bombay (acquired from Portugal in 1661) and Madras, the latter being lost to France after the Second War of Supremacy. France’s victory, added to her existing outpost in Pondicherry, led to growing French control over what we would now call Bisnaga, including the subordination of Mysore. Britain was largely restricted to Bengal and her neighbours, taking more direct control after the betrayal of Nawab Siraj-ud-Daulah during the Third War of Supremacy. Portugal, based out of the old colonial capital of Goa redoubled her colonial efforts after the Lisbon earthquake of the mid-eighteenth century. Through a series of conflicts, the Portuguese managed to assert a leading position of influence within the remnant of the Maratha Confederacy, with a puppet Peshwa based out of Poona. The small Danish Asiatic Company retained Calicut in modern Bisnaga and a few other outposts, while the Dutch controlled South Malabar (sometimes leasing Calicut as well from the Danes/Scandinavians) and most of Ceylon, save for the defiant native Kingdom of Kandy.

    The Europeans fought one another for Indian trade, but ultimately no power was able to rise to dominate the whole of India.[6] Following the French Revolution, backed by Mysore, Britain’s Governor-General Pitt formed an accord with his French counterpart Rochambeau to suppress the rebellion. This led to the formation of the India Board, which—with some hiccups along the way—served to form a framework to stabilise southern India for trade for the next few decades.

    Even at the peak of Europeans’ power in India, the northern reaches of the subcontinent remained out of their grasp. The Neo-Mogul Empire, arisen from the eastern fragment of the old Afghan Durrani Empire, enjoyed a brief revival of power. The crucial Indo-Gangetic Plain with its huge population, today mostly united within the Commonwealth of Panchala, was at that time divided between British-backed Oudh [Awadh], Portuguese-backed dominions of the powerful Maratha Scindia and Holkar families, and the Neo-Moguls themselves, including their capital of Delhi. The Neo-Moguls also ruled Rajputana (whose borders were somewhat different to that of the modern state), parts of Punjab, and Sindh, today part of Kalat. The Gorkhas also served to put up an effective barrier to British expansion. Europeans did conduct some trade with these two native empires, but it was always on equal terms. By contrast, when Haidarabad—hemmed in from all sides by European-backed powers—caused trouble, its Nizam had an ‘unaccountable riding accident’ and was replaced with his more pliable son.

    A number of factors served to bring this comfortable situation to an end. Britain’s power declined at the expense of the Empire of North America, which became a more dominant (but less hands-on) force in the government of Bengal. France’s changes of government following the retirement of Bonaparte tended to result in a confused and erratic policy, though France remained the pre-eminent European power within India. Portuguese power eventually collapsed in a meaningful sense with the Panico de ’46 and the Portuguese Revolution. The Dutch Republic ceased to exist after the Popular Wars, with Ceylon instead being one of the few success stories for the Belgian Ostend Company as it attempted to roll up the old Dutch empire.

    But, of course, these all pale into comparison beside the Great Jihad. Faruq Kalam, the Mahdi, led his fanatical supporters—including many foreign fighters from as far afield as North Africa and the Philippines—in a great holy war against the Europeans and Christians of southern India. At least, that is how it started; as with many such endeavours, it soon became an excuse to rape, loot and plunder, with fellow Muslims just as viable targets as infidels. The Mahdi began by theoretically toppling the Neo-Mogul Empire, but Nadir Shah II seized power, made gestures of ‘purification’ and turned the mujahideen to the south. Undoubtedly Nadir spared his own people much suffering, though historians and archaeologists are less than willing to forgive him for some of those gestures. It remains a great tragedy that, for example, we only know the Taj Mahal, the great mausoleum of Shah Jahan’s queen Mumtaz Mahal, through sketches made by earlier travellers (and some jewels ‘liberated’ from its ruins by Liam Wesley).[7]

    The Mahdi’s army of mujahideen left a vast and confusing list of atrocities in their wake. Lucknow and Bombay would take decades to be rebuilt in their former glory. Haidarabad, which overthrew its Nizam in a revolution only vaguely connected with the Mahdi, would in turn clash with his forces and ultimately not survive as an independent nation. As late as the 1870s, some spoke of a coherent Neo-Mogul Empire surviving in the north. But as jihadi armies returned home and did not cease their pillaging activities, European maps of the 1880s leave an uncomfortable white gap in the Indo-Gangetic Plain that more evoked unexplored areas of Africa or the Arctic. Some compared it to Bavaria or Portugal at their worst, when civilisation was cut off from any news of what was happening there. This popularly became known as the ‘Aryan Void’, thanks to some intrepid European and native ethnographers and archaeologists who risked the wrath of the jihadi murderers by looking for Indusian and Aryan artefacts before the iconoclasts could find and destroy them.

    Like the final stages of the Thirty Years’ War in Germany two centuries earlier, it is hard to exaggerate the endless misery that the Mahdi’s fanaticism had wrought on India. He had also created a power vacuum, which was exploited not so much by the exhausted old colonial powers of France, Britain and Portugal—the latter two now more or less subsumed by the ENA and UPSA respectively—but by new ones. The former Portuguese/Maratha territories became ‘Senhor Oliveira’s Company,’ a subsidiary of PAWC, which also rebuilt Bombay (abandoned by the British). A Meridian government attempt to take direct control in 1884 was rebuffed, an important symbolic moment showing the increasing power of the UPSA’s corporations.[8] In 1896, during the Pandoric War, the company would effectively be signed over to the neutral French in order to prevent its conquest by Anglo-American forces, one of the great victories of the ‘French Vulture’.[9] However, French control would prove to be weak, with distractions from France’s commitments elsewhere.

    Meanwhile, the smashed remnants of Haidarabad, Berar and Bundelhand were combined with the formerly British-administered Circars and Guntoor itself to form the International Guntoor Region. While non-Meridian traders had operated within ‘Senhor Oliveira’s Company’, it was here where the New Imperialists really hit their stride. Initially run largely by French and Anglo-American traders, the incredibly corrupt and exploitative IGR (exposed by Voroshilov’s investigative journalism in 1889) was a perfect opportunity for the ambitious and unscrupulous across the world. No longer did small or newly-unified countries need to stake their own claims; the companies of nations like Scandinavia, Spain, Italy and Belgium could operate in this international territory. Germans did not participate to the same extent due to the arrogant Bundeskaiser’s proclamations of separate colonial ambitions (which amounted to almost nothing but a drain on the treasury in the end). However, Europeans also no longer saw the need to work on behalf of their governments. Plenty of Germans, unaccountably not being attracted to Chancellor Wittenberg’s glorious colonial empires of Puntland and New Guinea, operated as private traders instead. So too did many Danubians and others.

    What was transformational was the fact that, for the first time, non-European traders were coming to India.[10] The Kingdom of Corea is often highlighted as an exemplar, due to the fact that King Geongjong established a formal Corean East India Company[11] in 1885 on coming to the throne. However, Corean traders had been operating independently in the IGR for much longer, reflecting a shift in the newest generation of Silhak political theorists to look farther afield in order to resist Russian influence on the kingdom. While Geongjong’s actions increased Corean involvement in the IGR, they were in some ways a recognition of an existing status quo. Corea was not the only Asian nation to become involved, either, with some Siamese traders active there too (though regarded with considerable suspicion by the Anglo-Americans due to their historical clashes with Burma). A few Mauré traders are also recorded. Indeed, to name all the nationalities that participated in the IGR would take an episode in itself. There are even disputed records of traders from the Cherokee Empire operating there, to add even more confusion to the historical use of the term ‘Indian’!

    These nations, or people of those nationalities, arrived by sea to exploit the weakened nations of India. But what of those powers which need not cross the ocean to reach India?

    To the east, China, which had already subdued Tibet and Gorkhana by 1878,[12] pushed her influence into northern India for the remainder of the century. After a brief attempt to restore the old kingdom of Oudh under the Sinicised name ‘Awude’, Chinese military forces and adventurers instead established a state called ‘Jushinajieluo’ (usually contracted to ‘Jushina’ in western sources), named after the Chinese rendering of Kushinagore / Kushinagar, the legendary site of the Buddha’s death. As Kushinagar was only a small town, bestowing its name to a hugely populous state (even after the Mujahideen’s deprivations) was a telling sign that its role was to provide a tourist destination for Chinese Buddhist pilgrims. Chinese colonialism in India frequently focused on this point, although trade was also important. Both factors led to improved transport links (which would ultimately form the basis of the casus belli of the Pandoric War, due to border disputes over Siam involving new railways). By the time of that outbreak of war, China had even gained influence over Delhi, reduced to its own small state by the decades of miserable conflict following the Jihad. The Delhi state also included the ancient city of Agra, which had been particularly badly damaged by the Jihad and took even longer to recover than Lucknow or Bombay.

    To the west, Persia expanded her own influence. Earlier in the century, she had taken advantage of the collapse of the West Durrani Empire to push her frontiers to Herat and Nishapur, and to gain suzerainty over Kalat. Gujarat and Rajputana would both fall under Persian control in the aftermath of the Jihad. Only the ungovernability of much of the mountainous Afghan lands prevented the Persians from pushing their influence deeper into India. The former Maratha territories of Malwa and Indore formed an ‘inlet’ of the white Aryan Void on European maps, due to the fact that they were squeezed between the farthest extent of Persian and Chinese influence, respectively, yet the Europeans could not agree on who was to exploit them. The result is that they often fell victim to individual adventurers who found even the IGR too regulated.

    To the north, finally, lay Russia and her Tartar vassals. The Tsar and the RLPC had generally taken the view (influenced by experience in Lithuania, and arguably the reverse in Yapon) that attempting to control the Tartar realms directly was likely to be more trouble than it was worth. Instead, unequal treaties were signed with the remnant of the once-great Kazakh Khaganate, as well as Khiva, Bukhara, Balkh and Samarkand.[13] While Russian attempts to push influence into the Afghan lands met with little more success than the Persians’, the Russians did control the Khyber Pass and were able to exert increasing influence into the northern Indo-Gangetic Plain. The degree of Russian influence was not widely noted by European or Novamundine powers at this point, and was regarded with shock when it became public in the years immediately following the Pandoric War. Spies had underestimated Russia’s penetration of India because much of the detailed decisions were taken near-independently by a Russian government operation in Samarkand, not dissimilar to how the RLPC operated in the Orient and North America. Though it helped Russia in the short run, this method would store up problems for later on.

    It transpired that Russia had set up allies in the battered north of the Indo-Gangetic Plain, including the Afghan state of Kafiristan (which saw any non-Muslim power as a natural ally), the Sikh Empire (which had successfully resisted the Jihad at a great price) and Kashmir, formerly ruled by the Sikhs but now having broke away. These three states would eventually become the modern, fractious Republic of Pendzhab.[14]

    It has been said by some historians that India foreshadowed the twentieth century, that India’s great diversity contained, like a chrysanthemum, all the complexity of the world reflected in a macrocosm. This observation is often taken as a crass, simplistic description—that as the Aryan Void shrank and vanished between the expansions of Persia, Russia and China, a key clash of the Black Twenties would emerge. But precisely which clash of the possible ones between the three empires took place would prove crucial, the hints for which required knowledge of lands far away and how Peter V had viewed Russia’s recognition of Emperor Weili.

    No, those historians have a subtler meaning in mind. Look to the attitudes of the French. When Britain ceased to exist and President Faulkner privatised Bengal to pay for his Social Americanism programmes,[15] France became not only the pre-eminent European or Novamundine power in India, but almost the only one left to still exert any kind of direct control, not working via corporate interests. The response of the French, both their government and through the FEIC’s minority control of the increasingly less relevant India Board, indeed captured a neat macrocosm of the failures of the established powers in the 1900s and 1910s. At this time, the Combine was sending traders to India, exploiting the fact that the French had decided to throw the ‘Concan Confederacy’ (formerly Senhor Oliveira’s Company) open to international trade like the IGR. The French became very suspicious of these traders. This might be seen as understandable—after all, French forces had been clashing with the Combine’s Celatores not long before. However, the French persisted in seeing the Societists as just the UPSA under a different government, and their suspicion centred on the idea that these traders would seek to regain ‘their country’s’ former influence over the Concan region. Because of this, the FEIC placed heavy restrictions on Societists (or rather, those from the former UPSA) trading in Concan.

    But it was all a deception, a work by Alfarus’ subordinate Mardinus Delfinus. While all eyes were on Concan, it was in the old IGR, left with a power vacuum by the fortune of the Pandoric War, already so corrupted by pre-Societist forces of internationalism, that the armies of the Threefold Eye went to work...










    [1] No relation to the OTL astronomer by that name, usually known as J. C. Bhattacharya.

    [2] ‘Indusians’ is the slightly awkward term used in TTL for the Indus Valley Civilisation. This is also called the Harappan civilisation in OTL, but that is just because the first site happened to be excavated near a place called Harappa, and the happenstance of TTL archaeology will naturally be different.

    [3] Bisnaga is the Portuguese rendering of Vijayanagara, a Hindu-dominated southern Indian empire of the fourteenth to sixteenth century. It is also used in TTL to describe an architectural style and was revived as the name for a post-colonial state.

    [4] I.e. Nepal. The term ‘Nepal’ being used for the whole country in OTL relates to details of its unification which are different in TTL. ‘Gorkhana’ is a western back-formation from Gorkha or Gorkhali.

    [5] A name used for a nation in the present day of TTL—one of those really questionably-chosen post-colonial names, as the nation in question isn’t even that close to the historical centre of the Chola dynasty. ‘Orissa’ (now spelled Odisha in OTL) would have been less confusing, but as always, politics plays a role.

    [6] Unlike OTL, of course. The fact that India was never united as a colonial venture has coloured historiography in TTL to presume that a disunited India is its default state.

    [7] Technically Wesley had got them in Bengal from a Neo-Mogul soldier who had originally taken them—see Part #213.

    [8] See Part #222.

    [9] See Part #229.

    [10] This is a bit of an exaggeration to say the least, but saying ‘more of them came and more under government authority’ doesn’t sound as good in a documentary!

    [11] The term used in English translation. In Corea it was known as Cheonchuk Sangin (India Traders), using the Corean form of the ancestral Chinese name for India, Tianzhu (from ‘Hindu’ or ‘Indus’ via Persian) and a word for traders or business.

    [12] In the form of the Anxi Army under Hao Xingjian and Martin Hiedler, only retroactively proclaimed an official Imperial mission, which is rather brushed over here—see Part #218.

    [13] Samarkand was ruled by Bukhara and abandoned in the mid-eighteenth century, but in TTL a Turkmen dynasty took over the city and created an independent, Russian-backed state. Balkh is the centre of a state which controls the northern part of OTL Afghanistan.

    [14] Based on a Russian transliteration of ‘Punjab’. As with some of the other post-colonial names, this isn’t a very accurate name, taking in territories well outside historical Punjab and not all of historical Punjab itself.

    [15] This isn’t a very fair description of what actually happened.
     
    263
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #263: Mending the China

    “White Gate to all stations. Gold Dolphin has received DESCARTES. Barking Barking Six confirms. Consultation is ongoing. (Pause with some static) Keep a Tyburn Islington Neasden Lewisham Islington Deptford on this one, lads!”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​


    *

    From: Motext Page AD903A [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    BEIQING CERAMICS EXHIBITION AT THE NATIONAL MUSEUM OF ENGLAND

    12th September 2019 – 14th March 2020
    R15.0.0 adult entry, children under 12 and pensioners R5.0.0
    Special discounts when you book through Motext!


    Although skilled craftsmen still practice in China to this day, the porcelain of the Beiqing Dynasty is considered by many scholars to be the last true product of traditional Chinese ceramic artistry. In the nineteenth century, when the precursor to modern China was rapidly industrialising and turning out identical factory-made, process-production wares to feed the appetites of a growing middle class, its northern rival modernised only slowly and reluctantly. The ruling classes in Beijing, then the Beiqing capital, yearned for earlier and simpler times. They idolised the traditional arts of a single gifted master, whether it be in the fields of calligraphy, painting—or pottery.

    Towards the end of the Beiqing period, this preserved remnant of the old Qing Dynasty was also hamstrung by its Russian ‘protectors’. The Russians deliberately also limited Beiqing industrialisation to keep the northern state dependent on its distant masters. The Russians more or less unilaterally conscripted Beiqing peasants as corvee labourers to work in the RLPC factories of Siberia, Yakutia and New Muscovy in North America. As well as the poor majority, who were plucked from a desperate farming existence to an equally desperate factory one in an unfamiliar setting, the Russians also took others. Some Beiqing artists and craftsmen, in particular those who had offended Emperor Jianing or his successors, were also forced into these Russian factories. While some of them rose to become foremen or designers, it is true that (as the Feng Chinese poet Tang Binglin would later write) forcing an artist to churn out soulless process-produced wares was a punishment far more diabolical than any of the mutilations that historical emperors had favoured.

    Some of these geniuses resisted their captivity, however, and found ways to put their own mark on the supposedly identical factory-made bowls and cups being issued to Russian soldiers serving in Tartary or Yapon. Rare examples of such wares have earned pride of place in this exhibition, dull and mean though they may appear at first glance in comparison to the glittering masterpieces of those master potterers in Beijing who had kept the Emperor’s favour.

    Of course, by the time of the Emperor Quanyu, better known to history as ‘Little Weili’,[1] the Emperor’s favour was often what his Russian ‘advisors’ had told him it was...

    *

    From: Motext Pages CU145D-F [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    Leaders Who Changed the World, Episode 3: The Xuanming Emperor (1837-1905) These pages supplement the IMB moto series with further information – see page CU145A for index and time and date for the next episode to be broadcast.

    The man known to history as Xuanming the Great was born in 1837, the third son of Zhu Zhengyu, the Prince of Deng (who became the Jixu Emperor in 1843). His father’s title is indicative of the ambitions that a prince of the new and still-shaky Feng Dynasty should possess. While Chinese historians did (and do) disagree over exactly where the capital of the historical state of Deng was, it is certain that virtually all its territory lay in Henan and Hubei provinces, both of which were almost entirely outside Feng control when the future Xuanming was born.

    The Emperor Xuanming did not create or lead the rise of Feng China from a mere southern rebellion to one of the most powerful dynasties China has ever seen. The process had begun before he was even born. Yet to many both inside and outside China, he is personally synonymous with that process. His reign is often portrayed as one of unambiguous victory piled upon victory, the unstoppable ascendancy of the Middle Kingdom back to its rightful place and under a legitimate Han dynasty. It actually contained a number of reversals and missteps, like that of any earthly ruler. The fact that these are ignored or dismissed is an illustration of three things. Firstly, that Xuanming was wise and capable when it came to manipulating the narrative, both of present and of past. Secondly, that he had good advisors and strong allies he could rely upon, speaking well of his judgement of character. Thirdly, a factor which was quite outside the control of the man himself, as it only became relevant after his death; under Xuanming, Feng China knew what its driving purpose was. The people occupied an only somewhat modernised and reformed version of their traditional hierarchy, loyal and devoted to the idea of restoring all the Celestial Kingdom to the sole control of their rightful Emperor. That great cause could excuse any of the practices that past generations might have sniffed at, such as engaging in trade with Europeans and Novamundines as equals, adopting new technological innovations, or tinkering with the organisation of the state itself.

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    Xuanming was born Zhu Yaoli, and succeeded his father as Prince of Deng when he ascended to the throne in Hanjing as Jixu. For simplicity here we will anachronistically call him Xuanming at any age. The boy was intensely interested in the world around him. His was arguably the first generation to see the open presence of European traders, the existence of Outsiders’ Villages and of steam engines as a normal, everyday matter, not a startling innovation. His tutors despaired that the young prince seemed to care little for Confucian philosophy, traditional poetry construction, or the classics of warfare and statecraft. After many complaints, the Jixu Emperor demanded his third son account for himself. Xuanming proceeded to write a “baguwen” (eight-legged essay) in the traditional format as used for imperial civil service examinations at “shengyuan” level and higher. His tutors confessed that he had written according to all the correct forms of essay construction, showing that the boy had been paying attention after all. However, Xuanming’s essay audaciously employed its own arguments to demolish itself. Xuanming wrote of the futility of basing one’s governance on the writings of men who had lived before modern firearms, steam engines, Optel towers and the like. Tactics based on the assumption that the enemy must secure hay for their horses, not coal for their steam-tractors, no longer applied. So too did advice on statecraft from great men of the past, who had never had to contend with rumours that could travel across the country in a matter of hours via clattering shutterboxes.

    A popular story says that Jixu read the essay, conceded that his son was right, and then had him whipped within an inch of his life for his impudence, before immediately writing his name on the hidden tablet that declared his heir. Despite an inventive bloody hand print added to the battered copy of Xuanming’s essay open to public display in the Heavenly Jade Museum, there is no evidence for this story. Some have argued that if anyone would have been whipped for Xuanming’s actions, it would have been his friend and confidante Wu Mengchao. Wu was a grandson of Wu Bingjian (also known as Hu Kwa to Europeans), the spectacularly wealthy trader who had helped bankroll the original Feng rebellion.[2] Though he possessed the title Marquess of Yue, he was often portrayed as a disreputable idler who was a bad influence on the young prince. The ‘idler’ part, at least, is unjust. Wu worked industriously for the sake of the latest scheme he had concocted. It mattered not that his family already enjoyed vast wealth and influence. For Wu, it was all about the thrill of the hunt, the love of the game. Sometimes it was new inventions, whether imported from Europe or devised locally. Sometimes it was about having discovered a struggling new novelist or artist who might be the next best-seller. Wu’s schemes usually proved to have about fifty-fifty odds of spectacular success or spectacular failure, but rarely turned out in an unmemorable fashion. And the young Xuanming frequently found himself dragged into them.

    The two would remain friends throughout their lives, even when Xuanming became Emperor in 1867. His father Jixu had died, after 23 years on the throne, out of what was apparently natural causes—although some unsuccessful assassination attempts with poison darts might have shortened his life, as even the best antidotes were not perfect. Despite some attempts by advisors to make Xuanming exclude Wu from the court, he remained a prominent figure there. He even served on the Imperial Council for a time, and left it more because of his own boredom than the pressure from his scandalised colleagues.

    Xuanming came to the Celestial Throne at a time of turmoil. The Feng and Beiqing had been bitter enemies for almost sixty years, ever since the proclamation of the Feng Dynasty in 1812 at the height of the War of the Three Emperors.[3] That war had ended with only two of the Emperors remaining, Chongqian of the Beiqing in the north and Dansheng of the Feng in the south. (The third Emperor, Yenzhang, had died on the battlefield of Second Ningyuan in 1813; his supporters maintained a farcical warlord state in Yunnan Province until 1828). The two dynasties, refusing to recognise each other, clashed briefly in the Anqing Incident (1826-1831) before coming to serious blows in the First Riverine War (1844-1850). That war was a victory for the Feng, who obtained control of the previously-contested Yangtze River and its cities, as well as securing pro-Feng neutrality from de facto independent Sichuan province. Feng China had also fought the First Sino-Siamese War (1832-1838) in which it (temporarily) conquered the northern reaches of Daiviet from the Siamese Empire. The limited modernisation of the Feng military had seen substantial effect.

    Nonetheless, technological modernisation is often regarded as being synonymous with the Xuanming Emperor’s reign. He was certainly an enthusiast for such innovation, but naturally it is a little questionable to suggest that the filmish successes of the Feng military in the Second Riverine War (1863-1868) were due to the influence of a man who only obtained the throne one year before that war’s end. In many ways, though, Chinese historiography has emphasised the symbolism of an era rather than direct notions of cause and effect.

    It is all the more striking that the one war which Xuanming did attempt to direct was also the one war of this era that Feng China lost. The Second Sino-Siamese War (1869-1871) saw the Siamese Empire successfully reconquer the territories it had lost thirty years earlier. While those battles were decided on land, the biggest embarrassment for the Feng was the defeat at the Battle of Qiongzhou Strait. The Feng Navy, which had so recently humiliated its Beiqing counterpart, had been defeated in turn by the Siamese. Xuanming’s survival as Emperor after this defeat is an achievement in itself, never mind the fact that the loss is almost brushed over in hagiographic accounts of his reign.

    Xuanming’s success can be attributed to two factors. Firstly, rather than finding scapegoats for the defeat (he refused to execute or attaint the disgraced Admiral Rui) he poured the Imperial Treasury’s trade-fattened coffers into investigating the debacle and planning to prevent similar defeats in the future. That would require new schools of military strategy, as well as new approaches to domestic governance to increase tax revenues and improve troop conscription. Both, in turn, demanded radical reforms to the hidebound old imperial examinations procedures that he had railed against as a child.

    This might be seen as a challenge to any Emperor, never mind one in an embattled position. After all, Xuanming had plenty of brothers and cousins, who might make a more pliable emperor to the more traditional interests at court if he could meet with an unfortunate accident. However, Xuanming acted with some of the same audacity of his friend and confidante Wu Mengchao? What was this, if not another risky but magnificent scheme? Whether it succeeded or failed, no-one would forget!

    The years of approximately 1871-1891 are known as the Weixin (Reform) Period in China. To western eyes, it might seem that Feng China had already committed many radical moves against the status quo. Born out of fairly proletarian rebellion and European alliance, the original Phoenix Men had promoted a relatively distant relation of the last Ming emperor to the throne. The direct descendant, who held the title of Marquess of Extended Grace, remained loyal to the Chongqian Emperor of the Beiqing. That title would come to an ignominous end when his grandson fled the Feng advance in the Pandoric War and dwelt in exile in California; his own son would proclaim himself Emperor of Fu Sang in 1925, thereafter regarded with affectionate curiosity as an eccentric madman by the people of the Adamantine Republic.

    The Feng had adopted technological innovations and opened their ports to trade, at least reluctantly and in a controlled manner. However, until this time, the Feng Emperors had sought to ape the constitutional practices of the past (often Ming revivalism over the Qing status quo) rather than innovate and reform. This is arguably reasonable considering that the new dynasty had initially struggled with legitimacy, and its supporters felt the need to cloak it in tradition. Now, however, Xuanming made a bold move on his political Weiqi [Go] board in quite a different direction.

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    Xuanming’s opponents frequently accused him (or ‘the emperor’s evil advisors’) of tearing up centuries of Confucian examinations and replacing them with European innovations. However, this is not strictly true. European (and Novamundine) universities were, themselves, going through crises of confidence in the nineteenth century as they struggled to remain relevant. Ancient universities like Bologna, Paris and Oxford had to make a decision whether to remain focused on their traditional specialisms and be left behind, or to innovate by giving dignity to subjects such as mathematics, the natural sciences, and even engineering. The latter was often a bridge too far for stuffy academia, which blanched at the idea of granting doctoral dignities to what they regarded as uncouth men in boiler suits with blackened hands. The countries that led the way in granting this, a radical reform, were the UPSA, the ENA—and Feng China under Xuanming. Xuanming did not copy European academia, except in a few ways. He and his supporters designed a new examination system from the groundwork up. Rather than a dichotomy between ‘Chinese or modern (i.e. foreign)’ the Weixin period promoted a new ‘Modern Chinese’ way of approaching the world.

    Naturally, this attack on a system which had existed (in varying forms) for over a thousand years did not pass without the Emperor making enemies. His philosophy was that he would already have met with opposition from the loss of the Second Sino-Siamese War, and at least this move ‘puts all my enemies where I can see them’. Xuanming’s survival in the resulting cut-and-thrust political environment is sometimes attributed to his friendship with the great Mauré war leader Tamahimana, who had won the Battle of Suqian for the Feng in 1865.[4] The reality appears to be that Xuanming had made many similar contacts of loyal and capable men who could out-think and out-fight his opponents at court, but naturally the exotic Tamahimana is of most interest to historians and scholars. As censorship on portrayals of the Emperor and court has gradually relaxed in modern China, the Weixin period has proved a fertile subject for plays, operas and films based on its political intrigue. Lady Zhang Yilin’s “A Thousand Daggers for One Back” (first performed as an opera in 1992, with a film adaptation following in 1998) proved such a great success of this genre that one overcome critic shocked Chinese public opinion by pronouncing it ‘the new “Romance of the Three Kingdoms”’ on leaving the opera house.

    Of course, in the end Xuanming was successful, and Feng China was reformed. The Emperor reigned throughout the Long Peace (as westerners call it) and the Pandoric War. The Second Riverine War and the Pandoric War therefore form bookends to his reign. At the start of that reign, it seemed likely that the reduced and humiliated Beiqing state would soon be absorbed by the Feng and China would be once again united. By the end, before the outbreak of war, it conversely seemed that the Beiqing would stagger on for ever with Russian backing, and Chinese unification was nothing more than a hopeful pipe dream. Over the decades of his reign, Xuanming had changed from a symbol of disruption to one of stability—the stability of a new kind of China.

    Under Xuanming’s reign, factories did not merely manufacture new rifles and steam-tractors for the army, armour plates for the Navy or steerables for the new Kongjun (aeroforce). They also began to make tools and even machines that could be purchased by a rising middle class, first in the cities and then later in the countryside. Optel towers criss-crossed the land. The government invested heavily in the older technology and was then almost caught offguard by the successful of Lectel (which had initially been dismissed as a mere rumour of the Great American War). However, reportedly after a suggestion from Wu Mengchao, Xuanming’s government hit upon the idea of making the Optel network available for public use, as had been used in countries like France. Though fairly expensive at first, the novelty of people being able to send messages across the country and receive news led to rapid takeup, and the additional revenue raised paid for the roll-out of a more limited Lectel network for strictly government use only.

    Hailed as a master stroke at the time, the decision had some unintended consequences. For the first time, China’s vast population began to have a clearer idea of its place in the world. Even illiterate peasants could pay for a scholar to encode an Optel message to their son, conscripted as a soldier or corvée labourer and taken to a province on the other side of the empire. Granted, the son would probably have to pay someone at the other end to read to him as well, but that was changing, too. As the new system of examinations became open to a wider range of people, literacy increased as farmers and workers saved their meagre wages to pay for tuition for their children. They might be trapped in the lower reaches of the same hierarchy that Confucius had written of (and Sanchez had plagiarised) but their sons—and maybe even daughters—might not be...

    *

    From: Motext Pages SX212B-E [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Remarks: These pages are listed under “SSAAX Foreign Literature Revision: Syllabus A” and have been decrypted by Thande Institute personnel.

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    The Xuanming Emperor, so dynamic in his youth, had largely stepped back from day-to-day governance by the time of the outbreak of the Pandoric War in 1896. Though then only 59 years old, he had been prematurely aged by the strains of his rule and fending off political intrigues and assassination attempts. Some biographers suggest that the final straw was the death of his lifelong friend Wu Mengchao in 1891. Wu was killed in an accident involving the takeoff of an experimental rocket-powered aerodrome; his luck when it came to mad, audacious schemes had finally run out. This suggestion is supported by the existence of imperial state papers which advise messengers to remove references to the Kongjun from military reports when presenting them to the Emperor—even if those references described triumphs by the steerables and early aerodromes of the Empire over the Siamese or the Beiqing. One might suppose that Xuanming still found it too painful to hear about flying machines after the death of Wu.

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    The Pandoric War is frequently presented as the final crowning achievement of Xuanming’s reign—but, as with the Second Riverine War that formed the beginning of his reign, it is a conflict in which he therefore had little direct influence. Nonetheless, it is reasonable to attribute Feng success on the battlefield to the years of patient reform, industrialisation and military buildup in peacetime which Xuanming had presided over. Feng China was the only nation to come out of the Pandoric War with unmitigated victories on all fronts; even the neutral ‘French Vulture’ had lost Dufresnie to revolutionaries. However, the dark side of that triumph was that she had paid a heavy cost in terms of the lives of her young men (and a handful of women). Chinese history was no stranger to bloody and never-ending wars, but no previous war had come close to the level of murderous industrial warfare that Chinese troops had faced against the Siamese, Beiqing and Russians.

    In countries like America or Germany, the survivors could react to such losses by changing their government by democratic means. In some such countries, even the women widowed by the war could vote to express what they felt about the leaders who had sent their lovers and husbands to their deaths. But China had never had a tradition of this kind of representative government. In Europe and the nations that had grown from European colonies, parliaments had descended from groups of nobles, ecclesiarchs and wealthy burghers which could potentially stand up to the power of a king. Such intrigues in China had historically usually taken the form of either coups or the formation of breakaway states. Europeans had also been able to look back to the Senate of Rome as a model. Though the Senate had been reduced to a rubber-stamp for the final centuries of its existence, the perpetuation of self-congratulatory Roman writings about the old Republic, and the continued veneration of Rome as a model by its European successor states, meant that the idea of a parliament was never too far away from European consciousness. When absolutists like Louis XIV had ruled without an Estates-General, it had been easy to portray this as a radical departure from the norm, rather than a normal state of affairs.

    This was not the case in China. But China had been exposed to new ideas for a long time. The Feng dynasty had been born with European help, after all. Outsiders’ Villages and ostracism of those who violated curfew could only do so much. Optel messages also allowed thinkers outside the usual social structure to exchange ideas in a way which the imperial government could not always control; though the messages were obviously read by censors, many Chinese subjects became adept at developing codes which passed unnoticed. Some used these techniques for organised crime or unscrupulous insider trading, but many instead used them to discuss forbidden and radical philosophies, foreign ideas, and more. Furthermore, there was the influx of Huaqiao, ethnic Chinese people who had grown up outside of China. These had already existed, particularly in the Nusantara, but the Qing had forbidden people from leaving the Empire (or returning once they had left). Many more had fled at the time of the Three Emperors’ War. With widespread reports of the improving standards of living and opportunities in Feng China, the descendants of some of these people now returned to seek their fortune. There was a grass-is-greener effect here. Many of the second- or third-generation Huaqiao in lands like California or Peru were sick of continuing Racist discrimination from white-dominated governments. They often found they were regarded with even more hostility by the Feng Chinese, startled to be confronted with these Chinese-looking people who had never known an Emperor and spoke ‘their own’ language only haltingly and as a second tongue. Though there were many tragedies of such returning Huaqiao being attacked or even killed by mobs, many survived and prospered.

    These processes had already been ongoing before the Pandoric War, but accelerated after it ended in victory. Huaqiao refugees from the battered Nusantara were a particularly large group, escaping the Siamese—and later the Societists.

    The driving question for Feng China at the dawn of the twentieth century was ‘Now What?’ No-one, it seemed, had thought beyond what would happen if the old dream, the old cause, finally ended in victory. Beiqing China had been destroyed and its territories once more absorbed into the righteously-governed kingdom, aside from those areas still under Russian occupation. Evidently the Russians had decided there was no point persisting with the fiction of a continuing Beiqing line. The Quanyu Emperor, scornfully dubbed ‘Little Weili’ by many Feng, disappeared at the end of the war. It was not until 1904 that it was revealed that he had passed away after ‘illness’ at a Russian ‘convalescence home’ near Irkutsk. For the latter, read ‘labour camp’, for the former, ‘acute lead poisoning through the back of the neck’. Russian Tsar Peter V had always disliked being saddled with his father’s decision to recognise the Beiqing as the sole China. It may have made sense at the time, but it had shut the RLPC out of the far more lucrative Feng trade. Peter also found it humiliating to have to write letters pretending to respect the worthless Beiqing scions, who still defiantly insisted they were the masters of the world and all others were merely their vassals. Now, failure could not be tolerated. Perhaps it had been a rash decision to wipe out every last descendant of the once-great House of Aisin Goro that had been founded almost three hundred years earlier when Nurhaci had led his horsemen out of Manchuria. But the Tsar had acted nonetheless. The Qing were no more, and the final revenge of the Sanhedui had come to pass.

    Now what, then, for Feng China—now merely ‘China’, the China we know today, unified and complete? Mostly, that is; many European observers began considering whether China would next go after the Formosa or Liaodong Republics, or the remaining formerly-Chinese territories currently controlled by Russia or Corea. Those observers were writing based on the continuing assumption that China was a land apart, a land different to Europe or the Novamund, whose people were just terracotta soldiers happy to remain in the rank and file decreed by their Emperor.[5]

    The reality, as discussed above, was quite different. Two factors combined to produce a restive population: the losses of the war and, paradoxically, its triumph. With the Beiqing definitively destroyed, the overarching cause that had united Feng subjects of all classes had vanished, and the sense of unity faded with it.[6] Political theories were whispered in the cloisters of temples, behind the paper walls of palaces, and in the tall, crowded, pagoda-shaped brick tenements built over the last thirty years. Many opinions clashed. There were some, perhaps influenced by the Regressives in Britain and elsewhere, who argued that the changes made by the Feng dynasty should be regarded as temporary, necessary evils. With the hated Tartar invaders finally vanquished and a proper Han successor to the Ming dynasty restored, the government should now seek to turn the clock back to 1644; to reverse not only the changes made by the Feng themselves, but to tear the Qing’s page out of history as well. The Regressive philosophy was popular for its own sake among some, but was frequently alloyed to New School Confucianism.

    Broadly speaking, the major historical divide in Chinese Confucianism involved the reconstruction of Confucius’ writings after Emperor Qin Shi Huang allegedly burned his books and buried many Confucian scholars alive in the third century before Christ. ‘New School Confucianism’ was based on reconstruction of Confucius’ texts from surviving fragments, while ‘Old School Confucianism’ (which, confusingly, came later) was based on intact copies of the original texts which were discovered hidden in the walls of Confucius’ old house a century later. The New Text School supporters, led by Dong Zhongshu, had claimed these findings were forgeries. This dispute was revived centuries later when the Qing began encouraging the revival of Han Dynasty learning. The New School texts tended to emphasise the idea of Confucius as a religious prophet, whose descendants should perhaps even be given the throne (the title of Duke of Yansheng was given to a descendant of Confucius).[7] The Old School supporters, by contrast, emphasised Confucius as more of a secular sage and regarded the Emperor as being personally responsible for keeping the Mandate of Heaven.

    Other thinkers at this time argued for the innovations of the Feng to be kept (naturally, these were often people from backgrounds which had greatly benefited as a result of those innovations) but that the new China should re-embrace the Neo-Confucian ideas of isolationism as the only correct state of affairs for the empire. These wanted Europeans kicked out and trade cut off. Of course, they were often criticised for failing to realise that the innovations they defended required that the trade be maintained.

    There were many other schools of thought at the time, but behind all the disquiet was the vague sense that the ordinary people, who had suffered and died for their Emperor, should have more of a voice in the running of the country. Feng China, especially the coastal Guandong and Fujian provinces that had formed its original heartland, had been exposed to Europeans for a long time. The Flippant subculture that flourished after the war in Europe and North America also appeared in these parts of China, something which shocked both Chinese and Europeans. The world was more interconnected than ever before. If democracy or parliamentary representation was still perhaps not the most obvious solution within the framework of Chinese culture and tradition, it was at least an idea that was becoming better known.

    The Xuanming Emperor might have been a great reformer in his youth, but he was in no position to respond to this new and troubling shifts in his reunited empire. With his death in 1905, the throne passed to his designated successor, his second son. Zhu Baoding, the Prince of Tang, took the regnal name Huifu (‘revival’ or ‘restoration’) to celebrate the reunification of China under his father. If one man in China had ever thought about what to do after that reunification was complete, at a time when it had seemed a pipe dream, it was the new Huifu Emperor.

    Not soon after he took the throne, in 1908, China suffered floods and concomitant famines. Though nowhere near as devastating as those of thirty years later, the loss of life threatened to spark the traumatic aftereffects of the war losses into real unrest. The Feng Dynasty had rarely had to confront the problem of subduing revolts; historically, most such revolts had been against the Beiqing and in favour of the Feng by default. Now, the effect of removing this convenient enemy became clear.

    Just as his father had, Huifu used such a crisis as an excuse to confront his planned reforms. There were many lesser innovations, but the two best-remembered changes were the capital city rotation and the One Hundred and Eight Mandators. These ideas were born through Huifu’s conversations with the Old School Confucian scholar Xi Juzheng. Xi’s adherence to the Old School’s secular emphasis may have been born of the fact that, though a political Confucian, he was suspected to spiritually be a secret Christian. Under the Feng dynasty, Christian missionaries had gradually become tolerated under pressure from European traders, but Christian believers (as well as Muslims) had originally been discriminated against in the civil service examinations. Xuanming’s reforms had changed the exams and taken away these discriminations in law, though unofficial prejudice tended to prevent Christians from reaching high office. Xi ‘officially’ went through a deathbed conversion to Christianity in 1927, but most historians regard this as being a quiet political recognition of a longstanding status quo.

    China had had many capitals historically, but Hanjing (formerly Guangzhou) had never been one of them prior to the Feng dynasty. Hanjing was now on the southernmost coastline of the vast, reunited empire, far from a good position to govern it all. It would not have been realistic to abandon Hanjing and all its symbolism (and infrastructure) altogether, however. Huifu announced the capital would rotate each year, spending winter in Hanjing, spring in Nanjing, summer in Beijing and autumn in Xi’an. (By doing so he evoked the idea of there being four great historical capitals of China, although he had swapped out Luoyan for Hanjing in the traditional list). The infrastructure required to move the modernised court was far less than it would have been in the past, and the Optel and Lectel networks (soon to be joined by Photel) ensured that business could continue regardless. Foreign powers began planning whether it was feasible (or dignified) for their ambassadors to follow the Emperor on his annual trek around the country. It remains controversial to suggest that Huifu may have been inspired by the then-contemporary move for rotating Zonal Rejes in the Combine.

    Secondly, and more controversial, Huifu created the office of the One Hundred and Eight Mandators, who would follow the government around. Traditionally, a Chinese Emperor was held to have lost the ‘Mandate of Heaven’ when disasters began to abound, such as the natural disasters of flood and famine (hence why Huifu was worried) but also the revolts of ordinary people. Some more open-minded theorists, such as Xi Juzheng, argued the reverse—that keeping the support of the people was the key to keeping the Mandate of Heaven, and that European-style democracy was only one possible means to do this. Rather than open that can of worms, Huifu chose 108 subjects at random (the number being one of significance in Buddhism) to endorse his decisions, thus signifying he retained that mandate. While the Mandators were originally bribed and leaned on in order to produce unanimous votes, the selection procedure really was truly random, via a lottery. Being selected as a Mandator for a one-year term was not always regarded as a positive, but exemption from taxes for the Mandator’s extended family helped soften the blow.

    Ironically, it seems Huifu originally regarded the Mandators as a purely symbolic gesture to the poor and of no real worth. However, when his nobles kicked up a fuss about poor subjects being feted in the new Palace of the 108, many of them uncouth peasants, Huifu changed his mind. He opened up the lottery to the nobles and wealthy as well, and forced his detractors to sit alongside those peasants. This set in action a course of events which still echoes through the China we know to this day...

















    [1] As we’ve seen before, even some historians inadvertently call him ‘Emperor Weili’ (Weili was his personal not regnal name) because the disparaging Feng term is so omnipresent.

    [2] See Part #91 in Volume 2.

    [3] Also in Part #91, but this is technically incorrect, as the dynasty that became the Feng were originally proclaimed as the Houming (Later Ming).

    [4] See Part #202 in Volume 5.

    [5] An anachronistic choice of metaphor, as the Terracotta Army hadn’t been rediscovered yet.

    [6] The push for reform in TTL China is therefore very different to OTL, where it was driven by factors including repeated defeat and humiliation by the western powers and flawed modernisation attempts under the Qing.

    [7] In OTL, the Duke of Yansheng title was converted to a non-feudal one by the Republic of China in 1945, and a 79th generational descendant of Confucius, Kung Tsui-chang, currently holds the successor office of Sacrificial Official to Confucius in Taiwan.
     
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    264
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #264: I Bless the Reigns

    “White Gate to Gold Dolphin. Rose Eddie Rose is getting impatient...Islington, Mayfair, Pimlico...yes. Specifics...? Southwark Mayfair Islington Tyburn Hackney is threatening to haul Orpington One Two up before the committee unless she sees some concrete results. ... Aye, I think she’s too big for her boots when she just got elected too, but you know she’s the President’s golden girl...you know involving DESCARTES was controverisal...Barking Barking Six is going to draft a memo on progress to Orpington One Two...? Abbey Wapping, let’s hope that’s enough to call off the dogs for now. White Gate out.”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Pages EX128B-E [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Remarks: These pages are listed under “SAAX History Revision: Syllabus C”.

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    For those of you doing the Economic History module, you’ll probably already have gathered that examiners like to use Guinea as a case study.[1] It’s easy for them to set exam questions about! But don’t go thinking you can just memorise long lists of staple crops and sail through a question. The examiner’s also looking for critical thinking, analysis, and the proposal of hypotheses.

    We’ll pass over the controversies over when crops were introduced, by whom, and in which direction. Some academics get very angry about this, but despite their best efforts to turn it into a nationalist talking point, it’s not the stuff that Heritage Points of Controversy are made of. If you are curious, check out the appendix on page EX128J.

    There’s much more fodder (no pun intended!) for argument when it comes to the economic development of Guinea from the late eighteenth century to the twentieth. On the one hand this period represented a huge uptick in industrial development and agricultural production, driven in part by rising political centralism and the decline of the small squabbling kingdoms of the past. On the other hand, that unification and development were scarcely bloodless or sought for the most honourable of motives. The actions of ruthless men, whether they be native, British or American, were behind the tide of progress that turned Guinea from a mysterious blank spot on a map to the modernised powerhouse we know today.

    Furthermore, let us not forget that the wheels of progress were frequently lubricated by the blood of poor peasants. The shiny graphs displaying falls in poverty and increases in life expectancy hide those whose lives were cast aside in their pursuit. Guinean history abounds with such stories, from the horrors of the slave trade to the current government’s habit of shifting entire villages without compensation to build dams and reservoirs. In recent years it has been fashionable to focus on the loss of languages and cultural uniqueness that came with Guinean centralism, as well as the decline in biological diversity from agricultural pursuits. Yet let us not focus on these Diversitarian and Steward approaches to the exclusion of concern for the lives of individual people, no matter what they farmed or which language they spoke.

    Almost all foreign powers other than Britain were effectively expelled from Guinea in the wake of the Third War of Supremacy in the 1750s. While the Portuguese and Dutch maintained individual outposts on the coastline, these declined in importance. Britain first suppressed the slave trade, and then reformed the Royal Africa Company after the bubble scandal of 1782 in an attempt to develop new economic ties with Africa. The RAC, dubiously founded in 1660 by the Duke of York (the future James II, overthrown in the First Glorious Revolution) had initially focused on the slave trade (as well as seeking gold). The new, reformed Company and its Board of Directors focused on developing the trade of new and less morally questionable (at least, at first glance) commodities.

    The names of the original Directors and their associates are instantly recognisable for anyone with a passing familiarity with Guinean history, or even the names of streets in Guinean cities. Leading the charge were the two experienced East India Company men, Arthur Filling and Thomas Space, and Governor of Dakar Sir John Graves Simcoe; with them came natural philosophers like Joseph Banks, James Edward Smith and Alexander von Humboldt; American adventurers like Daniel Houghton, John Ledyard and ultimately Philip Hamilton; and, of course, the great founding father of the Commonwealth of Freedonia, Olaudah Equiano. At different times in Guinea’s history, the names of the native kings who worked with those traders (such as Otumfuo[2] of Ashanti and Kpengla of Dahomey) have also been elevated to the same level, while in other times they have been largely ignored. This reflects the fact that the people of modern, democratic Guinea face the dichotomy of which historical figures to look up to. Do their honour the kings of their forefathers—who would probably consider those modern Guineans to be mere peasants and expect them to bow and scrape to them? Or do they honour the founders of the RAC, even though it was a mostly white, foreign organisation which cared more about making money than seeing justice done? Both the old RAC and the native kings, of course, had been happy to practice the abominable institution of slavery. It is an illustration in the difficulty of identity that any nation faces when it has developed gradually, without the easy clean break of being born in revolution and acquiring a new team of more recent founding fathers. One could make the same comparison to any country—can we in England admire the civilised pomp and legitimacy of our monarchy without remembering that it descends from the illegitimate grandson of a tanner who committed acts of genocide?[3]

    Let’s return to the period in which the reformed RAC spread its wings after 1782. From the beginning, the RAC was entangled with the African Association and the free black colony of Freedonia, although in the beginning the two were not synonymous. Despite chaotic periods at times and some questionable electoral practices (though no more so than other countries at the time), Freedonia survived crises like the rise of Freedom Theology in the 1810s and the Fulani Explosion in the 1830s. In 1840, visionary Fulani leader Abu Nahda and respected RAC Director Philip Hamilton signed the Treaty of Rabba.[4] This treaty set the groundwork for how Guinea would develop, from a disparate collection of Company lands, princely states, freed-slave commonwealth and Islamic empire, to a unitary whole. To do so might seem ambitious even for the most fanatical disciple of Sanchez; but, while acknowledging the real concerns over the loss of some unique languages and cultures in the process, the people of Guinea achieved this better life without sacrificing all that made life worth living.

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    ===

    The RAC had been inspired by the British EIC in Bengal,[5] and so it is not surprising that there are some parallels. Like Bengal, Guinea’s development was related to the fact that, though founded as a colony, it no longer felt like one following the upheavals of the nineteenth century. Guinea and Bengal were very different to colonies like, for example, French Arguin, German Puntland or even Belgian Ceylon. Though founded as trade colonies to serve the interests of a few wealthy Englishmen in London, they had long transcended that identity. Britain had turned inwards following Hoche’s invasion and the Marleburgensian regime, and even more so as a result of the Inglorious Revolution. Guinea, geographically closer to Britain, remained slightly more closely tied than Bengal did, but was still seen as nothing more than a source of income and a convenient place to dump political undesirables. Some went there of their own accord, too. Arthur Spencer-Churchill, brother of Bloody Blandford and George Spencer-Churchill the Elder, fled to Guinea in 1831 and took up a role developing railways and factories for the RAC. Many dispossessed British nobles also chose Guinea (or Bengal) as the place to rebuild their fortunes after the rise of the Populist regime.

    In some places, a decline in British government attention to a colony was smoothly replaced with American interest. This applied to a certain extent with Guinea, which had longstanding ties with the ENA to to Freedonia’s foundation as a freed-slave colony, as well as the involvement of Americans such as Ledyard, Houghton and Hamilton in the re-founded Company’s history. However, there were always certain tensions to the relationship. The Confederation of Virginia had effectively paid its former slaves at gunpoint to leave for Freedonia after the Virginia Crisis, which did not endear those new Freedish citizens to their former homeland. Carolina’s increasingly shrill pro-slavery rhetoric (until 1865[6]) alienated not only Freedes themselves, but also many white Company men who found themselves associated with it by suddenly cautious native rulers. These and other reasons contributed towards a certain coolness between Dakar and Fredericksburg, which is why Philip Hamilton treated going between Africa and American politics as those they were two different worlds.[7]

    It was not, however, until the end of the Pandoric War, the Third Glorious Revolution in Britain, and the rise of Lewis Faulkner in the ENA, that Guinea found herself truly alone. All but the most informal ties were severed with Britain (its successor England did, however, retain an interest in Natal) and America withdrew from most foreign entanglements. The ENA would likely have still gone to war to defend the RAC and Freedonia, but there seemed to be realistically no external threat at the time.

    In many ways, this was just a “de jure” recognition of a situation that had been “de facto” the case for years. Guinea had been barely involved in the Pandoric War, save for supplying some food to Britain and palm-oil lubricant to America. Guinean troops had not served overseas, likely due to lingering American concern about black soldiers serving on the ENA’s territory; though many modern accounts like to pretend that Racialism ceased to exist north of the border with Carolina, this was decidedly not the case. The one case of the war possibly coming home to roost came with the 1897 rising of the Nupeci people, which was alleged to have come with Meridian backing.[8]

    The Nupeci revolt was only the largest of a number of grumblings that had echoed around Guinea in the almost six decades of the Treaty of Rabba being enforced. The RAC had cared more about access to trade with the Fulani Caliphate than seeking justice for the other peoples under its rule, including the people of the old kingdom of Nupe. This was not to say that the RAC had always rolled over before the Fulani, either. Abu Nahda, famously, had refused the title of caliph, and had won plaudits for his humility in doing so. But when he died in 1863, the Company decided that it would be politically advantageous to be allied to a claimant Caliph, especially one ruling such a large empire. Disasters like the Great Jihad in India had been unleashed in part because of the disputed caliphal office in the Ottoman Empire; while the empire was now decidedly reunited and had just achieved the coup of taking Algiers,[9] not all Muslims accepted or were aware of that outcome. The Board of Directors helped ensure that Abu Nahda’s close ally Muhammadu Diallo not only succeeded him as Amir of the empire, but also took the caliphal office.

    From the 1860s onwards, the Company’s manipulation (often with help from the Freedes) served to direct the Fulani to favourable ends. Attempts at Fula-phile Islamic coups in Company allies like the Bambara Empire were defeated with Company jagun help, while recalcitrant ones like the Kounta state ruling Timbuctoo were allowed to fall under the rule of the Caliphate.[10] In practice, the control of the Caliphs and their generals became increasingly theoretical even in the Sokoto heartland. Like the older princely states to the south like Dahomey, Ashanti, Oyo and the Nupe remnant state in Bida, the once-puritanical Fulani were bribed into admitting ever more Company influence. Patriotic causes, like that of the Nupeci revolt of 1897 in anger at the continued Fulani control of Rabba, were not the only causes against Company rule. Many poor African peasants suffered under the rule of either those princely states, the Company itself, or elitist Freedish landowners.

    ===

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    ===

    Nonetheless, Guinea was not a straightforward case of colonial exploitation by outsiders. As in Bengal, the white men running the Company ‘went native’, possessing few links with their old homelands. Guinea increasingly resembled more a case of a foreign elite ruling over a restive native population. While this was still hardly a favourable situation for its ordinary people, it was quite different in character. White men and women living in Guinea began to refer to themselves as Guineans, rather than Britons or Americans who just happened to live there. Old stories of the glories of ancient empires were revived, often matched with archaeological expeditions, to give the slowly coalescing country some foundational myths. Even white Guineans increasingly looked towards figures like Mansa Musa rather than (say) Elizabeth Tudor when making historical comparisons.

    This situation had a big part to play in how Guinea economically developed. Outsiders exploiting a colony might choose to focus on luxury crops rather than staples, and carelessly allow farmers to starve as a result. They might build railways and towns only where it served their own interests. They might focus on raw material extraction and suppress factory construction, allowing it to remain preferenced in their homeland. The Guinean ruling classes (both white and black) were, for the most part, not like this. They regarded the peasant farmers as their inferiors, but still essentially their people, and Guinea as their country. Guinea could not rely on her old colonial masters for help. Meridian ironsharks cut many trade conduits in the Pandoric War. Guinea must be self-sufficient.

    When the RAC had first been refounded, the staple crops of the nations of Guinea had chiefly been African rice, millet, sorghum, maize, and cassava (the latter two probably introduced by the Portuguese). The Company introduced many other crops, both as staples and luxuries, using Taxonomic classification to choose appropriate plants for the climate. Most famous, of course, are the cinchona plantations that provided people with protection against malaria—initially only for the white traders and the wealthier natives, but later becoming generalised. Studies of the disease connected it to a mosquito parasite, and new poisons developed in the UPSA’s chemical labs led in the 1890s to the first of a series of attempts to drive the insect to extinction. Though not completely successful, the campaigns did reduce malaria further.

    However, cinchona is only the most famous of the crop introductions. Asian rice varieties were introduced and wheat production was dramatically increased. Agricultural theorists were often ruthlessly allowed to play God with peasants’ lives in Company-ruled territories, testing out their theories of what farming strategies would produce the highest crop yields. Though much misery was inflicted in the process, this did allow the construction of far superior plantations. The Company ran roughshod over the different native Guinean notions of land ownership and damaged a number of rainforests clearing them for farmland, but famines went from a fact of life to a very occasional crisis. By the 1920s, Guinea would be a net food exporter.

    Some crops were useful both as food and for other purposes. Groundnuts and peanuts were grown for food, but their oil proved a useful fuel for the Mitchell Engine. Mitchell mobiles and trains were rapidly deployed in Guinea, which formerly had been dependent on coal imports and a few, difficult mines of its own. Guinea led the way in development of many Mitchell engine types, which were also used on agricultural vehicles. Economically important spices were also introduced or popularised and grown.

    Innovations in sanitation and medicine were also imported from Europe and the Novamund, often not too long after they were first developed. The ruling classes need not care about the lives of their subjects in order to recognise that having towns full of reliable workers who would not drop dead of easily-preventable diseases was good for business. Africa came with a number of diseases specific to its climate as well as the better-understood European ones like cholera, but this nonetheless made a huge difference

    All of these changes were regarded as threats by those who held power in the native power structures, particularly practioners of the traditional religions—who had been left in the firing line by the Treaty of Rabba protecting both Christian and Muslim missionaries. Periodic revolts took place, of which the Nupeci revolt of 1897 was only the biggest. But without a single shared identity across Guinea, a rebellion in any given state could always be put down with troops from its neighbours.

    That situation would only change with the rise of C. B. Kane...

    *

    From: Motext Pages CU145G-H [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    Leaders Who Changed the World, Episode 4: C. B. Kane (1865-1938)

    Caesar Bell Kane was born in Liberty on May 9th, 1865, a day that his namesake would have loved to have seen—the day that slavery was abolished in Carolina, as well as throughout the Hermandad. Forever known as C. B., Kane was born to parents of humble mixed birth[11] in the Freedish capital. He scandalised them even as a child by his crass pranks and bold defiance to authority. Thrown out of the family home aged sixteen, he became a capable thief and confidence trickster. He was best known for a scheme by which he wrote beautifully-penned letters to credulous people across three continents, claiming to be the dispossessed son of a noble expelled from Britain by the Populists. He claimed to know the location of a buried chest of jewels and tapestries hastily taken from his father’s ancestral home, and needed just a little seed money to begin... His scam was surprisingly successful, and when the Freedish police finally decided to stop taking bribes and arrest him, it was in a house that was practically a palace.

    Kane was due to be hanged to make an example of. Whether he bribed the hangman, or was simply very lucky, the execution failed. Kane was left with a hanging scar around his neck (which he hid with a necklace in later life) but had escaped justice. He had to leave Freedonia, however, and he sought his fortune in the interior. After a number of poorly-attested adventures, in 1885 he reached the Hausa city of Zazzau,[12] one of many which had been conceded to the Fulani Caliphate by the British in 1840. The local emir, son of one of Abu Nahda’s generals, was unpopular and widely disliked—to the point that the local RAC forces were considering getting rid of him before a revolt broke out. Kane hatched a plan, one of his old confidence schemes writ large. He married the granddaughter of the old, Fulani-dispossessed emir, claimed to have converted to Islam, and offered himself to the Company as an alternative candidate. The Company helped pull off his coup, a decision that some of their directors would later regret.

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    Over the next thirty years, Kane would hatch many more schemes, yet also took his role as emir seriously, and came to genuinely love his wife. The Company found that their profits seemed to mysteriously shrink when Kane came anywhere near them, yet were unable to prove he was skimming. Kane was also popular with some Directors for his love of grandiose ideas, which many of them shared. Some unwisely accepted his help in their latest project, which often ended with the director being dismissed and Kane pocketing the budget. Not always, though, for Kane did seriously ponder the question of what to do with the power he had obtained by guile.

    Zazzau was a good central location, and he established contacts with rulers across Guinea, whether they be Freedes, Fulani, white Company men, or the princes of Dahomey, Nupe, Ashanti, Oyo and Benin. Kane established initiatives such as the Guinea Games and the Great Fair, miniature, local versions of the Global Games and WorldFests respectively. He sought to build partnerships across the region—sometimes ones he could exploit to increase his own power and wealth, but not always.

    Following the Pandoric War and the ensuing geopolitical changes, Kane added a third initiative. In 1905 he called the first Grand Palaver in Zazzau. He called on representatives from all the powers in Guinea, including the Company, to assemble in his city and debate what Guinea’s future should be, in the wake of Britain ceasing to exist and America withdrawing into Social Americanism.

    The move alarmed the Board of Directors but caught them offguard. While nobody was foolish enough to trust Kane anymore, they had not expected this. But they had allowed him to accrue a high profile and respect, and they could not simply overrule him without sparking discontent. In the end, the Board decided to send a trustworthy representative who had worked with Kane in the past. This was Graham Oldman, universally known as Ginger Oldman, whose work had dramatically increased the production of that spice in the Oyo lands.

    To discuss what took place at the first Grand Palaver would fill a book (and has). The Board had thought it might presage a rebellion, one which America now seemed disinclined to help put down. Kane, however, seemed more inspired by the people of Bengal, who had bought their way to freedom. Yet, unlike Bengal with its single corporate entity, Guinea was divided. He sought to change that.

    The Freedish representatives were strongly opposed to Kane’s moves, and for a long time Freedonia was treated as a semi-separate entity. Indeed, the controversies of later decades would rest on the attempt to introduce Freedish democracy elsewhere in Guinea. But in the short term, Kane’s bold move had solved a difficulty for the Directors. They were the Royal Africa Company, but of which royal family? Their chequered flag bore a Union Jack, flag of a country that was ceasing to exist.[13] The Company had better decide what was to become of it, or someone else would decide for it.

    Thus the Directorate of Guinea came into being. Few would have thought that the Grand Palaver would one day become its parliament. Yet even now, the Palaver had significant business to attend to. For one thing, what to do about Karlus Barkalus and all those fellows waving black flags in the Kongo all of a sudden...?






    [1] Note that in TTL (as the term was used in OTL until relatively recently), ‘Guinea’ refers to all of West Africa, even before a state by that name formally existed.

    [2] It’s a bit questionable whether this would be the best way to abbreviate his name, but school history syllabuses rarely go into such detail.

    [3] In reference to William the Conqueror and the Harrying of the North in 1069.

    [4] See Part #165 in Volume IV.

    [5] Of course, the East India Company originally traded over a much bigger area than Bengal—this viewpoint is tainted by hindsight.

    [6] When slavery was abolished in Carolina and throughout the Hermandad (Part #211 in Volume V). Of course, the construction of this sentence implies it’s talking about the period when Carolina was still in the ENA, so this is a bit awkwardly phrased.

    [7] Dakar is the titular capital of the RAC, although in practice a lot of business is conducted at Fort James (which grew into Accra, Ghana in OTL) as an outpost surrounded by formally Ashanti territory.

    [8] As seen in Part #236 in Volume VI.

    [9] In 1861, as described in Part #207 in Volume V.

    [10] In OTL the Bambara Empire in Ségou fell to an earlier jihad, as the rise of the Fulani happened earlier in OTL.

    [11] By which it means they were only partly descended from returned American slaves, and otherwise descended from natives who never left Africa.

    [12] Today in OTL the city is called Zaria and only the surrounding state is called Zazzau.

    [13] England continued to use the Union Jack, so this is a slight case of hyperbole.
     
    265
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #265: Rumble in the Jungle

    “Gold Dolphin to White Gate. Confirm that Orpington One Two has received memo from Barking Barking Six? ... Acknowledged. No queries? ... Well, let’s hope Southwark Mayfair Islington Tyburn Hackney and her cronies can’t think of aught. Yes, things are going w...I mean the distraction of this doesn’t help...I know, I’ll tell her we’ve done all we can. So Orpington One Two is up before the committee on...come on, it’ll be on bleeding Palaver MS...look, the Greenwich Greenwich is over, do you really think someone’s going to take a shot at him...? Aydub, fine, I’ll get my confidential information from the bloody MS listings!”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    From: Motext Pages EX130K-N [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Remarks: These pages are listed under “SAAX History Revision: Syllabus D”.

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    Go into any bookshop, no matter its branding or social status, and one will find that biographies gravitate towards a topic of fascination that has held our attention for centuries. Biographies of great men and women—political leaders, scientists, writers, musicians and the like—are one half of the picture. If one wishes thousands of eager readers to study one’s life and formative experiences, one can spend one’s life doing the impressive acts of those former professions for the benefit of mankind. Yet there is another way to achieve lasting prominence and fame—or, rather, infamy. Sensational biographies of murderers, master thieves and even sex criminals are bought even more enthusiastically than those of their more reputable peers. It would be easy to turn this discussion into opining moralistically on what this says about people, but this is History, not Philosophy or Theology. Instead, let’s consider the point at which the Eulerian diagram overlaps.[1] If being a political leader makes one’s biography popular, and being a monster makes one’s biography popular, then imagine the multiplied popularity of a biography of a political leader who is also a monster!

    This neat mathematical relationship does not always hold true, but it is often observed. Men and women who lived hundreds or thousand years before the present, far out of living memory, live on if they were conscientious enough to commit suitably salacious crimes against civilisation.[2] We vividly remember Nero and Caligula when other, less morally objectionable Roman Emperors of the day are just dusty busts in a museum. Jean de Lisieux, by all accounts a rather fussy and irritable man of the sort one would not give a second glance to behind the counter of a provincial bank, has grown intoa frequently-invoked giant of evil, even to we who live so many generations after his presumed death. Despite the mystery of the latter, Lisieux’s character and beliefs are not greatly disputed between his many biographers. The man wrote so extensively, to the point of tedium, about his philosophy on government that few would dispute the characterisation of a fanatic, who believed he could make the world better resemble the perfect image in his head by sheer force of will. Hateful as our picture of Lisieux is, few would paint him as a hypocrite on his principles such as his anathema for the death penalty (when the fate worse than death of slavery to serve the Republic was right there).

    We are used to more complex and debated biographical constructions when it comes to men like Pablo Sanchez and, especially, his disciple Raul Caraibas. Sanchez was not a mass murderer, though many would paint him as a man who handed the knife to those who were. Like Lisieux, Sanchez wrote so extensively about his beliefs and philosophies that it would be hard to dispute them—were it not, of course, for the habits of both the Bilbioteka Mundial and the Soviets in trying to rewrite history. Caraibas is more mysterious, the missing link in the chain between Sanchez and Alfarus. Born into obscurity and illiteracy, known only through how his life intersected with that of Sanchez and the other early Societists, but dying not long after his moment of triumph with the Pandoric Revolution—between lies on a question mark. Caraibas’ life is a blank canvas on which anything can be painted, something which was learned by the Societists themselves long before anyone else. Some historians even claim, albeit as a minority position, that Caraibas’ ‘Doctrine of the Last Throw’ owes more to Alfarus and his allies’ later rewritings than anything Caraibas himself believed.

    ===

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    ===

    So we come inevitably to Alfarus himself, the man who has somewhat inevitably oft been selected as a case study for biographical history. He frequently tops the list of most influential figures of the twentieth century, perhaps not least because he was that century’s handmaiden. Reading between the lines of later triumphalist Societist accounts, it does seem likely that he was there when the Scientific Attack was launched on December 31st 1899, and likely played some role in it—albeit not so large as the one later claimed. As the sun rose on a new century, a century in which Sanchez’s fever dream had been transformed to reality, Rodrigus Alfarus was there to seize the new day.

    Sanchez had a long period of his writings being widely available, while he himself remained relatively obscure, which has hampered attempts to rewrite the history of his life (though many have tried, as said above). Alfarus, by contrast, rose from obscurity and the light of observation never penetrayed the shadows of his birth. He was able to claim multiple and mutually contradictory backstories at different times, whatever was needed to advance his goals. No real evidence one way or the other was ever found. There are plausible, but weakly evidenced, suggestions that Alfarus had his own home village bombarded during the war against General Antonelli in order to kill off everyone who had known him before the war. Whether this is true or not, he certainly attempted to destroy all records of his previous life, largely with success.

    Aside from a small number of key allies such as Lupus, Dominikus and Molinarius, Societist leaders rapidly discovered that it was sensible to keep their distance from Alfarus. There was nothing that rendered him more suspicious than to find someone attempting to inviegle themselves into his inner circle. After all, he was the mere Kapud of the Celatores, scarcely an influential position, no? What was this individual trying to say about him?

    Here we must confront the central question of biographers of Alfarus. This does not concern his background or origins, over which we could argue fruitlessly for years. Rather, it attempts to paint a picture of his character—with rather little to work with on the palette. The distance between Alfarus and all but a few allies limits our knowledge of him to the mask he presented to the outside world, in public speeches and later in film. A few vague references in the surviving diary fragments of men like Lupus are fought over by biographers like a fish tossed into a shark tank. In all seriousness, men and women with letters after their name will compose monogrammes on what Lupus writing that Alfarus liked cheese means about his wider character and the evolution of Societist thought. In truth, these apparent trivialities do sometimes cast light on a bigger picture, ridiculous though this example sounds.

    The central question can be summarised as: ‘Fanatic, or hypocrite?’ It is not a distinction that many historical monstrous political leaders have applied to them. Usually we want to hear that a man like Lisieux gloried in his crimes, for it discredits his ideology by association. Things were rendered more complex in the case of Alfarus. Opponents of Societism did not merely want to highlight the ideology as evil, but also argue it was unrealistic and inapplicable. For all his crimes, Alfarus was undoubtedly a successful leader whose leadership brought the Combine to its peak. Logical problems sink in if propaganda paints such a man as an insane fanatic; this poses the question ‘If he was merely a madman doing crazed things, then why couldn’t you beat him?’ Further, this paints a relatively rosy picture of Societism as an ideology which, if adhered to, brings one’s empire to greater victories. This suggests the alternative interpretation of Alfarus as a clever, intelligent hypocrite—a man who paid lip service to Societism while only seeking to advance his own power, and whom succeeded based on his personal abilities and in spite of his absurd ideological allegiance.

    Generally speaking, Russian and American analysts have often adopted the ‘fanatic’ side of the equation, while French and Chinese ones have favoured the ‘hypocrite’ side. This is an oversimplification, of course, with a great deal of diversity of opinion even within a nation. Nonetheless, it is interesting to note that it is those nations which suffered the biggest personal defeats at Societist hands which prefer to think of him as a fanatic. This seems to contradict the logic above, yet perhaps speaks of an emotional response. The more indirect retreats of other nations before the Eye perhaps allows a more nuanced and thoughtful description of the man whose hand held the black flag.

    ===

    The English Physics Institute Regrets to Announce
    The Christmas Lecture “The Hidden World of Inversion Theory”
    is CANCELLED due to Dx Beatrice Bristow’s illness.
    An alternative speaker is currently being sought.
    For refunds please see page Page MV181Z
    We apologise for this unavoidable disappointment.


    ===

    But here we are talking about descriptions written many years after Alfarus first became “de facto” leader of the Combine. In those early days, information left South America on the tongues of the Refugiados. Their minds had not been tainted by VoxHumana propaganda yet like later generations of refugees from Societist rule, but they nonetheless often had confused and incomplete pictures of what was going on. Further information gradually leaked out as the Combine began to partially acknowledge the world outside the “Liberated Zones”, but always with a considerable filter on descriptions of Alfarus. Indeed, for some years the outside world accepted the idea that Alfarus was a relatively obscure figure and that power rested in truth in the hands of the Zonal Rejes. He was scarcely mentioned at all in diplomatic messages sent by Combine authorities (usually phrased as ‘addressed to the humans living in the city currently known as Fredericksburg, for them to pass on to the bandits currently claiming to be their rulers’). The key point is that there was no real period in which many people saw Alfarus as being of sufficient importance to try to gain a picture of his character and beliefs. By the time they realised their mistake, he had hidden himself at the centre of a labyrinth of uncertainty.

    If we are to attempt to decide whether he fits better into the character of fanatical true believer or pragmatic hypocrite, we can look at his implementation of core Societist ideology. Alfarus is most obviously cast into the role of pragmatist when it comes to his founding of the Celatores, and his clever legalistic policy of executing all soldiers as murderers...after a suitable delay of eight decades or so in which they could enjoy privileges. Alfarus also set himself above and apart the most divisive debate within Societism, that of the Garderistas against the Familistas. He deliberately encouraged them being at one another’s throats. In doing so, he was able to eliminate potential threats to his leadership without being seen to wield the knife. After some early forced Garderista experiments in the late 1900s and 1910s (ending with the mass revolt of the cities formerly known as Salvador and Puerto Riquelme) Alfarus also handled this situation with a typical self-aggrandising compromise. He let prominent Garderistas take the blame for the revolts, and announced a shift in policy (later suitably backdated by Bibilioteka Mundial records to eliminate the inconsistency) that creches would only be used to raise children confiscated from ‘enemies of humanity’ and not for those of loyal Amigos and Amigas. Alfarus justified this ideologically be saying that it was indeed important to remove children from an environment in which they could be tainted with nationalistic blindness, but that such an environment did not exist in the households of true followers of Sanchez.

    What could have been an embarrassing climbdown proved to be a political masterstroke. Though Garderista policies had never been universally rolled out, many otherwise loyal Societists had been dreading losing their children; there is evidence that the former UPSA’s birth rate nosedived briefly due to the uncertainty of what new babies’ fate would be. Now, Alfarus had rewarded their loyalty whilst creating a particularly existential fear to keep dissidents in line. Amigos and Amigas rapidly learned that keeping their head down and being noncommittal on politics in their local taberna was a good way to ensure their children would keep coming home every night from the eschola. The whole argument had also effectively ended the careers of many prominent Garderistas and even Familistas, removing threats to Alfarus’ rule.

    So it seems at first that Alfarus was definitely a pragmatist and hypocrite. He was also quite ready to delay the planned rotation of the Zonal Rejes, which only began in a limited way in the second decade of the twentieth century. This does not seem like an action in the mould of Lisieux and his alleged plan to alter the coastline of France to make it fit perfectly square departements. Yet there is also evidence against this characterisation of Alfarus.

    Besides the conflict between Garderistas and Familistas, another major debate in the early, war-torn Combine was the question of how to implement Sanchez’s vision of a meritocratic, mobile class system—which Sanchez himself had always been rather vague upon. To judge from the man’s writings, one might think that it would be self-evident for observers to note the success or failure of their fellow in a particular role, and promote or demote him to a different level of hierarchy if necessary. (Of course, the Societists rejected the idea that different class roles were not equal, and would not use terminology like ‘level’, ‘promote’ or ‘demote’). In reality, of course, a less subjective means of assessment was necessary. Some, such as Lupus (perhaps because of his half-Chinese background) suggested an examination system should be used. This is often portrayed as being a single decisive exam in the teenage years, but Lupus actually argued for regular re-assessment, as an individual might change over the years and become suited for different roles in the Final Society.

    Others argued for a more ‘scientific’ system. Some of these tended closer to Superhumanist and Linnaean ideas (looking towards genetics as a predetermining factor). These tended to be associated with the more extreme Familistas, as such a philosophy was in opposition to Garderista philosophy that emphasised the significance of nurture over nature. The more genetics-focused philosophers were generally purged by Alfarus, often indirectly as they were caught in the crossfire of the anti-Garderista revolts. However, other ‘scientific’ meritocrats had different ideas. They also looked towards tests, but far more esoteric and philosophical in nature than the ones envisaged by Lupus, trying to capture an image of a personality rather than merely asking about a person’s knowledge, experience and interests. One such advocate of such tests was Rajmundus Olajus (born Ramon Olaya), a former Peruvian.

    Alfarus himself had remained aloof from this debate; there is some (highly fragmentary) evidence suggesting that, as a soldier in all but name, he felt the best measure of character was in trials of combat—but this was scarcely something that could be made to fit with Societist philosophy. Furthermore, the hierarchical tests must also be applied to women, and at this point it appears Alfarus generally did not envisage having women Celatores. In 1904, Olajus managed the rare feat of getting Alfarus into a one-on-one discussion on the debate, and managed to persuade him to his own side. It appears Olajus was greatly charismatic; unfortunately for generations of people living under the black flag, there is also some evidence that he was a professional charlatan and snake-oil salesman. In 1905 Alfarus trialled Olajus’ first battery of tests, rolling them out fully in 1906-8.

    To give Alfarus credit, it appears he initially sought to test the veracity of Olajus’ methods, which (as every schoolchild knows) involved not merely vague and largely meaningless philosophical questions (‘if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?’) but also decidedly unscientific measurements of the skull (craniography) and body. Alfarus, with a typically martial attitude, took up three men from poor backgrounds that Olajus’ tests had presented as potential great warriors, and placed them in command of small forces fighting the French (whose intervention was then drawing down). To Alfarus’ surprise, all three men won spectacular victories, which firmly convinced the Kapud that Olajus was a genius. Three years later (and two years after Olajus’ death from cancer), Alfarus’ then-ally Ricardus Romerus attempted to prove to him that the trial had been a trick. Olajus had recruited three former Fuerzas Armadas senior officers serving General Antonelli or other rebels, who now wanted to help resist the French as a foreign foe. He had created fictional backstories for them as poor men from the streets, helping with his skill in makeup, and then had helped them further by paying off their reluctant French opponents (who knew they would be withdrawn soon anyway) with funds embezzled from Celator accounts.

    Alfarus heard Romerus out, and then promptly had him arrested and exiled to the Finisterra penal colony on Tierra del Fuego, then attempting (not entirely successfully) to have all records of his role in the Revolution deleted from the histories. Had Alfarus become convinced that Olajus could do no wrong, or was it that he could not change course and show himself to have been taken in? Was he a true believer or a pragmatic hypocrite? The debate goes on. Regardless, the decision condemned the Combine for decades in which men and women would be selected for their roles in Society based on Olajus’ flawed and vague test regime. Not only could the tests throw up random results, they could also be easily manipulated by unsavoury individuals, favouring their own proteges and protegees. There is some evidence that Olajus himself did so shortly before his death, obtaining important roles for a number of attractive daughters of former Monterroso allies who might otherwise have been condemned to status as workers, in exchange for favours of an obvious nature.

    ===

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    ===

    One chief piece of evidence for the picture of Alfarus as a fanatical true believer is in his apparent attitude to these tests. Not even small, subtle changes were permitted to be made to them until after Alfarus’ death. In the 1930s, those who pointed out that the test questions made reference to technologies and settings that now no longer applied were silenced. Not even Alfarus’ wife (q.v.), usually with great influence over him, seemed able to shake his faith in the system.

    In earlier years, sycophants would manipulate the tests to produce outcomes valuable to Alfarus, such as ‘demoting’ his rivals for power, yet all evidence suggests that Alfarus himself naively accepted these results as the inarguable outcome of an objective diagnostic. One such sycophant frustratedly recorded in his diary that Alfarus seemed blankly confused when he dropped unsubtle hints about having engineered the test to eliminate such a rival, and naturally refused to give that sycophant any favour in exchange. Alfarus himself took the tests every five years, the same as everyone else, and many biographers have claimed that, to his dying day, he honestly believed that each test scientifically confirmed he was the right person to lead the Combine’s Celatores. Some have even suggested that if one test had suggested otherwise, Alfarus might have quietly retired to his new role without complaint—though this seems a little far-fetched given his ruthlessness elsewhere.

    An early example of Alfarus’ naive trust in the Olajus tests came in the first trials, in 1905. Karlus Barkalus (formerly Carlos Barca) was arguably the most prominent post-Pandoric Revolution Societist leader to be of Negro descent. His case is an exemplar of the claim that the early Combine owed much more to UPSA values than conventional historiography gives credit for. Alfarus and his contemporaries seemed frequently to regard the uniform culture of the Final Society as bearing a strong resemblance to the Meridian culture they had grown up in. Some even tried to justify this ideologically by arguing that the UPSA was already a melting pot of combined cultures, but many were oblivious to their own biases. There is evidence that Alfarus enjoyed dancing the tango, a dance that his successors would one day attempt to ban as a specifically Meridian cultural practice and unsuited for the Final Society.[3] There was also little in the way of early debates about cuisine, with Societist Amigos and Amigas happily eating much the same diet as their Meridian forefathers had.

    More controversial are the claims that the early Combine paid only lip service to the idea of racial equality, just as the UPSA before it had. This is probably an exaggeration, driven by propaganda seeking to emphasise Societism as an unrealistic ideology and against human nature. Nonetheless, many have suggested that Alfarus’ dislike of Barkalus was primarily because of the colour of his skin. Barkalus himself certainly frequently drew attention to other Societist leaders making ‘un-Sanchezista’ judgements based on it. Even some later Societists admitted this flaw, saying it was a natural consequence of the fact that the early Combine had been built by men tainted by growing to maturity in the nation of the UPSA. The problem of Racialism was also why Barkalus was a prominent Familista leader; he argued, reasonably, that Garderism could not possibly hope to eliminate divisions through common nurture alone, when his child would always be judged against a criollo child from skin colour alone. (There is no evidence for the claim that some extreme Garderistas experimented with permanently dying children’s skin the same colour—usually stated to be green in rumours—which in any case would not have hidden differences in bone structure, hair type and so on).

    Barkalus’ criticism of this Racialism was fundamentally rooted in orthodox Sanchezista thought, but his status as the most prominent Negro Societist leader meant that he was looked to as a leader by other Negro Societists outside of the official hierarchical structure. Barkalus did not openly reject this status, rendering him open to criticism that he was willing to use racial groupings to his own advantage as well. Of course, Alfarus’ own power base was fundamentally something outside the official hierarchy as well, when on paper his role as Kapud was relatively junior compared to the Zonal Rejes. Regardless, Barkalus was a potential troublemaker in Alfarus’ book, but also a useful and gifted man whom he apparently did not wish to purge—if he was even able, given the potential backlash from other Negro Societists. An early Olajus test in 1905 confirmed Barkalus’ status as a born leader, but suggested he would reach his full potential leading Societist forces overseas rather than acting as a middling manager in the Zones Formerly Known As South America. Evidently this test was rigged, possibly by Olajus himself as a misguided favour; Alfarus, already possessing some of his blind faith in the test, had apparently preferred a different outcome. But Barkalus must take the role for which he was best suited, according to meritocratic selection...

    *

    From: Motext Pages EX129P-T [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Remarks: These pages are listed under “SAAX History Revision: Syllabus C”.

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    To the guarded enthusiasm of many of his followers, Barkalus was given a force (carefully not described as an army) and a small fleet to transport it. An escort was provided, the first major overseas operation of the ‘Celatores at Sea’ (an unaccountable number of whom bore a suspicious resemble to officers of the old Meridian Armada). Up to now they had mostly focused on commerce raiding against the International Expeditionary Force, but now with the latter in retreat, Alfarus felt a hand could be more openly shown. The lineship “Eternal Peace”, belatedly completed in Puerto Riquelme from the half-finished shell of the planned “Roberto Mateovaron”, led the escort force. Few witnessed the surprise breakout from the River Plate, illustrating the decline of the French-led blockade at that time.

    At this point the Combine had only seriously attempted to operate in South America, and even then it would be another year before Guyana would dissolve and join up, the black flag then flying from one end of the continent to the other. Barkalus’ intervention would be the first overseas mission. Illustrating the tendency at this point to view the Combine as a successor to the UPSA and its allies, the potential targets were all former Hermandad lands. There was also the point that many ‘unauthorised’ Societists had organically sprung up in those lands, out of contact with how things were developing in Zon1Urb1, and these must be brought back under central control. Three factors chose the destination: proximity, Barkalus’ ethnicity and the betrayal of Joao VII, who preferred the high life in Europe to fighting on as king of the last remnant of exilic royal Portugal. Angola, already subject to unrest by local Societist imitators, rapidly fell under Barkalus’ control.

    It is interesting to note that, in the more than four years between the Pandoric Revolution and this moment, no other power had seriously attempted to seize power in Angola. Angola did export a number of valuable commodities, such as palm and peanut oil, ivory and cocoa. But as an entity, it had been regarded as being mostly of symbolic value, denied to the bloodthirsty republican regime in Portugal and a figleaf to cover Brazil’s humiliation. With the departure of Joao, possession of Angola was something to argue about at some future peace treaty, not to be seized immediately. The French and Russians did both trade with the local authorities (who were unsure of whom exactly they were loyal to now) via Luanda and Benguela, and there are some records suggesting the RLPC proposed the territory be seized directly and added to Baravakhul [Namibia]. But at this point there was little appetite for antagonising the French, who were still hopeful that a Joao-led client state could be established there. The French Foreign Ministry under the less than capable Philippe Soisson remained enamoured of the idea, which was out of touch with the little loyalty that the Angolan Portuguese and their native subjects felt for Joao. At the height of Barkalus’ intervention, France’s government would be replaced by a Diamantine one led by Robert Mercier, leading to indecision at a critical time; the Russians were also distracted elsewhere.

    A third power that had considered trying to subordinate Angola was, of course, the Kongo Empire under Manikongo (Emperor) Henrique V.[4] Kongo was a venerable and sophisticated civilisation which, however, had been repeatedly weakened over the years by bouts of civil wars, particularly in the seventeenth century. Kongo had had regular contact with Portugual since first contact with explorer Diogo Cao in 1483. Both civilisations had influenced the other, with Kongo adopting Catholicism (sometimes in syncretic forms) and Portuguese titles of nobility, while Portugal was influenced by Kongolese culture and cuisine—albeit sometimes via the medium of transporting Kongolese slaves to its colonies. The slave trade was the primary Portuguese interest in the region for centuries, before a rapid economic reformation came in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as it became illegal. Portuguese forces were frequently at war with Kongo, which also suffered dynastic struggles between rival noble houses (“kanda”) for the throne in Mbanza-Kongo (also known as Sao Salvador). Most long-lasting and ruinous of these was the series of wars between the Houses of Kimpanzu and Kinlaza. These only came to an end with the reign of Pedro IV, who from 1709 was able to reunite the divided kingdom (and defeat the Antonian heresy founded by the claimed prophetess Beatriz Kimpa Vita). Pedro (it is claimed) attempted to secure peace by declaring the kingship should rotate between the rival lineages.

    ===

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    By the eighteenth century, Kongo had therefore become considerably weakened from its former glory. An opportunity arose, however, in 1818, when Freedish and Royal Africa Company forces seized the town of Moneba to suppress its slave trade (and found cinchona plantations).[5] The Portuguese government, incensed at this apparent intrusion into what it regarded as its sphere of influence, retaliated by fanning the flames of Biafran revolts against Company rule. Nothing came of this in the long run, but the move had prompted further Portuguese investment and interest in neighbouring Angola and Kongo. Building up Kongo as an ally would help protect against further RAC intrusion into lands of interest to the Portuguese. Portugal therefore supported Manikongo Henrique III, a charismatic leader, in his plans to modernise and expand the fading domain he had inherited.

    In the long term, Henrique III would probably have regretted this choice and his successors might have been forced into becoming mere vassals to the Portuguese.[6] However, the Portuguese Revolution and the Braganza flight to Brazil removed this threat. The UPSA and Hermandad would attempt to exert its own influence over Kongo via Angola, but both the Royal Portuguese and the Kongolese regarded the UPSA as a shared threat, rather than being played off against one another. This cautious alliance therefore continued to thrive throughout the second half of the nineteenth century. Railways were built to link up Kongo, and minor wars of conquest were fought to secure new territories, ostensibly to deny them to the RAC or other rivals. Most important of these was the Loango War in 1878, which saw the Kongolese annexation of the rival northern kingdom of Loango (which had linguistic and cultural ties with Kongo). This secured both banks of the mouth of the Congo River in Kongolese (and therefore Hermandad) hands. Many Meridian explorers and Kongolese and Portuguese traders attempted to penetrate the mysterious interior at this time, with decidedly mixed success. Over the last quarter of the nineteenth century, however, interior nations were contacted and brought under the rule of the Manikongo. These included the Kingdoms of Lunda (not to be confused with Luanda) and Luba, and the less organised nations of the Jaga (Yaka) and Chokwe people.[7] Frequently these conquests constituted rather shaky vassalages, and Henrique V was concerned by 1905 that, with the Hermandad now vanished and the power behind his rule gone with it, eastern rebellions would soon take hold.

    Kongolese conquest was not solely imperialistic, but regarded by some (such as the Marquis of Wembo, who wrote extensively on the topic in both KiKongo and Portuguese) as a humanitarian endeavour. Having been subject to the slave trade for so many years, Kongo had since abolished the practice even within its own borders. Fitting the pattern of independent development of Christian thought over the past centuries, Kongo had separately developed its own moral-focused abolitionist movement, and (like the Freedes with their Freedom Theology) wished to export this to its neighbours. Furthermore, nations like Lunda and the Chokwe were being subject to slave raids from the other side of Africa. Following the official mapping of Lake Cyrus [Lake Victoria] by Massoud Beheshti in 1878,[8] the trade rivalry between the Persians-Omanis in Zanguebar and the Ottomans in Sennar had heated up. The Russians and Abyssinians also sometimes became involved, especially after the Pandoric War shifted boundaries. While only the Ottomans openly traded in slaves, in practice unscrupulous traders from all nations would look the other way in order to turn a profit in ‘black gold’ aimed for Asian markets. Omani and other Arab traders frequently were the ones getting their hands dirty as the middlemen, allowing pious Zand Persian or Russian merchants to continue deploring the trade while profiting from it.

    Henrique sought to build a lasting empire by using Kongo’s power to protect these central nations from the slave traders. However, the collapse of the Hermandad threw this into doubt. He considered attempting to annex Angola altogether, but knew this would stretch his forces too thinly. It would be in 1906 that Barkalus, having united Angola under Societist rule, came to him with an offer. Barkalus expressed his admiration for Henrique’s projects; it appears that he had read the Marquis of Wembo’s books. Societists believed in the equality of the races and the dignity of civilisation. Zon1Urb1 was just as willing as Buenos Aires had been to build new railways linking up his expanded domain, but would treat Henrique as an equal, not a vassal. Barkalus also used a tactic that had worked in Peru, offering to make Henrique the first Rej of his Zone.

    Diversitarian propaganda accounts usually imply Barkalus lied by concealing what the role of a Zonal Rej would entail. But rotating kingships were well understood by Henrique, having been used both in Kongo and in Loango. Some historians have joked that the Olajus tests also resembled the arbitrary auguries of African witch-doctors, but this is a rather stereotypical diminishment of the sophisticated Kongo culture. More importantly, the Societist system would also allow the conquered vassal monarchs opportunities to rule without having to overthrow his hand through more ruinous civil wars. The Societists indeed believed sincerely in fighting slavery, and by taking a stand they would give both Kongo and themselves a moral high ground in future battles.

    In 1907, the Zanzibar Omani slave trader Ali el-Zawawi sallied from Kindu on the Lulabala River with an army of mostly Bugandan mercenaries. He sought to undercut the more professional forces usually operating on behalf of his rivals; the Bugandans were untrained, mostly former criminals expelled by their king, but would work for less if they were allowed to plunder the villages they raided. Diamonds were being discovered all over Angola and Kongo by Societist mineralogists; the gemstones were hoarded by Alfarus’ regime to replace the depleted lost gold reserves of the former UPSA. The Societist Libra currency would be the first to be backed primarily by precious gemstones rather than metals, though it later shifted to a more balanced basis. One of the areas being developed for diamond mining was in the Luba region of Bakwanga.[9] With many shaky new villages founded by a vastly swelled population of optimistic diamond miners, Bakwanga was an ideal target for Zazawi’s slavers.

    The so-called Rape of Bakwanga was an outrage throughout the Kongo Empire and almost sparked a revolt from other Luba cities, but the first spur of the new railway was enough to put down the discontent with troops. Barkalus lent support to Henrique, who appointed the Marquis of Wembo as general and tasked him down with hunting down Zazawi and, if possible, rescuing his captives. This is often captured in film as though it was a chase, when Wembo and Barkalus set out months later, and the complacent Zazawi was in fact embarking on a second raiding expedition. Zazawi’s force was crushed by the Kongolese and Societists at the Battle of Isangi in November 1907. Zazawi was taken alive and brought back to Mbaza-Kongo in chains. Fortunately, it transpired that the egotistical Zazawi had had all the Bawkanga slaves branded with the Arabic letter Zayd for his name (resembling a semi-colon with a flourish), which allowed them to be reclaimed in Zanguebar and Sennar. Suddenly the traders were apologetic, and of course they had not realised the slaves had been taken in that merciless attack, ahem...

    Suddenly, Societism was feared in Africa. But not for the right reasons. The action against slavery considerably improved the ideology’s reputation in Europe and the Novamund, and likely played a role in Mercier believing it was now politically possible to formally end France’s war in South America. But it was only one side of the sword.

    Like Alfarus, Barkalus was pragmatic enough in how he approached the matter of cultural homogenisation. Unlike the fanaticism of later generations of Societist leaders, it seems he did not believe the eradication of cultural differences should begin at home. No; let the loyal be rewarded and the disloyal—or those unable to fight back—be punished.

    The intervention had led to all the eastern Congo basin falling into Kongolese and Societist hands. These regions had practised slavery. And Luba had been less than faithful. Why not start there?

    It is for this reason that museums across the world now struggle to reconstruct the languages, histories and cultures of these regions, ruthlessly and deliberately expunged by the rule of Barkalus and his allies. In a region without much in the way of written histories, it was sufficient to find those who passed down oral history and remove them. Generations could be brought up as Kongolese—in the short term, to keep Henrique happy—and then...







    [1] Venn diagrams are named after John Venn, who wrote about them in 1880, but was formalising earlier work by others. Eulerian diagrams (or circles), named for the Swiss mathematician Leonhard Euler (1707-1783) are properly just concentric circles for logical classification, rather than overlapping ones, but TTL has kept the original name for later developments. Most people in the 21st century of TTL, on being asked to picture a ‘Eulerian diagram’, will think specifically of an overlapping Venn-style daigram.

    [2] It would appear that invoking ‘humanity’ in contexts like this is naturally frowned upon, due to the association of the word with Societism.

    [3] While the tango as we know it did not emerge until the 1880s, the term was already used in the 18th century to describe a gathering of slaves, and the dance is derived from the candombe dances which those slaves had brought from Angola. It seems likely that the term would be used for a new dance independently, though it’s not quite the same as an OTL tango.

    [4] Manikongo is also sometimes transliterated as Mwenekongo. In OTL it is usually rendered as King rather than Emperor; the difference here reflects the greater power of Kongo.

    [5] See Part #107 in Volume III.

    [6] As happened in the late nineteenth century in OTL.

    [7] In OTL, Lunda was conquered by the Chokwe before it could be colonised by Europeans.

    [8] See Part #225 in Volume V.

    [9] In OTL this was developed for diamond mining a little later, and the influx of people created the city of Mbuji-Mayi.
     
    266
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #266: A man (or mouse), a plan (gang aft agley), a canal…

    “White Gate to Crippled Hind. Repeat last message please...WHAT? Orpington One Two has left his despatch case at the hotel...say again? Oh, Finchley, Uxbridge—I mean, how the hell did you—never mind. Steeth, send your damn boy on his ’pede over to Rose Eddie Rose to get it to him before the committee meets...I don’t care how many speed limits he breaks...just make sure Orpington One Two has his notes before he sees that damn harpy Southwark Mayfair Islington...for the record I didn’t say that...you fix this mess or we’re all for the chop, aydub?”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Pages SX224J-L [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Remarks: These pagse are listed under “SSAAX Foreign Literature Revision: Syllabus B” and have been deciphered from their coded state by our algorithm.

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    If Julio Cardenal had followed in his father’s footsteps, he might still have made a mark on history—but not the one we know him for. Enrique Cardenal was a master chef from Leon in Guatemala’s Nicaragua province. He worked his way up through his craft as an apprentice, producing many lesser dishes of note along the way. Eventually, after running a successful restaurant in Veracruz for many years, he was snapped up by King Afonso of Guatemala, who appointed him as the head chef of his royal household in San Salvador. His biggest achievement at this time was the creation of “Pupusa Alphonse” (as it is known in English-speaking countries), a unique reimagining of the local peasant staple of stuffed corn tortillas, using exotic ingredients and spices to appeal to the royal palette. Of course, the popularity of this dish has led to its simplification over the years, with cheaper substitutes being found. Across much of the ENA today, one can find franchised restaurants selling ‘alphonses’ that have more in common with what the peasants were eating than what King Afonso was.

    Enrique is better remembered, however, for a dramatic confrontation at the 1884 WorldFest in Paris. At the time, the city was still reeling from the embarrassment of the New Needle (built for the WorldFest of 1860) being condemned and demolished, and its replacement “La Tour Sans Fin” still remained on the drawing board. The French built an artificial city of glass in a cleared site, not far from where Versailles had stood before the Revolution. Rather than Paris itself being the showcase, looking halfway through an adolescent phase of reconstruction, it would be this shining monument to modernity that would take centre stage. Of course, the reality often failed to live up to the optimistic projections, especially when the weather refused to cooperate. Glass halls did not look quite so attractive when their backdrop consisted of grey sheets of rain and sleet.

    One of the many displays at the WorldFest came from the Empire of New Spain, and Enrique was there to showcase a new dish he had created for King Afonso. (Some biographers claim it was actually produced in his old restaurant in Veracruz, or at least its predecessor was). Enrique had created a new variant of “boeuf bourguignon,” that traditional French dish of beef and vegetable stew braised in red wine (the wine, not the place of origin, is the origin of the term ‘bourguignon’ or ‘Burgundian’ in English). He had incorporated a number of Guatemalan staples into the recipe, exotic to Europeans, such as maize and tamarind, but his bigger innovation was a greater emphasis on the flavour element played by onions in the dish. It is now little remembered that the biggest source of controversy, however, was that he had used Meridian red wine of the Mendoza Cot variety, rather than French wine.[1]

    This was regarded as an outrageous insult by the French culinary establishment. This had become greater codified in the nineteenth century with the development of the Chappe-Cugnot Marque System. This was formally set up in 1855 by the “Fondation Chappe” and the “Societe Cugnot”, which were industrial standards associations supported by the various private Optel companies and steam mobile manufacturers (respectively). The Fondation is also well known for its more nefarious activities in the Telegraph Wars, using its influence to sabotage attempts to set up rival Lectel companies. Both organisations had a vested interest in encouraging either workers or consumers to travel to far-off locations, and therefore decided to compile and publish a guide to the best restaurants across France. The Marque system used the most common French approach to making tally marks for counting (referred to as “Marques de nombrement” in French). Rather than using four vertical lines followed by a slash, as used for tallying in England, the French instead draw each stroke of a box shape, followed by a diagonal slash to make five. Under the Chappe-Cugnot system, each restaurant was subject to five tests of punctuality, reliability, different forms of quality and so on, with a stroke being added for each one it failed. Any restaurant that failed all five tests (or refused to be examined at all) would therefore complete the five tally mark, which also slightly resembled the numeral zero. By 1884 when Enrique arrived, the Chappe-Cugnot Marque was so widely used that French restaurants which refused to submit to examination had virtually been driven out of business.

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    The French felt very strongly about one of their signature dishes being ‘tampered with’ by this upstart Guatemalan, and soon there were protests outside the Guatemalan pavilion—which ironically probably increased local Parisian attention in the otherwise somewhat damp-squib (literally) WorldFest. King Louis XVIII and Prime Minister Charpentier had to call out the Vendean Guard in order to prevent an international incident. It was probably just as well that firebombs wouldn’t light in the miserable rain…

    It was Alain Prevost, a former chef of note himself and a prominent member of the Chappe-Cugnot Marque’s Conseil des Critiques, whose rhetoric was the most outrageous. He compared Enrique Cardenal to an enemy of civilisation and argued he should be shut up inside that glass pavilion and have phlogisticated air pumped in. While the dark days of the Revolution had almost left living memory, Prevost only made enemies of himself around Europe for his emotive comparison.

    The rival Viennese culinary establishment was having fun watching this fight.[2] Zoltan Megyesy, a Danubian food critic visiting the WorldFest, proposed a bold scheme. He suggested that Prevost and his colleagues, along with Megyesy and his, should embark on a blind taste test to compare Enrique Cardenal’s achievement to the finest examples of “boeuf bourguignon” from Paris’ best chefs. These were drawn from three restaurants which had achieved the most prestigious and covetous grade from the Chappe-Cugnot Marque: the “Sans Tache” or ‘unblemished’, a perfect score in all categories.

    By this point, eyewitnesses in the Guatemalan delegation record, Enrique Cardenal was a nervous wreck and rather wished he’d never put his food in the nest of vipers that was Europe’s elitist culinary establishment. But his friends encouraged him to fight on, for his country’s honour, and he did so.

    Megyesy had already tried Enrique’s version of the dish and likely guessed what would happen. Prevost was appalled to be told that the dish whose spoonful he had rated most highly of the four was, in fact, Cardenal’s. The grand old critic at least showed he had a very Gallic sense of drama in admitting defeat. He bowed to the startled Enrique and said “Bravo, Monsieur. You have made a Ferdinandiste of me today.”[3] The Marque was less graceful in defeat, and grudgingly included Enrique’s version in their guides as a separate dish altogether: “boeuf nicaraguayen”.

    Having secured his place in history at the cost of his mental stability (some said), Enrique soon retired from his role in the palace in San Salvador. He returned to his native Nicaragua province, settling in the city of Granada on the Lake of Nicaragua. This was an old city, having already existed before European contact, and considered by many to be the first true European city in North America after that. It had obtained its name in 1524 from the then-recent Spanish conquest of Moorish Granada, and even its architecture evoked the Islamic-influenced styles of Andalusia in Old Spain. It remained one of the most important cities in Nicaragua, although the provincial capital role had gone to Leon instead.[4] He founded another restaurant there in retirement, continuing to innovate—this time in seafood, exploiting Lake Nicaragua’s unusual combination (at the time) of freshwater and saltwater fish. Many still travelled long distances to eat at the table of the man who had humiliated the finest cooks of France, although Enrique reportedly remained a humble man and was uncomfortable when the incident was brought up. It is worth bringing up that some biographers believe his achievements were really the result of a partnership with his wife Juanita, who in that age did not receive open recognition for her contributions to culinary history.

    We make this extended digression because it is important to the man whom Julio Cardenal grew up to become. If his father Enrique had hoped that he might succeed him in his vocation, he would be disappointed. Julio was always more of a dreamer, an artist of a different art. He displayed talent in poetry and prose from an early age. However, he at least inherited from his father a love of good food, which led him into intriguing new circles when Meridian Refugiados began to arrive in Nicaragua province after the Pandoric Revolution in 1900. Enrique had, by then, passed away, but had passed on the management of his restaurant to his apprentice and protege Antastasio Ramirez, with whom Julio was on good terms. Julio helped Ramirez by recruiting several talented chefs and apprentice cooks from the Refugiado community (the most famous of whom was actually a Peruvian rather than a Meridian per se). Their command of southern dishes expanded the repertoire of the restaurant. Julio also found Carlos Diaz, a Meridian artist and expert on wine, who was able to aid Ramirez in finding alternatives for the Mendoza Cot used in Enrique’s old signature dish. The cutoff from trade with the former UPSA had many short-term consequences for businesses which had relied on supplies of Meridian goods—a pattern of decline which began during the Pandoric War with the blockade and commerce raiding, but intensified following the isolation of early Societist rule.

    While Diaz had been brought on board for his wine expertise, it was his painting which intrigued Julio. It is difficult now for us to judge how good Julio’s early literary work was. His father’s name was well known in Europe for the WorldFest ’84 incident, which meant his writings had more exposure than another’s would have. Despite this, there appears to be genuine positivity from critics about his early poetry. At this time he had also experimented with sketching and painting himself, though critical consensus is that his own work was never more than competently mediocre. Instead, he made a partnership with Diaz, who illustrated his collections of poetry and prose.

    Julio Cardenal’s writings did not solely involve life in Granada and around the shores of the Lago de Nicaragua (known to locals as the Lago de Cocibolca or ‘Sweet Sea’), but this was their primary theme. He depicted the lives of peasants, often fishermen, and the contrast between their seemingly paradisical surroundings and the economic hardships and uncertainties of their daily lives. He also introduced audiences from Europe, and elsewhere in the Novamund, to the exotic geography of Nicaragua, in particular the ominous volcanic island of Ometepe which dominated the lake. While Julio’s writings were well loved by European critics, the mass market was more aware of him for having opened the floodgates for other, less skilful but more action-oriented, writers. The lake, the volcanic islands, the seedy but colourful towns on its shores—these were a tailor-made new setting for writers who had exhausted the usual florin bloody staples of West Indian pirate islands or Nusantara mystery cults.

    Julio had therefore already become something of a celebrity in his own right, before events that would change his life for ever began in 1911...

    *

    From: Motext Pages EX119P-T [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Remarks: Pages are grouped under a section titled “Morsel-sized Revision for your English Highers! HISTORY”.


    In 1911, President Thomas Gedney retired due to ill health (which turned out to be exaggerated, as he lived for decades more). He had served as President for only two years, following his defeat of Michael C. Dawlish, the Liberal who had succeeded Lewis Faulkner after his fatal heart attack, but been unable to hold together his Social American Coalition.

    Gedney hadn’t won a majority in 1909. Even before the reform of the American voting system some years later, it was hard for any one party to secure a majority alone. He had won a strong minority, and had some of the remaining Independents left over from the 1900 election on side. But he’d need the support of either the Patriots or the Mentians, the two smaller parties, to pass legislation.

    Everybody expected that to be an obvious choice. The Patriots and Supremacists were both doradists, after all. The Supremacists might have been born out of dissatisfaction and anger with the Patriots, but that had been many years ago. Besides, Supremacist governments had been propped up by Patriots in the late nineteenth century, so it wasn’t unprecedented. Besides, the Supremacists certainly weren’t going to work with the Mentians, were they?

    Except they were. The agreement was largely negotiated between Mentian leader Ernest Newman and the rising Supremacist star, Jack Tayloe. Newman, who had greatly admired Lewis Faulkner and worked with him on the Census and provisions of Social Americanism, had grown discontented with the Liberals after the leadership contest of ‘The Two Mikes’ (the youthful Michael C. Dawlish and the veteran politician Michael Briars). Neither Mike seemed willing to carry on Faulkner’s legacy, and Newman was willing to be persuaded, even by a traditional opponent of his party.

    Tayloe, on the other hand, was a mass of contradictions. On paper, he should have been a crusty old Patriot. His name was really John Tayloe VII, descendant of one of the First Families of Virginia, who had owned land in the ancient colony since the seventeenth century. However, his grandfather had backed the wrong horse during the Virginia Crisis of the 1840s. Besides losing his slaves to emancipation, John Tayloe V had also seen much of his non-human property destroyed by the upheavals of the Crisis. Some of this had been inflicted by Carolinian troops during their brief intervention, meaning that the Tayloes had little inclination to move to Carolina and start again as slave plantation owners (as a few Virginian aristocrats did). Instead, the family chose to up sticks and move halfway across the world to the colony of New Virginia in Antipodea, which would later become part of the Confederation of Cygnia.

    The Tayloes rebuilt their power base from the ground up in the young colony, just as their ancestors had when Virginia had been a wild frontier. Jack Tayloe was a successful businessman, but one who had largely made his fortune with his own hands, and could remember being poor. He also considered himself a Cygnian, a New Virginian, and was widely praised at home for standing up for the interests of that most distant, oft-forgotten, outpost of the American people.

    While his political sympathies did not incline towards Mentianism, Tayloe was at least approaching Newman on a level of shared experience, rather than patronising or talking down to him as many Liberals other than Faulkner had. Tayloe was able to secure a stable government for Gedney by agreeing not to attempt to dismantle Faulkner’s achievements. What did the Supremacists get out of this? Apparently, it seems, if it was a choice between keeping the systems of Social Americanism or allowing further progress on female suffrage, the rather culturally macho Supremacists and Mentians could agree to block the latter. The Patriots, on the other hand, with their significant ‘Blue-Gold’ aristocratic Cytherean movement led by LG Manders, would never have accepted this. The Mentians burned bridges with some supporters, but were also able to make progress towards another goal of theirs—though this would not materialise for a couple of years.

    ===

    WILLIAMS VS MCADAM
    The AdvaBox fight of the century!
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    ===

    When Gedney stepped down, according to their party custom, the Supremacists held conventions to choose delegates to pick a replacement. The process was delayed due to the need for Cygnians to appoint their own delegates, but the Cygnian confederal government confided that there was no need for the delegates to attend in person; every one of them would always vote for Jack Tayloe and no-one else. One might imagine that Tayloe’s lack of immediate roots in North America might undermine him with the Supremacist supporters, but he had also won plaudits among them for his actions in negotiating the coalition. Some Supremacist voters were rather grateful for the way Faulkner’s Social Americanism had improved their lives—they viewed him as more than half a Supremacist in the wrong party—and had been concerned about one of the more traditional doradist Supremacists in the Foxbury mould from taking the leadership. Besides his Cygnian background and his views on Social Americanism, Tayloe was also a younger man. He was the first of what might be called the ‘post-Pandoric’ generation of MCPs to hold the presidency (although this is a misleading term). His views were not shaped as inexorably by the years of the Long Peace as those of men like Michael Briars (who had belatedly gained the Liberal leadership after his younger rival’s resignation). With suffrage dramatically widened under Faulkner, Tayloe’s fresh face and matching ideas could appeal to some of those new voters.

    Tayloe therefore defeated rivals Edward Ballard and P. Martin Reynolds to take the leadership, and was officially appointed President by Emperor Augustus. He won re-election in his own right in 1914 and served until 1919, at which point the Liberals returned to power. During his eight-year tenure, Tayloe is remembered for two main achievements, both dogged with controversy. Firstly, he grasped the nettle of a goal that Faulkner had always wanted to pursue, yet had always backed away from due to opposition from his Patriot coalition partners. This was the question of what to do with the vast swathes of American territory in North America’s interior, bordered by the Confederation of Drakesland, the Adamantine Republic of California, the Confederation of Westernesse, the Confederation of Michigan—and, formerly, the debatable lands of the Superior Republic. Back in 1857 when the Supremacists had enacted Reform, leaving those interior lands as territories had seemed the only logical option; they were very sparsely inhabited, were not yet well linked up by railways or telegraph lines (either Optel or the new Lectel) and there was no obvious central capital. However, sixty years later things were quite different. Over two and a half million people were living in those territories (mostly in the industrialised cornfields of Othark[5]) taxed but without any kind of democratic representation, either in the Continental Parliament or Fredericksburg or locally. An Imperially appointed territorial assembly and Governor enacted all laws, and the people were beginning to grow angry with this treatment. Legally there were many grotesque cases of villages in Westernesse or Michigan having more rights than neighbouring cities in Othark, something which was also exploited by unscrupulous traders and bandits.

    The ‘Cornhusker Controversy’ had been discussed in American politics since at least the 1890s, but no-one had ever come up with a good solution—particularly since many coalition governments relied on the Patriots, who still defiantly refused to admit any more Confederations (and some of whom still wanted to restore the original five alone). Tayloe secured support from the Mentians, who believed that they would benefit electorally from the poor farmers of Othark being able to elect MCPs. Tayloe also had another ulterior motive. At the end of the Pandoric War, the former Superior Republic had been effectively occupied and partitioned between the ENA and the Russians. In 1908 the Tsar had officially annexed his half of the territory as the province of Dolgorukovskaya, named for the prince who had been slain by Yapontsi rebels in the Hanran revolt of 1878.[6] This act of sabre-rattling alarmed the American public and probably contributed to Gedney’s electoral victory the year later.

    Tayloe wanted to challenge the Tsar’s move, and also solve the ‘Indian Problem’. Tayloe’s views on Novamundine Indians were unquestionably coloured by his experiences with the native Indiens in Cygnia, in particular the Noungaré [Noongar] people. The Noungaré, who had made contact with the French years before Cygnia became American territory, continued to trade with French and Mauré traders for weapons with which to resist American encroachment. Every Cygnian seemed to have a story of someone’s friend’s sister who had been slain or worse in a Noungaré raid on an outpost in the bushlands. (Of course, today there are rather more balanced accounts in fiction which also represent the Noungaré’s point of view, as heroic but tragic defenders fighting a losing battle against the imperialistic conquest of their homeland).

    Tayloe proved resistant to advice from more experienced MCPs from the Michigan border provinces, and was convinced that the only way to resolve the problem of Superior was to ‘normalise’ it. By this he meant that it should no longer be an occupied territory where American boys were periodically sent back to their families in flag-draped coffins thanks to local Kleinkrieger bombs. Nor should it have its reduced independence restored; who was to say that such a Republic might not back the Russians in a future war, and bring the Tsar’s knife ever closer to the ENA’s heart? No, Tayloe’s view bore a striking similarity to those of a century and a half ago, who had ‘dealt with’ Acadia and Quebec by drowning them in Protestant English-speaking settlers and racially purging anyone who argued. He would combine the American-occupied half of Superior with the interior unrepresented territories into a new Confederation, a glorious tenth Confederation, double the original number.

    The proposal met with staunch protests, not only in Parliament, but also with riots on the streets. Unreconstructed Patriots again protested the addition of more Confederations as illegal, unconstitutional or even somehow immoral. Sympathisers with the Indians, some of Burdenist ideological extraction, also regarded the plan as morally obscene. Many Mentians were also concerned about this aspect of the plan—Superior included many poor whites who had fled persecution and made a new life and culture in the Republic. But plenty of Mentian waverers regarded the annexation of East Superior as a necessary price to pay for granting representation to the farmers of the interior territories.

    Despite the level of opposition, in 1914 Tayloe narrowly got the Panimaha (Confederation) bill through Parliament and Emperor Augustus granted Imperial Assent. The name was selected by committee as the ‘least bad’ option, being an old term from centuries-old maps of the Othark region, probably referring to an offshoot of the Pawnee tribe of Indians.[7] The new Confederation took in a vast area, stretching from debatable Arctic islands all the way to the border of North Arizpe (already annexed to Westernesse as a province). Rather than trying for a central capital, government institutions were placed in the large border city of Flatwater in Othark, unquestionably the populous core of the Confederation.[8] A second bill passed shortly afterwards saw the vast Hudson’s Bay Territory of New England formally granted voting rights within that Confederation. Tayloe’s goal was to eliminate all unrepresented territories under American rule, which he believed modern communications (Lectel and Photel) could do.

    The Panimaha project had a rocky start. The first elections, to both the new Confederal Assembly in Flatwater in 1915, and to the Continental Parliament in 1919, were termed ‘unofficial plebiscites’ by the historian G. J. Dearne. While southern Panimaha elected a range of Supremacists, Liberals and Mentians, the former Superior territory voted heavily “en bloc” for abstentionist independents who refused to take their seats in Fredericksburg in protest at the annexation. Tayloe’s ambitious plans for moving in white settlers never got off the ground; in fact they arguably backfired, radicalising many of the Indians who had lived quiescently in southern Panimaha in the territories for decades and adding them to the Tortolian movement.[9] As well as the well-known consequences of a few years later, the focus on Panimaha meant that historical views of Tayloe have added him to the list of interbellum American Presidents who let the Carolina problem fester, following Faulkner, Dawlish and Gedney.

    ===

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    ===

    This is rather unfair. Tayloe had some clear ideas of what to do with Carolina, but viewed Panimaha as a prototype for them. Though he was no reactionary Patriot, he retained some degree of loyalty towards his ancestral Confederation of Old Virginia. In particular, like many of the Virginian aristocrats who had stayed at home, he was concerned that, with the provinces of Africa Nova (formerly Raleigh) and Hispaniola, the Virginian electorate was now almost one-third black. Tayloe planned to create a new Confederation of Carolina, which would include the returned Africa Nova and Hispaniola, but not Charlotte. He made vague plans to keep this new Carolina on side by (what else?) flooding the Cherokee Empire with northern white settlers, who could make common cause with the Negroes against the Carolinian whites.

    Nothing much came of these grand schemes, save for a single memorable fact-finding mission to East Florida in 1914. Tayloe personally saved the local military Governor from an attack, not from revanchist Carolinian Kleinkriegers but from the forces of nature. A large alligator emerged from a nearby creek without warning and headed towards the Presidential party, who had no firearms to hand. To General Stevens’ shock, the President of the Empire of North America shrugged off his jacket and proceeded to wrestle the muscular predator to a standstill. Afterwards, Tayloe explained that he had exploited the animal’s lack of power in opening (rather than closing) its jaw, meaning he could hold it shut with one hand. He further noted that he had done this before as a boy, on his father’s plantation in Cygnia.

    Some experts pointed out that Carolinian alligators were not the same as Cygnian crocodiles, as Tayloe could easily have come to grief. However, the story did a great deal to create a macho legend surrounding Tayloe, and undoubtedly contributed to his re-election over the boring Briars that year. Examination of satire at this time suggests that Tayloe’s Virginian aristocratic ancestry was largely ignored in favour of presenting him as a Cygnian stereotype. He is frequently depicted standing in the Continental Parliament wearing the stereotypical garb of a bushranger, holding a kaili[10] in one hand and a pint of watered whisky in the other, a peg-hat on his head.[11] He is shown speaking in the broad Scottish-derived brogue common to New Kent, when in reality he spoke with the more neutral American accent of New Virginia.

    Tayloe’s other project somehow managed to be even more controversial. For many years, engineers and businessmen had speculated about the idea of digging a canal through Central America to join the Atlantic and Pacific, meaning ships would not longer need to perform the long and often dangerous rounding of Cape Horn to travel from one to the other. Men had died in vain for years trying to find a Northwest Passage to avoid that journey, only to find none; now, could mankind instead reshape the earth in a manner which mad old Jean de Lisieux had once dreamed? The Ottomans had already showed the way with the Sinai Canal, but this was a challenge of a different order. The idea had first been seriously mooted during the Seventies Thaw between the ENA and UPSA, but had never gained enough traction or funding.

    Now, Mexico and Guatemala were firmly within what was formalised as the Philadelphia Bloc in 1910; kings and emperors might reign on paper, but they had American ‘advisors’ in place in the City of Mexico, Veracruz and San Salvador to ensure they made the right decisions. Nicaragua in Guatemala was the obvious place to dig such a canal, with its low-lying ground and the large Lago de Nicaragua cutting out the need to dig across the middle-west of the country. The United Nicaragua Canal Company was created in 1912 and work formally began in 1914.

    Trouble dogged the project from the start. Multiple routes were considered and rejected before the final choice of San Juan to Brito was selected. Workers were frequently recruited locally and mistreated in acts that were not only inhumane, but also meant their work was often not fit for purpose. Corruption was rampant, with expensive equipment frequently going missing en route. Tayloe was forced to deploy American troops to ensure work continued apace, and the project grew ever more controversial—with particular misgivings from Tayloe’s Mentian coalition partners in Fredericksburg, reading reports of abuses committed against the Guatemalan canal workers.

    The project is best remembered, however, for the ‘Great Canal Race’. In fact (as American partisans will ever point out) the Combine had begun planning a canal over a year earlier; it just became apparent after the Americans had begun theirs. The old Nueva Granada (complete with Panama province) was barely taken by the Societists, the ashes of the flags had barely cooled, before the Combine’s workers begun. The Panama project had been proposed by Carlos Cuevas (a.k.a. Karlus Quevus), an eccentric Venezuelan-born engineer (another point of contention for American partisans). Quevus managed to persuade Pedrus Dominikus of the value of his audacious ideas, and Dominikus passed him on up to Alfarus himself. Alfarus was, according to rumour, concerned of the potential loss of face if the Societists tried and failed, but the enthusiastic Quevus managed to persuade him that success, conversely, would show Societism could achieve the seemingly impossible. Alfarus agreed, possibly seeing the project as a good place to dump undesirables as workers.

    Some film depictions show the race as Diversitarianism vs Societism, which is obviously ridiculous and anachronistic. The Americans did regard it as a race, but still largely viewed the Combine as just the UPSA under another name, and saw this as a restoration of the old rivalry. Work on both canals quickened from the rivalry. The Americans had farther to go, but much easier ground, while the Societists chose the narrowed point of the isthmus of Panama, but this required the construction of six huge canal locks—the biggest ever made—due to the massive rise and fall of latitude over the mountainous isthmus.

    By the winter of 1916 it seemed the Americans were well ahead, with the Societists suffering repeated delays from the technical challenges of the locks. There were times when Quevus nearly found himself exiled to the Kongo. But the Societists persisted, while the Americans ran into a problem. His name was Julio Cardenal.

    Cardenal had met, fallen in love with, and married Ana Aravelo, the poor widow of a canal worker who had been beaten to death by cruel Mexican overseers recruited by the Company. Cardenal was an established poet whose livelihood came from celebrating the culture of the people who lived on the shores of the Lago de Nicaragua. Not only did his poems now begin to criticise the mistreatment of the workers, but also warned of the consequences of the canal being built. The canal would connect the Lago de Nicaragua to the ocean, destroying its use as a source of fresh water and changing its fisheries beyond recognition. Cardenal warned of disaster, and his command of rhetoric in both Spanish and English had far more effect than a dozen anodyne reports of abuse.

    A movement in support of Cardenal’s campaign grew up in countries such as France, where his name was known, as well as in the ENA among many Mentians. Criticism of Tayloe’s government grew. The canal was delayed as controversy grew. Finally, in 1920, the ‘Pablo Sanchez Canal’ opened in what had once been Panama, a technical marvel of the age, while its Nicaraguan counterpart languished behind schedule. Cardenal’s victory was bittersweet, as the next American government would rush their own canal to completion to save face. All Cardenal’s warnings would come true, and the culture of the lake folk he had depicted would fade into memory as southern Guatemala faced a fresh water crisis.

    Yes, the Canal Race predates Diversitarianism. But it also influenced it. In seeking to beat the Societists, the Americans had destroyed an entire culture themselves. They were far from the only power at this time to do so, as we shall see elsewhere. And that would have consequences.

    Following his party’s defeat in 1918, swamped by controversy, Tayloe chose to resign his seat in the Continental Parliament and return home to Cygnia. He was still relatively young, aged fifty-one, and would become elected Governor of the Confederation in the 1920s. Many historians consider him to be a much better Governor than he was a President, and he remains defiantly popular among most Cygnians today.

    When considering Tayloe’s historical legacy, the question of ‘was he a Racialist?’ frequently comes up. Tayloe attached himself to too many controversial causes. He unquestionably was prejudiced against Indiens, Novamundine Indians and Negroes, though apparently regarding the latter as the lesser of two evils compared to rebellious Carolinian whites. He was, however, an admirer of Chinese civilisation, stemming from his friendship with the Chinese Ambassador to Fredericksburg, the Duke of Liang. As Governor, he pushed to allow limited immigration from China, at a time when many in the Confederation opposed it. He remains a particularly popular figure with Chinese people in Cygnia to this day.

    But the dislike of Tayloe from many historians is not simply because of the legacy some of his decisions would inflict on North America. There was always something slightly untrustworthy about him. He cultivated that macho bushranger image to connect with poorer people. He opposed the expansion of female suffrage and voting reform, not because of some deepfelt principle, but because he thought it would hurt his party. In later life, he endorsed his own daughter Mary to run for his old seat in the Continental Parliament, waved through universal female suffrage in Cygnia (which was more beneficial to his party) and campaigned in favour of MAPR. The fact he was still around to defend himself has largely protected him from suffering quite the reputational damage of Faulkner after the Black Twenties; but this man, once seen as the young and vigorous tide of the future, nonetheless frequently appears on lists of America’s worst presidents…




    [1] Should be spelled Mendoza Côt, but the Motext can’t represent that. Analogous to OTL’s Malbec.

    [2] Vienna rose in cultural prominence in TTL during, and immediately after, the Jacobin Wars—as Paris’ historic role as the cultural centre of Europe had been undermined by both Revolutionary unrest and the influence of Lisieux’s anodyne, utilitarian views on governance. While Paris reclaimed its crown in the 1820s, Vienna is still firmly regarded as its nearest rival.

    [3] Referring to the attitude of Emperor Ferdinand VII of New Spain, who regarded the New World as being culturally superior to the Old.

    [4] What isn’t mentioned here is that TTL’s Granada escaped the fate of OTL’s version, which was burnt by William Walker’s filibusterers in the nineteenth century. TTL Granada is a larger and visibly older city, though with some modernisations.

    [5] OTL Nebraska and parts of Wyoming and Colorado.

    [6] See Part #213 in Volume V, although the description here rather simplifies exactly how he died. The province of Dolgorukovskaya approximately equates to the OTL Canadian province of Saskatchewan, although there are some differences and the eastern border is not so far east.

    [7] Specifically it comes from a 1718 map by Guillaume de L’Isle. The Panimaha are possibly connected with the later recorded Skidi (Wolf Pawnee) tribe.

    [8] Flatwater is a translation of ‘Nebraska’ in the Otoe language. The city of Flatwater is on the site of OTL Omaha, NE.

    [9] I.e. the idea that all American Indians share a common cause and should be allies.

    [10] Noongar term for boomerang (the transliteration varies).

    [11] Similar to the OTL Australian corked hat, but with wooden clothespegs to ward off insects rather than corks.
     
    267
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #267: The Magic of the Silver Screen

    “Gold Dolphin to White Gate...we’re watching the secure feed but it’s a bad line...Barking Barking Six wants to know about what Orpington One Two just said to Southwark Mayfair Islington...she says it almost sounded as though he was openly confirming a successful generation by Hoshea Barnun...WHAT? He can’t—”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Pages MS070A;M [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    INVENTIONS THAT CHANGED THE WORLD INDEX PAGE!

    ...

    These Motext pages will include recaps and supplementary information that we didn’t have time to cover in the Motoscope programmes. Just select the code option below for the programme you want!

    MS070C The Ypologist

    MS070D Asimcony

    MS070E The Standard Crate

    MS070F Photel

    MS070G Gunpowder

    MS070H The Aerodrome

    MS070J The Grooveplayer

    MS070K The Printing Press

    MS070L The Quister

    MS070M Film


    MS070M Film

    Loading...


    As we’ve already seen many times in this series, in the modern world we are surrounded by technologies which we now take for granted as an integral part of our everyday lives, but were wondrous and world-changing advances for our ancestors. There are many technologies which have had more of an impact on how we live our lives, such as the quister, the printing press and the ypologist; but few have changed the way we perceive the world so much as film. Whereas our ancestors required supreme acting and suspension of disbelief to transport themselves from a ramshackle Tudor theatre to a world beyond their experiences, we can enter a different life every time we walk into a film-odeon and take our seats.

    Where did the wonders of film originate? The story is longer than one might realise. Mankind has always been fascinated both by movement and by attempting to record impressions of the world, but it took a long time before these two obsessions could realistically be combined. Still images, or at least subjective impressions of them, have been recorded artistically for thousands of years before the rise of Asimcony meant a more objective record could be made. Yet rather less than a century separates those first tentative asimconic steps from the conversion of those dead, frozen records to captures of life and movement. It is no exaggeration to say that as soon as the first technology was developed, experimenters became obsessed with the possibilities of the second.

    Yet at the same time, it is misleading to begin with asimcony alone. Even before the time of film as we know it began, the great divide between the two schools of animation, simmies and phanties as they are commonly known today, was present. Scholars continue to raucously debate the precise etymological derivation of these terms. Are simmy-films so called because they derive from aSIMcony, or because they are captured SIMULATIONS of the motion of real people and things? And are phanty-films named for the eighteenth century craze of Phantasynty,[1] or the fact that they allow more ‘fantastic’ or ‘fanciful’ imagery by animating drawings rather than asimcons?[2] Then, of course, there is the debate over which was the first true hybrid film.[3] At all stages of development, film feels like a wild idea whose time had come, and it is striking that many inventors across the world produced similar developments at the same time—rich soil for Heritage Points of Controversy and competing national narratives, of course.

    All forms of animation rely on the principle of persistence of vision, the fact that the human eye (or rather the post-processing senses of the brain) can be fooled into blurring a rapid series of still images into a continuous fluid movement. Forms of this principle were observed and recorded as early as Ptolemy (ca. AD 100-170), who noted that spinning a decorated pot on a potter’s wheel caused colours to blur and rows of dots to turn into continuous lines. Many other natural philosophers throughout history built on these observations, such as the Mesopotamian Arab scholar of optics, Hassan Alhazen (ca. 965-1040).[4] However, some historiographers have argued that the very concept of deliberately blurring images together to simulate motion was not one that could have occurred to people before the rise of more accurate clocks at the end of the eighteenth century. Thinking about harnessing persistence of vision requires thinking about measuring time in fractions of a second in order to fool the eye, and until this time people rarely thought of time in units less than hours or, at most, minutes.[5] Those who propound this idea point to the fact that the animated flip-book (kinebiblio) could theoretically have been made at any point in history after the invention of paper, yet there is no evidence of its invention until the nineteenth century. Certainly, any evidence for images seemingly designed for animation from before that period is extremely thin and debatable.

    Conversely, the basic concept of people gathering to watch a projected show of some kind is very old indeed, and found in very different forms in cultures around the world. Puppet shows and shadowplay developed in Europe, China and the Nusantara (though sadly only a remnant now survives of the latter’s formerly diverse theatrical traditions). A new kind of medium was developed in the seventeenth century with the invention of the magic lantern, usually attributed to the Belgian natural philosopher Christiaan Huygens.[6] Building on the development of the camera obscura (see Asimcony), the magic lantern used a concave mirror to focus light through a translucent glass slide with an image painted on it, then through a lens (or multiple lenses) that could be adjusted to project a sharp image. The magic lantern saw interest both for practical purposes (such as projecting large images of microscope slides for scientific investigations) and for entertainment. For the first century and a half of its use, this was limited by the weakness of the artificial light sources available (typically candles and oil lamps).

    At the end of the eighteenth century, superior oil lamps and then electride lamps [limelights] were developed, allowing large, bright, sharp and contrasting images to be projected even for large audiences and in daylit rooms with the curtains drawn. This spurred new interest in the technology, and the magic lantern was rapidly improved. New copperplate printing processes allowing the rapid production and duplication of slides were invented. A new version of the lantern with two (or more) lamps and lenses was developed to allow the more rapid transition from one slide to the next, which was used by some entertainers to suggest a scene change. This proto-‘animation’ could either have simple black silhouetted figures drawn on the slides (arguably the precursor of some early phanty-films) or more elaborate translucent coloured images. The double lantern also allowed the invention of slow-dissolve scene transitions, which were used to transform a diorama from summer to winter, a portrait of a young man to his older self, or (in Phantasyny) to make ghostly figures appear from the mist. Some entertainers combined the concept with puppet shows or shadowplay, such as Ireland’s Patrick William O’Dowd, who projected paintings of Jacobin Wars battles with a few moving figures or ships operated by him by means of near-invisible wires. O’Dowd’s skill was such that these limited movements served to bring the otherwise static scene to life, combined with dissolving images of battlefield gunpowder smoke and a powerful narration by an actor friend. This experience is probably the closest that people of the mid-nineteenth century came to what we would consider a filmish experience.[7]

    While such public projections remained (mostly) static, the concept of specifically exploiting persistence of vision rose to prominence during the Watchful Peace years. The rise of the Industrial Revolution in many countries meant that chance observers were exposed to rapidly spinning spoked wheels. It was recorded by a number of curious individuals that, when seeing such a wheel while passing behind a wrought-iron fence, optical illusions arose such as seeing the spokes seemingly frozen and/or warped into bent shapes.[8] This phenomenon inspired scientists to experiment, such as producing distorted (still) images that, when placed on a spinning wheel and viewed through a slit, would un-distort into a recognisable picture. Further improvements led to the development of the stroboscope, which could finally convert a series of still images into a fluid motion the eye could perceive.[9] Even the best stroboscopes, using mirrors rather than narrow viewing slits, were however strictly only usable by one viewer or a small number. They were therefore more usually the purchase of a wealthy family as a novelty, or shown off to small groups by travelling showmen, rather than forming the basis of mass entertainment. Stroboscopes were sometimes hand-cranked, but the tendency for variation in rotation speed led to the development of wound clockwork mechanisms (or occasionally turbine driven ones for those living in towns with civic steam).[10]

    The best stroboscopes were typically manufactured in Swabia and the Bernese Republic, with their traditions of precise clockwork engineering, and these often also incorporated music-box mechanisms to accompany their animations. (Both the pictures and the music-box punch tape could be swapped out for alternatives, and many companies sold or rented entire libraries of animations and accompanying tunes). The Swabian stroboscopes were typically purchased by nobility or rich self-made industrialists due to their high price and novelty value. Meanwhile in the Empire of North America, the inventor Josiah Pritchard of Chichago developed a lower-quality but far cheaper stroboscope design in 1860, which proved popular throughout the continent and beyond. Pritchard stroboscopes were initially pirated, and (after the Seventies Thaw) built under license, in the UPSA and were distributed throughout the Hermandad. When introduced to Feng China, the technology was considered an exemplar of the alleged difference between the sophisticated, worldly coastal cities and the more old-fashioned, introverted interior; Pritchard’s designs were bought (and imitated) in the former, but stereotypically condemned as witchcraft in the latter.[11]

    Stroboscopes were not solely used to animate hand-drawn or painted images. Starting in the 1860s, a fashion developed for taking multiple asimcons of a subject in motion and converting these to an image strip for use in a stroboscope.[12] Initially, this was very much a case of “caveat emptor” and an overblown description, because the asimconic technology of the time could not handle the rapid exposures needed to capture (for example) a person walking down the stairs. Instead, long exposure times were used to capture the person holding still in what the asimconist assumed resembled an actual realistic mid-step pose, then the same was repeated on the next step. The result was an animation that looks jerky and unnatural to us now, although this was less obvious at the time. The mercurial Meridian inventor and gambler Juan Quiroga accused a prominent asimconist of misleading claims, and in 1872 developed a new asimconic technique using gelatin ‘dry plates’ that would allow the suitably brief exposure times.[13]

    Quiroga’s initial experiment used a huge camera with twelve lenses and plates, which he used to photograph a runner in motion (after challenging the asimconist to do the same). Quiroga’s stroboscope animation was far more natural-looking than the staged precursor, though the individual images often revealed surprising facts about human anatomy. After the asimconist was chased out of Santa Fe, Quiroga realised the potential for his hobby, and used his rapid-exposure cameras to invent the asimconic final post to settle disputed horse race results. In the process, he discovered other unexpected points about the gaits of horses. These were rapidly seized on by scientists in numerous countries, who used Quiroga’s patent (and later improved on it with a single-lens camera) in a flurry of activity for studying how different animals ran. These findings fed back into new insights into mechanisms and architecture which attempted to ape nature.[14]

    The public interest in Quiroga’s findings led to a new surge of buying improved stroboscopes, but magic lantern purveyors were also beginning to combine the technologies so that the stroboscopes could project their images onto a wall. It was around this time (1882) that the Belgian inventor Eugene Janszoon first began to use xyloid film as an asimconic medium; this material, derived from the same researches that had produced the country’s Xylofortex dice-loading explosive weapon, had existed for some years but had not yet found its most famous use.[15] The development of flexible forms of xyloid, combined with Quiroga’s gelatin dry plate process, transformed asimcony. A Mexican inventor, Lucio Reyes, created a simple camera design that could be cheaply manufactured and sold to the masses for the first time. After failing to get a company going in his own country, and reluctant to work with the Meridians who had deliberately suppressed New Spanish industry, he immigrated to the ENA in 1890 and started again in the Westernesse capital of St Lewis. Reyes’ iconic Artibol camera (short for “artista de bolsillo” or “pocket artist”) changed history overnight. It is striking that our asimconic records suddenly go from stiff images of (mostly) wealthier people wearing their best clothes, to masses of much more natural images from all levels of society. Indeed, it has been argued that our historiographic perceptions of the nineteenth century have been unduly influenced by this selective reporting.[16]

    We’ve gone into this very global picture of developments (while necessarily passing over many others who contributed to the rise of film) in order to explain the arbitrariness of a lot of our assumptions about the medium. The Pandoric War came at a crucial time for many areas of technological development, and likely delayed their introduction: Photel and the quister are two of the most prominent examples, though the war may also have helped propagate some technologies such as aerodromes. While much of the world was engaged in combat, those in neutral nations had more time on their hands to consider things. It is important to understand that our immediate mental association of filmmaking with California is a very arbitrary consequence of this, and would almost certainly not exist in any world where the Pandoric War had been avoided.

    Archibald Vladimir Vasquez was almost the archetypal Californian of the late Long Peace era. His name reflected his mixed ancestry between the three biggest and most influential ethnic groups of the Adamantine Republic, Americans, Russians and New Spaniards respectively. He was a dynamic and often ruthless businessman, who had inherited a small fortune in gold interests from his like-minded grandfather and father, but was keen to push further beyond. He dwelt in the eccentrically-designed, rambling mansion of Aururia House in San Jose near Cometa, and had business interests that extended their tentacles throughout the globe (or so his detractors claimed). It remains unclear whether Vasquez gained or lost financially from the upheavals of the Pandoric War, given his diverse investments and interests. He would usually considered to be among the stereotypical savvy financial operators in neutral countries who profited off the war: an image which contributed towards both francophobia and anti-Semitism in many countries in the interbellum period.

    However, during the conflict Vasquez became obsessed with an invention his company was working on, the brainchild of the bright Italian immigrant inventor, Roberto Burattini. Quiroga and his imitators had produced projecting stroboscopes that could display short repeating loops of images, whether derived from asimcons of real life or drawn or painted imaginary (or embellished) pictures. But what if it was possible to make a camera that could take an asimcon many times a second, utilising the xyloid film technology, and then a projector that could simply play back that film? Not in a small, limited loop, but for minutes—or even hours?

    Much of the technology already existed, but improving it took long years of work—years which the Pandoric War afforded, distracting inventors in other countries. Much of the innovations were relatively prosaic, such as coming up with ways to loop and wind the film to store sufficient volumes in both camera and projector. The fact that xyloid was highly combustible also caused serious fire risks for the electride lamps; it would not be until the late 1910s that the first sufficiently bright vac-lamps became available.[17] Nonetheless, as the war ended in 1900, Vasquez and Burattini has finally produced the first true purpose-recorded simmy-films. These were relatively short, only three to five minutes long, and so typically focused on striking images in motion to emphasise their capabilities—such as images of circus sword-swallowers and fire eaters, or trains roaring past. (The latter, according to legend, caused the first audience in Las Estrellas to run out of the odeon in fright).[18] Vasquez, incidentally, was responsible for the use of the term ‘odeon’ for the venue in which films were shown, invoking the refined Greek term for theatre to suggest his new medium more resembled stage plays in length and dramatic capacity, and was not merely a crass gimmick. Of course, many early films proved to be just that. Nonetheless, ‘odeon’ eventually won out as the preferred term in most countries, though a few holdouts still prefer local variations like ‘picture-house’, ‘film theatre’ and ‘kinema’.

    People and nations around the world were swift to see the potential of Vasquez’s new innovation, and despite the limitations of early film, his patent ensured that he died in 1928 a man wealthier than even his wildest dreams. Other inventors rapidly improved on the early Vasquez-Burattini designs. As capabilities improved, films lengthened from five to ten, fifteen, thirty minutes, before around 1920 the main feature began to take on the length long established by French theatrical traditions, ninety minutes. However, a recurring problem was that of lighting. Prior to the refinement and popularisation of vac-lamps, few lands had sufficiently ‘good light’ for effective filmmaking: California was well set up for this, as were some parts of the ENA and the former UPSA, but in countries like France, filmmakers often had to film abroad in places like Spain or even Morocco. Indoor scenes were also often almost impossible to film satisfactorily, even with electride lamps, and many early films depict supposedly ‘indoor’ scenes which are clearly a theatre-style set placed in an outdoor setting and filmed very close to the actors.

    There was initially no sound, and the ‘Soundless Film’ has become a genre in its own right, occasionally deliberately imitated by retrophiles today. Although the grooveplayer had already been invented, it would take until after the Black Twenties before a feasible sound system was widely adopted (beyond a few novelty films). Dialogue was represented by interstitial subtitles, added simply by virtue of snipping the film and inserting frames with the text on (which allowed for them to be swapped out for different languages for multinational releases). This is also how early editing was achieved; the first films were one continuous shot, but soon directors used to theatrical scenes were editing together multiple shots. Films were also initially all black and white (asimcony itself was almost universally monochrome) and this would not change until the mid-twentieth century.

    The growth of film around the world is a fascinating topic. Popular accounts (not helped by self-aggrandising Californian films about the history of film itself) tend to suggest that some countries’ filmmakers were hampered by repressive censorship. This is, however, not backed up by the evidence. Some countries with relatively liberal censorship policies, such as France, struggled simply because the money and interest for filmmaking often belonged with people and bodies that were not the best placed to make engaging films. Conversely, Russia and China are two nations which certainly had stricter censorship and political meddling than France, yet their early films generally have a more positive reputation. Even the Combine, though obviously exploiting the technology for propaganda as it did every other innovation at the time, produced some (now largely lost) apolitical historical dramas which were well received elsewhere at the time (being made available with Spanish-Novalatina bilingual dialogue).

    France and America, on the other hand, are notorious in early film for what the critic Albert Edgarson later described as ‘starchy Catholic morality tales’ and ‘drearily worthy political biopics’ respectively. It has been pointed out that many early films did not survive, which has potentially given us a misleading selection. In the early, trouble-prone days of film projection, there were also many single-viewer peephole film machines competing with mass odeons, whose film libraries are also almost entirely lost and therefore their impact is usually ignored. The importance of preserving film archives is made clear by what does survive; even, for example, those American political biopics can give us valuable clues about the past. The Social American (1910) is an account of the life of the recently deceased President, Lewis Faulkner; while clearly made with partisan aims and full of veiled attacks on the Supremacist Party, it is a vital clue for reconstructing a positive narrative for Faulkner’s contemporarily perceived legacy—before he simply became the chieftain of the ‘Guilty Men’ who failed to strangle Societism in its cradle. Evidently Americans themselves became fed up of the ‘worthy’ tone of these tales by the late 1910s, as we begin to see more daring political thrillers with fictional characters, involving moral complexity and violence of a sort formerly only seen in crasser film shorts aimed at the lower classes. These would lead to a moral panic during and after the Black Twenties, despite the country having more immediate concerns on its mind.

    England was a fragile country at this time, but its recent social upheaval meant that many bright young men (and women) had risen to the top, and some of these were quick to seize on the new growth of film technology. England largely lacked the outdoor light needed for effective simmy-filmmaking, but instead pioneers like Robert Beardsworth of Bradford, Yorkshire focused on combining the Vasquez-Burattini system with hand-drawn images. True phanty-films began in England, and often began as (imperfect) attempts to draw asimconically realistic animations of actors—sometimes by tracing the poor-quality, low-light camera recordings of the actors.[19] Though these films persisted for a while, they generally died a death after vac-lamps allowed the direct filming of actors. However, other filmmakers instead focused on exploiting the untrammelled landscape of imagination and possibility that phanty-films provided. Simplified, surreal and exaggerated phanty-films, both short and long, were produced in England at this time and exported worldwide—though sometimes hampered by the fact that English-language speech bubbles were sometimes drawn directly on the film rather than having interstitial text that could be switched out.[20] Though the drawing process was long and tedious, English phanty-films also had the advantage that colour became feasible much earlier (in the mid-1910s), although the complex and expensive systems used at the time meant that this was still not the norm. English techniques were copied in many other countries, and it is a measure of their success that in some of those countries a phanty-film is still simply called, for example in French, “un film anglais”.

    California continued to lead the way in filmmaking, with a ‘Xyloid Rush’ emulating the gold rush of almost a century before; many would-be filmmakers moved to the Republic in order to take advantage of its light, wealthy audiences, and perhaps its liberal censorship policies. It was, perhaps, inevitable that it would also be California to introduce the first multi-national film award, the Vasquez Award (sponsored by the man himself) in 1922. Despite the Black Twenties and later conflicts, the ‘Vazzies’ have continued every year since then.

    The first winner, to the surprise of many at the time, was not a Californian production but an American one. The film itself remains iconic, though many will doubtless think of its later colour and ‘soundie’ remakes. Less well known is the fact that it is actually an adaptation of a book, “Annie’s Quest” by Augusta Jane Deloitte, a New York City-based author; even less well known is that it was actually a sequel, though the preceding book, “Metamorphosis”, had not been adapted for a full-length film. Deloitte was a popular author in her day, but today she is typically remembered only in connexion with the film. “Metamorphosis” is about the courageous daughter, Annie, of a kind-hearted gambler living in New Spain in pre-Pandoric War days; when bandits attack she and a New York visitor help fight them off, but her father is slain. She discovers from the visitor, one William Cortland, that she is actually a long-lost scion of the wealthy New York Vanderhugh family; having lost all her family and connections here, she travels back with him to the city. She struggles to adapt to the upper-class lifestyle, but must revert to her frontier cunning when wealthy enemies try to cheat her out of her inheritance. The sequel, “Annie’s Quest”, sees William kidnapped and taken to newly-independent Nueva Irlanda, and it falls to Annie (despite her family’s horror) to go after him with her fish-out-of-water upper-class city friend Carolina ‘Car’ Roosevelt.

    Another good trivia question is simply what the title of, not only the book, but the film itself, was. In an example of adaptation displacement that has been seen in many page to screen adaptations, the film became known by word of mouth for its most iconic line, when Annie returns from a party with Carolina to find her home broken into and William gone. For the remakes in the 1940s and 1970s, both filmmakers gave up and made that the official title: “Car, Where’s My Dude?”

    Technologies have frequently fed on the upheaval caused by the wars of the twentieth century, both loud and quiet. Such is obvious in the case of those with clear military potential. Yet film also falls into that category. As people and nations compete for the best stories, the best stagecraft, the best acting—the Vazzies, and their lesser imitators elsewhere, become ever more coveted. Film has also reshaped how people have seen the world, whether innocently, or through propaganda. It is unquestionable that American public attitudes towards the Carolina Question, for example, were shifted by the release of the film “Death of a Nation” in 1918, which went on to have serious implications for the Black Twenties...























    [1] This reflects an OTL horror theatre craze known as Phantasmagoria (or Phantasmagorie in its French form) which swept Europe in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, considerable time after the POD of this timeline. Whereas Phantasmagoria means ‘ghost assembly’ in Greek, Phantasynty is a worn-down form of the Greek words for ‘ghost’ and ‘encounter’. Given the limitations of the technology at the time, horror (where the viewer’s imagination fills in the gaps) seems a likely choice of topic, and many of the creators of the shows were charlatans who claimed to be running séances rather than openly admitting they were based on trickery.

    [2] In other words, TTL has a division between live action films (simmies) and animated films (phanties), but the two are put on a more equal artistic level by critics in TTL and considered two branches of the same tradition. ‘Animation’ is an inclusive term in TTL which takes in live action films as well (after all, are they not effectively just animating a series of photographs/asimcons)?

    [3] I.e. putting live action actors in front of an animated background, as in OTL films such as Mary Poppins or Who Framed Roger Rabbit?

    [4] This is an older Latinisation from OTL; his name is today usually rendered as Hasan ibn al-Haytham.

    [5] This has also been claimed by historiographers in OTL, though it is questionable given that (for example) Galileo attempted to measure the speed of light by timing his pulse as a short unit of time—unsuccessfully, but clearly the concept was there in the sixteenth century even if the technology was not.

    [6] Like many history of science narratives, this tends to ignore contemporary borders and identities in favour of present-day ones (see the OTL argument over whether Copernicus was German or Polish).

    [7] These innovations were also developed and used for similar purposes in OTL.

    [8] This also happened in OTL, with some of the observers in question including Peter Mark Roget, Joseph Plateau and Michael Faraday.

    [9] The technology described here is a generic, hindsight term in TTL for what in OTL was called, variously, a phenakistiscope, zoetrope and praxinoscope by inventors of successive improved generations of it. The term stroboscope is used for a different technology altogether in OTL.

    [10] ‘Civic steam’ refers to the practice of generating steam at a central location in a town (often as the by-product of coking coal) and then supplying that steam through pipes to many houses in return for a fee. This was originally developed as a means of heating them (which is the use the technology was put to in OTL), but the greater proliferation of steam-powered technologies in TTL means that some domestic devices were designed to be plumbed into the steam supply. Though emblematic of the mid-nineteenth century period in many people’s eyes, civic steam was never as successful or universal as the later town gas and electricity supplies—in not all towns did it make economic sense to produce steam centrally, some were too decentralised, there were inefficiencies, heat losses and safety issues with the pipes, etc.

    [11] ‘Witchcraft’ is presumably not the term the Chinese would use, of course, but the meaning is clear. As the author alludes to, this tendency may have been exaggerated by snobbish urban Feng or visiting European/Novamundine accounts.

    [12] Referred to as ‘chronophotography’, this was also tried in OTL by Francis Herbert Wenham, but not very successfully.

    [13] This was invented around the same time in OTL by Richard L. Maddox.

    [14] The asimconic final post is what we would call a photo-finish. In OTL, Eadweard Muybridge famously photographed horses in motion to settle a dispute over whether all four hooves left the ground when trotting or galloping; in TTL this is more of a side discovery.

    [15] Xyloid is what we would call celluloid (originally called Parkesine in OTL).

    [16] Reyes’ Artibol is similar to OTL’s Kodak Brownie. In OTL it is sometimes claimed that our perception of the Victorian era as a severe and austere one is in part influenced by the fact that our photographic records of it typically depict people in their best formal attire, not smiling because they could not hold the expression for the entire exposure time if for no other reason.

    [17] Vac-lamps are what we would call incandescent lightbulbs, or just electric lights more generally. The TTL name has focused on the vacuum aspect rather than the electricity, so as to avoid confusion with the pre-existing term ‘electride’ (i.e. limelight). The development of electric lighting in TTL is considerably delayed over OTL due to the delay in the discoveries made by Volta and Galvani in OTL.

    [18] A similar, likely entirely legendary, story is told about the premiere of the Lumière brothers’ film L'Arrivée d'un train en gare de La Ciotat in 1896.

    [19] I.e. rotoscoping, a technique that goes back to the very dawn of filmmaking in OTL with Eadweard Muybridge.

    [20] Speech bubbles were already in use for sequents (comics) in TTL, albeit sometimes combined with descriptive text below the image.
     
    268
  • Thande

    Donor
    Part #268: The Spice of Death

    “White Gate to Gold Dolphin…yes, Orpington One Two has put his foot in it…I said foot, Finchley, Orpington, Orpington, Tyburn, very funny…don’t ask me, I suppose Barking Barking Six had better try to pull it off before any of the Pimlico Orpington Lewishams get suspicious…well tell her to complain to Orpington One Two! This has nothing to do with…well I suppose it impacts on all of us, aydub…but I’ll be damned if I let the Pimlicos know that yet, then the chances of keeping this secret are…well, quite.”

    –part of a transmission to or from the English Security Directorate base at Snowdrop House, Croydon, intercepted and decrypted by Thande Institute personnel​

    *

    From: Motext Page EX521K [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Remarks: These pages are listed under “SAAX Political Studies Revision: Syllabus A and C”.

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    In 1900, there was one fountainhead of what we now call orthodox Societism, the Societism of ‘Zon1Urb1’, of the former Platinea, and there were four primary deviationist groups. Only two of these survive in some form to this day. The four were the Viennese School, the Constantinople School, the Las Estrellas or Californian School, and the Batavia School.

    The Viennese School, of course, formed quite organically in the aftermath of the defeat of the Danubian Confederation in the Pandoric War, seeking to understand not only why the war had been lost, but why it had been allowed to happen in the first place. After all, the ultimate cause of the war had been a clash between two armed forces on the opposite side of the world, neither of which had anything to do with Danubia (unless one counted the involvement of a Hiedler, the Hapsburgs’ old nemesis!) They have sometimes been known historically as the Grey Societists, though this has occasionally caused confusion with the grey colour adopting but otherwise orthodox Societist groups of France. In the long term, as you probably know, the success of the Viennese School proved a bigger problem for the orthodox Sanchezistas than any Diversitarian move.

    The Constantinople School initially could be considered an Ottoman counterpart of the Viennese. Both grew up in multi-ethnic empires that already used unusual methods of racial and linguistic classification to run themselves, methods which other states would consider unorthodox; it was a much smaller leap to consider the ideas of Societism for a Danubian or an Ottoman subject than it would be for, say, a German or a Frenchman. The Constantinople School was moderate successful in the short term, but ran afoul of the fact that the Ottomans ended up fighting African Societist forces led by Karlus Barkalus around the African Great Lakes. Denounced as traitors by an embarrassed Grand Vizier, senior Constantinople Societists were executed and the rest expelled. Many of them went to join Barkalus in Africa, and would ultimately go on to help run Societist Darfur. This did, however, mean that Societism in the Empire proper had had its slate wiped clean, and later developments would be decidedly more orthodox and outside-influenced in nature rather than organically grown from within.

    The Las Estrellas School was, as the name implies, based in the multi-ethnic republic of California. In counterpoint, it later gave birth to the opposing Cometa School of Contrasanchezista thought, which would be one of the biggest influences on Diversitarianism. The Las Estrellas School has survived as a minor part of the Californian political landscape. The orthodox Societist relationship with California has historically been a very peculiar one; in an ideology where the idea of national exceptionalism is anathema, such a position nonetheless seems to underwrite the way Combine Societists approached California. Sanchez himself wrote of it approvingly as the first glimpse of the future he wanted, and while the Combine never had that much difficulty ‘reinterpreting’ some of his desires when convenient, this point was regarded with almost romantic fascination by many senior Combine leaders. Californian Consul Roderick Cusnez (served 1980-1985) wrote in his memoirs of the almost ‘creepy’ devotion by visiting Combine officials to the Californian people, even when the image of California contradicted their own demented policies back home. Because of this, the Combine essentially just shoved funding in the direction of the Las Estrellas Societists and never seemed to worry about them deviating from the orthodox line, actions which would have (and did) result in ruthless intervention when it came to Societist groups in other countries.

    And finally, The Batavian School already existed before the Pandoric War, and can be considered similar to the other three in that it arose largely organically from an existing complex multi-ethnic situation. The Batavian School was mostly made of exilic Dutch descendants and Meridian visitors (some of whom had ties to the Societists back home, albeit more those in the mould of Bartolome Jaimes than Alfarus) but did also include some representation from the native peoples, particularly the Javanese aristocracy. How it came to an end is a complex tale…


    *

    From: Motext Pages AR118C;N [retrieved 22/11/19].

    Extraneous advertising has been left intact.


    ARCHIVE: THE GREAT CIVILISATIONS INDEX PAGE

    Welcome to the Motext archive index page for The Great Civilisations, Series II: The Nusantara. (Information on the current series, The Indian Subcontinent, can be found on Motext index page MS118A). Series II is regularly repeated on Public Pulsefeed 3, on a two-year delay after the initial broadcast of that series on the HorizonStar MotoSub Service.

    This series was presented by Dr Jan van Boeijan (sadly no longer with us) and Profa Itje Rasyidin. There will always be information that even these fine presenters could not cover in an hour, so to go alongside the magnificent vistas of their travels through space and time, see the pages below for supplementary information.

    AR118K Kings of the Mountain and the Sea

    AR118L Creed and Shadowplay

    AR118M Strangers from the West


    AR118N Variety and Tragedy

    MS118F Variety and Tragedy

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    Throughout the previous episodes, you’ll have noticed that everything we’ve said about the fascinating and complex history of the Nusantara has had to come with many caveats. It’s not uncommon, when talking of the ancient world, to warn that our narratives may be built on shaky foundations, glued together with supposition, indirect evidence and secondary accounts. Later histories can be biased, rewritten after the fact, or lost altogether. We are well familiar with such things when dealing with civilisations such as ancient Babylonia, or Egypt—where we are at least spared mediaeval misunderstandings, as we were unable to interpret her ancient writings at all until the twentieth century.[1]

    Perhaps it was not a surprise to you that we made such caveats when speaking about the past of the Nusantara. The great thalassocratic empires of Srivijaya, Singhasari, Melaka and Majapahit; the complex interplay between the faiths of Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam and Christianity as they washed over the islands one after another. Great kings such as Sri Jayanasa and Kertarajasa who founded dynasties and empires. Gajah Mada, the fourteenth-century general and mahapatih (Prime Minister) of Majapahit, who swore he would not eat spiced food until he had conquered the whole Nusantara for the Empire of Majapahit. By the narrower definition of the Nusantara used at the time,[2] he succeeded and brought the empire to its peak of power, only to be dismissed by King Hayam Wuruk after his actions against the Sundanese royal family at the Battle of Bubat in 1357. We can talk of all these great stories, yet too often, by the exacting standards of modern history, we cannot defend them. Even before the twentieth century, the Nusantara was not a conducive place for leaving historical records. The tropical climate and chokingly successful flora meant that ruins and written records could be easily lost (as opposed to, for example, the preservation of the baking deserts of Egypt and Babylonia). Some kings deliberately destroyed or edited old records to shore up their own legitimacy, as was the case in many civilisations around the world. Finally, when European colonisers arrived—the Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch, and English—historical records and artefacts were often destroyed or looted. At least the latter tended to survive the later conflagration, safely residing with museums or collectors in Europe. But for the most part, even in 1900 historians mostly looked to oral histories and traditional poems (such as Javanese babads and kidungs) to shore up their knowledge of old events.

    In the Nusantara, as in other regions, the ability for ordinary people to preserve such folk memories is impressive, yet they are frequently subject to corruption or influence over time. Is it really true, for example, that the latter-day Sundanese people still felt a resentment against Gajah Mada centuries after his death, or is that mere guesswork by later historians with a Diversitarian agenda?[3] We also only have access to a fragment of what was once remembered by the diverse peoples of the islands. Some of it written down by Dutch, Batavian and other academics in the nineteenth century; other parts were preserved when refugees fled Societist rule. Yet so much was lost, and that hampers our ability to construct a coherent historical narrative.

    Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and there is some justice to the complaint made by Dr Diego Reyes in his monogramme of 1989, in which he pointed out that historians and archaeologists seem to care far more for bemoaning the lost heritage of the southern islands, whilst ignoring the surviving heritage of the Philippines and Peninsular Malaya. Nonetheless, when one reads accounts of the former bewildering diversity of those islands, it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that their present state represents perhaps Societism’s greatest crime against the nations.

    It was of these islands that the Belgian master spy Vincent de Gerlache was speaking when he wrote his private memoirs in the 1880s. Thirty years earlier, de Gerlache had failed in his attempts to suborn control or influence over the islands from the Batavian Republic to the Belgians, who ineffectually claimed an inheritance over the former Dutch East India Company and its resources. By the time he was writing, of course, the Batavian Republic itself had become a mere arm of the Hermandad, one that was interested in turning a profit rather than dictating to the peoples of the islands how they should live their lives.[4] De Gerlache complained of the sheer difficulties in becoming an ‘East Indies hand’ and becoming familiar with the complexity of the many languages, ethnicities and faiths of the islands. At a time when (we should remember) Societism’s reputation was primarily one of being a harmlessly eccentric secret society for the upper classes and bourgeoisie, de Gerlache incautiously wrote: “If any part of the world would benefit from being simplified by Señor Sanchez’s absurd notions, be assured it would be this one.”

    Despite the obvious offhand and dismissively joking context of de Gerlache’s words, it is a measure of how the twentieth century went that they have become an iconic target of condemnation around the world. Indeed, those attacking Belgium’s colonial depredations more often turn to these words than any of the more concrete crimes inflicted by the Maximilians’ men on native peoples. More often, they are used more generally to condemn the actions of Europeans and to create the narrative that colonialism was only an earlier incarnation of the crimes of Societism; the destructions of writings, histories and cultural practices (either deliberately or accidentally) being compared to the more extensive and organised programmes inflicted by the Combine. Examples have been drawn from the Spanish in Mexico to the Russians in Yapon. It would be wrong to say that this narrative entirely lacks merit, but to focus on it too much can obscure the fact that, initially, Societism was frequently regarded as an anti-colonial ideology, and was popular with some oppressed peoples. After all, it attacked the idea of one race being superior to another, which was used (albeit often knowingly not very seriously) as justification for hierarchies of government in colonial states.

    It is one of the greatest ironies that one of our European sources for the old kingdoms of the Nusantara is none other than Pablo Sanchez himself, in his voyages on the “Centauro” and later the “Douro”.[5] Indeed, some have suggested that there was a particular fanatical hatred of the Nusantara’s many languages and cultures by the later Combine because Sanchez wrote of his frustration with them during those voyages. However, it seems more likely that—as with Karlus Barkalus in Africa—the Combine simply picked and chose its targets based on what was available at the time.

    To understand the situation in the Nusantara at the end of the Pandoric War, we must step back a little—and by a little, we mean centuries. Putting aside the Spanish in the Philippines, the Portuguese were the first European traders and colonisers to intrude into the Nusantara, establishing trading outposts at the strategically important sites of Malacca, Amboina and Timor in the sixteenth century. They were far from the first foreign visitors, however; Arabs and Chinese had both settled in large numbers in the islands (as we saw in previous programmes), a Mongol invasion had been thwarted in 1293 by Singhasari forces, and the great Chinese explorer Zheng He had visited (and recorded valuable observations for our historical record) in the early 1400s. More Chinese continued to settle into the colonial period, and became an important (but sometimes fractious) demographic for European colonial efforts.[6]

    In the seventeenth century, Portugal was put into personal union with Spain and declined overseas as a consequence, while the Dutch Republic broke away from Spanish control and established trade colonies to help fund its Eighty Years’ War against the Hapsburgs. The pattern of the Dutch benefiting at the Portuguese’s expense was seen both in Guyana[7] and in the East Indies. The Dutch and English fought for trade in the latter, but the Dutch generally came out on top—leading the English to focus on Bengal instead, with the exceptions of establishing a few outposts in Malaya and Borneo.[8] The Dutch East India Company, the VOC, slowly expanded its influence in Java, Celebes [Sulawesi], Sumatra and the other islands.

    Trying to draw a picture of what the Nusantara (or the ‘East Indies’ to use the contemporary term) looked like at the dawn of European involvement is tricky. Our picture is never made quite complete by historical accounts even without the specific later tragedy of this region. Like Europe for most of her history, the Nusantara only made a vague distinction between familial dynasties and national entities. Her vast number of ethnic groups and languages also complicate matters. The early European explorers often had difficulty discerning the distinctions; from their perspective the Nusantara peoples had many parallels, such as their love of shadow-puppet theatre, gamelan music and epic poems, their grandiose wedding celebrations, their inventive skill at building kinds of ships unfamiliar to the Europeans, and their cuisine with its emphasis on savoury spices and rice. These parallels were in part exaggerated by the fact that this era saw an expansion of Mataramese culture across Java and beyond, influencing other nations and peoples. In fact there was much diversity within those broad strokes; countless individual cuisines, puppet theatre traditions, forms of poetry and clothing. It took time before this became apparent to the Europeans, who did, however, focus on language learning for trade purposes. For example, the influential VOC trader and explorer Frederick de Houtman was imprisoned by the Sultan of Aceh for two years and spent this time learning the Malay language—which he published the first dictionary and grammar of.

    Broadly speaking, we can call attention to many pre-colonial states. Sumatra in the far west was home to the Sultanate of Aceh on its northern tip, of great interest from Europeans due to its black pepper resources; the breakaway Deli Sultanate based in the large and old city of Medan; Jambi and Palembang, the latter founded by exiles from the fallen Demak Sultanate; and Banten, an empire which also extended to the east over the Sundanese peoples of western Java. Java, always the most densely populated of the islands by far, was home to many sultanates, but the largest and most powerful of these was Mataram. Ironically, Mataramese people rarely called themselves by that name; it was a historical call-back to an earlier state of that name in the first part of the second millennium. To many Mataramese people, their home empire was simply ‘Java’. In the east of the island, the Cakraningrat princes ruled from the isle of Madura, sulkily subordinate to Mataram, which had conquered the old independent Duchy of Surabaya in 1625. The large island of Borneo was inhabited by the Dayak people, as well as the Malay Sukadana kingdom, the Banjarmasin state in the south, and Sarawak in the north controlled (eventually) by the Sultan of Sulu. Bali, a defiant Hindu island in a mostly Islamised sea, lay to the east of Java. The states of Celebes and the Moluccas tended to fall under Portuguese, then Dutch control rapidly from the outside. Finally in the east, the Sultanate of Tidore exercised influence over much of New Guinea from its island seat.

    This ignores neighbouring lands such as the Philippines and Peninsular Malaya, which are also part of the modern definition of the Nusantara. Javanese people were the largest ethnic group, but Malays, Sundanese, Madurese, the Batak and Minangkabu peoples of Sumatra, and many more were also significant—again, ignoring the Philippines with its own complex ethnic mix. A new ethnic group, the Betawi (‘Batavians’) was even created from the complex mix of people in the capital of the Batavian Republic.

    Islam was the largest religious group, but to simply state this simplifies a more complex situation. Few Nusantara people were what might be considered strict Muslims (with some exceptions, notably some Malays and the Acehnese with their continuing ties to the Asian Muslim nations). Frequently the Mataram model predominated: Islam at court and lip service elsewhere, but a largely inherited Hindu-Buddhist hybrid cultural model at large, lacking Islamic institutions of government such as sharia law. Christianity, both Catholic and Protestant, entered the mix as well, most notably in the Moluccas and in northern Celebes. Yet frequently, as in some other regions of the world, an ordinary person would state their allegiance to one of the big religions whilst simultaneously continuing to practice traditional animist folk beliefs on a day-to-day basis.

    For much of the seventeenth and the first half of the eighteenth century, the Dutch steadily increased their control and influence in the East Indies. Most of the existing states were suborned or conquered, frequently due to the Dutch taking advantage of succession struggles and other crises. On recorded occasions the Dutch were even invited in to mediate succession disputes. European and colonial conflicts elsewhere periodically intruded to redraw the map around the edges. Penang, a former English colony in Malaya, became French after the War of the British Succession. Dutch forts on Menado, Tigore and Amboina were temporarily seized by the Anglo-Americans during the Jacobin Wars; they were mostly returned, but Menado was expanded into an American colony on northern Celebes. Bengkulu was expanded into the American Sumatra colony, and a third small colony at Mempawah in Borneo was established. For the most part, however, the biggest challenge to the Dutch came not from the Anglo-Americans but from the Portuguese. Having long been reduced to eastern Timor from their previous heights, the Portuguese re-invested in the East Indies as part of a plan to help fund the recovery from the Lisbon earthquake of 1755. The Sultanate of Mataram, formerly driven into quiescence by the VOC, now began to drift away from Dutch influence and increase its capabilities with Portuguese help—in exchange for new trade concessions. Distracted by troubles closer to home, the Dutch were unable to prevent this, although Surabaya and Madura were taken from Mataram and placed under VOC control as punishment.

    During the Watchful Peace, the Portuguese-backed Castilians fought the Philippine War against the New Spanish (the latter having covert aid from the Meridians) and ultimately failed to secure the islands. The rising Sultanate of Sulu took the opportunity to expand its influence in Mindanao as a result. Following Meridian aid being crucial to the New Spanish (temporarily) regaining control of Old Spain from the Portuguese, the islands were given to the Meridians. UPSA traders had already had some interest in trading with the Spice Islands, but this established a foothold for serious Meridian influence in the region. This coincidentally, but crucially, came at the same time that the Dutch Republic collapsed and was annexed by Flanders, creating the new Kingdom of Belgium. With exilic Dutch traders around the world mostly refusing to go over to the new regime, three new republics were established: the Guyanese, Batavian and Cape Republics. All three would, eventually, come under Meridian influence. A few years later, the Batavian Dutch ejected the complacent Portuguese from Timor, providing the trigger for the Panico de ’46. This ultimately led to the Portuguese Revolution and, once again, exilic Portuguese traders abroad mostly fell into the Meridian sphere of influence. Sultan Amangkurat V of Mataram seized this moment to attack the Dutch, recovering Madura and Surabaya, leaving the Batavians with only the eastern part of Java around the titular city of Batavia.

    However, if this seemed to presage a continuation of conflict, it did not. With the Batavians weakened and Mataram and Sulu strengthened, the situation was ripe for Meridian ‘residents’ to play one off against the other. Indeed, the independent sultanates would go on to be equal partners of the Hermandad, on the same level as the Batavians. Perhaps it was a small comfort to see the Dutch on the receiving end of the same callous corporate treatment they had dealt out to many other peoples across the world, as the late nineteenth century era of Meridian corporatocracy inflicted itself on the islands. Plantations, on a new industrial level, were established for cash crops such as spices, gutta-percha, rubber and shellac.[9] Palm oil, and later mineral oil, were also important resources. Frequently the native people employed on such concerns were treated badly, and were something of a cause celebre for non-Jacobin Colorado thinkers, as well as many Societists (ironically), before the war. Meanwhile, the Siamese Empire had gradually pushed its way down Peninsular Malaya, expelling the French from Penang and leaving the only independent Malay state as the Sultanate of Johor. This was backed up by the French and other Europeans, who rebuilt the fortress city of Singapur as an ICPA base. Aceh also fell into Siamese hands, ironically after the Dutch and Portuguese had weakened one another fighting over it.

    The fragmented and debatable control by the Batavian Republic and the two Sultanates, typical of the Hermandad of the period (an ambiguity ultimately responsible for the outbreak of the Pandoric War) meant that the islands were a popular site for pointless flag-waving colonies by rising nations, along with parts of Africa. The Riau Islands off Sumatra had been the only part of the former Dutch East Indies that the Belgians had managed to exert their authority over, which grew into a colony taking in part of mainland Sumatra (and providing a buffer against farther southern expansion by the Siamese). The Germans claimed Sukadana in Borneo—just a fragment of the former state by that name, now largely taken over by Sulu—and two-thirds of New Guinea, the latter being mostly an ineffectual claim with almost no influence outside their fort at Johann Georg Stadt [Port Moresby]. In practice, most coastal New Guineans who wished to trade did so with the Batavians or the visiting Mauré. As well as American Mempawah, the French also established a small colony on Borneo, at Sarawak.[10] The volcano Krakatoa erupted in 1883, devastating much of Sumatra and the surrounding area.

    The islands were a largely forgotten front of the Pandoric War. Cygnian troops, facing little opposition, were able to take over the Batavian-controlled parts of Sumatra, which had been run to emphasise profit rather than defence. The peace treaties did not consider the East Indies except in the vaguest terms, not least because every power was jockeying for position and was uncertain of the situation there, with chaos between the Batavians, Mataramese and Sulu in the sudden removal of Meridian power. The Cygnians slightly expanded the Mempawah colony in Borneo, and Belgium theoretically acquired New Guinea from Germany (which meant precisely nothing beyong changing colours on a map and a flag on a fort) but, on the whole, the situation was left to resolve itself. It is likely that the French might have turned more attention here, as it seemed a prime problem in need of a Marseilles Protocol solution, had their focus not been consumed by the failure of the IEF intervention in South America. Even while the Societists were fighting for the survival of their movement,[11] Alfarus and other early leaders were less forgetful of the Nusantara.

    Textbooks frequently pass over this period of history with a vague wave of a hand at a before-and-after map, giving the implicit message that the Combine simply inherited the Hermandad states overnight as some sort of legal heir to the UPSA. This is not only incorrect, but actively offensive to those peoples who suffered as a consequence. An opportunity existed for the former Hermandad states to be saved from Societist domination; an opportunity that was not taken by complacent European and Novamundine powers, licking their wounds and dreaming of the next conventional war, blind as to the new horror that had been unleashed on the world.

    Alfarus and his early, now forgotten rivals saw the East Indies as an ideal place to send the former supporters of Carlos Priestley and the corporatocracy who had backed them out of fear of Monterroso’s Colorados. (Meanwhile, Alfarus was busy sending the former supporters of Monterroso, who had backed the Societists out of fear of the revenge of Priestley’s corporatocracy, to attack Portuguese-Brazil). Despite being launched early in the Combine’s history when its future looked uncertain, the operation was typically well-organised and insidious in its planning. There were already Societists active in the region, particularly in the city of Batavia itself (the so-called ‘Batavian School’ of Societism). There were two crucial points: firstly, these Societists included many powerful and wealthy people high up in the Batavian Republic hiearchy, including three of the Lords Seventeen themselves—though many of these people had likely only been active in the ‘harmless eccentric secret society’ nineteenth-century version of Societism. Secondly, those running the Republic were desperate. Sulu, Mataram and the Siamese—the latter trying to dispose of their riotous ‘Red Sash Brigade’ rebels—were all trying to carve up the corpse of the Republic in the absence of Meridian protection. Some Meridian loyalist forces were acting as warlords out of their former forts. The Batavians were willing to turn to anyone for help.

    The Societists could not, initially, send much in the way of military—that is, “Celator”—aid. The conflict with the French and IEF was still ongoing for the early part of the struggle in the East Indies. Typically, their intervention more took the form of guile, with the advantage that they had inherited many of the experienced Batavian traders who knew the principals involved well. The Societists approached King Sanphet XII of Siam and were able to organise a number of agreements which played the Siamese, Mataramese, Sulu and rebel groups off against one another. The fact that the aid sent included many former Priestley loyalists made it relatively easy to gain control of the Meridian and Hermandad auxiliary military forces remaining, who would never have knowingly followed the Societist government in South America.[12] Before they knew it, they were trapped, separated and leavened with Celatores recruited from elsewhere.

    As elsewhere, we should not ignore the fact that many people willingly flocked to the black banner. Much of the Mataramese empire-building, or local rebellions to resurrect the power of former sultanates, implicitly came with the message that those who had benefited from the status quo had better watch out. The wrong ethnic group in the wrong place at the wrong time could suffer a massacre, as had already happened many times in Nusantara history. For that reason, the East Indies Chinese in particular tended to throw their lot in with the Societists and fight on their side, which made a big difference. The Sundanese were also concerned about the idea of Mataramese overlordship, while Surabaya and Madura already saw the Matramese as more their direct colonial occupier than the Meridians had been, and took this opportunity to rebel against Sultan Pakubuwono IV in Yogyakarta. For this, they received aid from the Societists (and the Siamese, concerned about Mataram growing too powerful).

    The new status quo did not happen overnight. As late as 1910, maps still showed something rather like the pre-war situation; but it was a lie, or a misunderstanding. President Faulkner of the ENA was criticised for the fact that American Sumatra and Mempawah, enlarged by Cygnian blood in the war, were allowed to fall into chaos on his introverted watch. Cygnian-born Jack Tayloe in part ran on using this to attack Faulkner’s legacy, but by the time he became President, it was too late. America had been shut out of the East Indies altogether, with the sole exception of North Celebes, whose people fought loyally for the Empire to avoid the risk of their Christian faith being persecuted by a potential Muslim takeover from the south. Belgium would only officially pull out in 1930, after the Black Twenties, but this was merely recognising a situation that had long been the case. Siam and Johor would also hold onto their lands and peoples, soon to be swamped with refugees. In later years, many of the Huaqiao Chinese of the East Indies would also find themselves refugees in China. There would be small wave in the immediate aftermath of the war to flee the chaos, then a pause before a much larger one following the Black Twenties, when many of the East Indies Chinese began to deeply regret their decision to back the Societists.

    Another reason for the success of the Societists was their understanding that most outsiders’ business in the Nusantara, barring Germany and Belgium’s pointless flag-flying, was trade. They implemented a number of policies to take advantage of that. From a native point of view, they gave locally-appointed farmers governance over the plantations, and offered a small but guaranteed income with basic housing provided, with protection from physical mistreatment. For many plantation workers, who had listened to big dreams of empire and anti-colonial rebellion but privately just wanted better lives, this was a seductive message. For an outward-facing perspective, the Societists adopted a similar policy to that which they did elsewhere: they would allow ships from any nation to stop and trade in East Indies ports, providing they lowered their flags and renounced the protection of their governments first. They would also offer better trade deals and discounts to those, both native and European, Chinese or Novamundine trader, who would conduct their negotiations in the Novalatina language—thus incentivising them to learn. This went back to a very old monogramme by Sanchez himself in which he had predicted that such traders would be the vanguard of the Final Society, noting that many linguas franca had arisen from trade pidgins. Some traders at the time compared Societist rule in the East Indies to ‘a gigantic pirate republic’, evoking those of centuries past. This was not simply a punning note on the Societists using black flags, but reflected the effective governance of such ports. While Societists have historically been known for their opposition to democracy (something which began with Sanchez’s criticism of the 1843 Meridian general election)[13] when away from the central Combine and its meritocratic ‘tests’, they would use informal votes as a means to choose leaders. The continued use of this practice by the Batavians is one of the bigger aspects of their later being labelled as deviationists.

    By the start of the Black Twenties, not only were almost all the islands under effective Societist control, but the former independent Sultanates had been silence. Mataram still existed on paper, but with Pakubuwono IV slain and his young son Amangkurat VII a puppet, it was only a matter of time. Her forces had fought valiantly and well, but her command decisions had ultimately been blindsided by how the Societists had manipulated rebellions against her. The Sultan of Sulu had also been caught offguard by Societist rebellions—unrelated to the Batavian School—which began among the usually loyal Moro peoples of the southern Philippines. The latter, meanwhile, had experienced an influx of Meridian Refugiados and become a subordinate ally of Siam, setting a northern limit for the expansion of Societism.

    It is often unclear—and made deliberately so—at what point the Combine began actively and openly using the ‘Scientific Weapon’, as they euphemistically called death-luft. It would appear that in the immediate aftermath of the Scientific Attack, the Societists had taken a careful two-faced approach, in which they took full credit for the attack to the Meridian people to paint themselves as saviours, whilst attributing the attack to the Monterroso regime when addressing the outside world. Over time, these two narratives were slowly brought together and reconciled with one another, until something approaching the truth was used: that the weapon had been a creation of the old regime, but it had been used by the Societists to save the people of the ‘Liberated Zones’ from the Anglo-Americans. A few memos survive suggesting that the decision to go with this narrative was reached with some surprise, as the Societists had expected the Scientific Weapon to remain a taboo subject, yet while it was offically banned at the Ratisbon Conventions, many nations continued to secretly work on developing their own death-luft and countermeasures. In particular, the Ratisbon Convention only strictly forbade the use of death-luft in ‘warfare’, i.e. in armed conflict between recognised powers. It said nothing about its use against rebels within one’s own territory, something which was first taken advantage of by the Russians in 1912 in order to put down a revolt in Samarkand. Global condemnation was half-hearted, emboldening the Chinese to do the same to some Indian rebels the year later.

    Around this time, the Societists began quietly using the Scientific Weapon once again. Occasionally this was used as a terror weapon in South America itself against rebellious villages, but much more often it was deployed abroad. As with Karlus Barkalus in Africa, the Combine at this time typically took pragmatic decisions about how to go about its stated aims of eliminating all differences between humans, in contrast to the later full-throated fanaticism of the post-Alfarus era. Just as the central Combine typically assumed that the eventual ‘perfect homogenised’ human culture would look suspiciously like the pre-war culture of an average person living in Cordoba, the Batavian Zones’ leadership tended to strike at cultures that deviated from the Javanese majority (excluding the Dutch and Meridians, of course). New Guinea was the obvious place to start, with its countless primitive tribes[14] isolated from the world. A few passing linguists had written of how the tribes had countless languages and dialects which few outsiders had ever experienced or written down. The Batavian Societists were keen to ensure that nobody ever would.

    Thus the first major crime against the nations of the Batavian Societists took place in a land that was theoretically supposed to be a Belgian colony, without the Belgians holed up in Karl Theodor Stadt [Port Moresby again] even realising it. The Batavian Societists combined the use of death-luft with the pragmatic approach to Garderism that had developed in parallel in Africa; do not take away the children of true believers, but take those of outsiders or rebels and raise them in creches. Thousands died in the attacks on New Guinea, but thousands more were taken away to be raised away from their ancestral language and culture, immersed in Novalatina.

    Emboldened by the lack of world reaction to this, during the Black Twenties the Batavian Societists would then target the island of Bali. It was at this point that tensions rose between Batavia (or ‘Zon9Urb1’) and the central Combine, as the targeting of Bali seemed to come with suspicious motivations. Yes, Bali stood out from its neighbouring islands as a survival of Hinduism, and had unique cultural aspects of dance and theatre, but it still seemed a lot more like the decision a Muslim Javanese cultural supremacist would make rather than someone judging all cultures to be equally worthy of annihilation.

    Though the Black Twenties meant that central intervention took longer than it might have, what might have been the first Societist civil war was ruthlessly quashed. Many of the Batavian ringleaders were exiled for their crimes of ‘deviationism’ and had their own children taken away. The Combine took a clear position that just because the Javanese were in the majority did not mean their culture was not also worthy of destruction. In practice, the sheer numbers did mean that Javanese culture significantly influenced the eventual homogenised culture of the Combine, not least because of the later reaction against carrying on Meridian cultural practices. But in terms of specific examples of literary survival and so on, amid constant rebellions and unrest, the Javanese identity would be attacked as much as that of the Dayaks, Sundanese and others. Malay culture would survive in the Siamese lands no matter what happened, but the multitudinous other cultures of the East Indies—that fractured rainbow of endless diversity—would be ground down to mere suggestions of what they had been.

    It was, in the words of the exiled Javanese poet Kenarok Saleh, “The murder of all it is to live as a human being…the holocaust of heritage…the massacre of memory.” The images of burning libraries and puppet theatres remain permanently ingrained into the global popular memory as a wake-up call to recognise the evil of the Societists. And yet, that is very much a hindsight view. As the Societists had calculated, few in Europe or the Novamund cared about the fate of the East Indies. So long as trade could continue—and it could—traders cared not for the smoke going up from burning villages behind the port. Only in California, where exiles taught local yachtsmen how to build ‘proa’ sailing ships with outriggers, did public awareness of the magnitude of the disaster become clear.

    And so as the Black Twenties dawned, for so many countries, the biggest threat to the world seemed to come not from the Combine, but from Russia…










    [1] Due to the Rosetta Stone not being discovered in TTL, and a suitable source for cracking hieroglyphs not being found until about a century later.

    [2] In TTL ‘Nusantara’ has come to mean the whole Malay Archipelago / Maritime Southeast Asia, including the Philippines and so on. In OTL the term often more restrictively means only the Indonesian islands, plus Malaysian Borneo, East Timor etc.

    [3] In OTL modern Indonesia, Gajah Mada is frequently treated as a national hero and unifying figure for his work in unifying much of what constitutes the modern country, but the Sundanese-dominated city of Bandung is one of the few to resist naming a street after him thanks to the ancestral memory.

    [4] This is a rather rose-tinted way of putting it, of course, as the Batavians were quite happy to tell the native peoples they needed to get out of their houses right now because their village was being bulldozed tomorrow to build a railway line, and so forth.

    [5] See Part #100 in Volume II and Part #121 in Volume III.

    [6] The biggest OTL example of such tensions is the ‘Chinese War’ (or ‘Java War’) of 1741-43, in which the Dutch attempted to deport Chinese settlers, but rumours they were simply drowning them at see led to riots and revolt by the Chinese in Batavia followed by massacres by the Dutch. This conflict drew in the Sultanate of Mataram and the rival Cakraningrat princes of Madura, and was the ultimate trigger for the decline in Mataramese power and Mataram’s partition a few years later. In TTL it was avoided, which was important as it kept Mataram a viable power for long enough for Portuguese intervention to have an impact.

    [7] Used in a broader sense to mean northern Brazil, the historiography influenced by the later borders. An OTL book would likely use the word ‘temporary’ to refer to the Dutch conquests at this time (as they were later won back by Portugal and inherited by Brazil), but, while this did happen in TTL, they later became part of the exilic Dutch-led Guyanese Republic, so the situation is a little more confused.

    [8] This is described more dismissively than it would be in an OTL book, because in OTL the English colonies in Malaya would become the foundations of what became British Malaya (and thereafter the modern state of Malaysia), but in TTL trading outposts in wars and the expansion of Siam put paid to that.

    [9] Shellac is of course an animal product, but the lac bugs are farmed on specially cultivated trees.

    [10] This is in the older sense of the word, more referring to the city now known in OTL as Kuching rather than a much wider area of northern Borneo.

    [11] This is expressing, perhaps unconsciously, the common (but incorrect) narrative assumption that the purpose of the French/IEF intervention was to strangle the Combine in the cradle.

    [12] This is supposition, of course.

    [13] See Part #162 in Volume IV.

    [14] Using contemporary language.
     
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