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We all have our Ghost Stories. Our mythologies. Out taboos. In a chaotic, uncertain world, we all need something that says that this will keep us safe, that this is dangerous. In North America, nowhere is that more apparent than the mythologies of what brings Victoria.
For those of you joining us, I am Karen Throine, a historian attempting to compile the mythology of Victoria lest we forget. I had not, originally, planned to have a follow-up. I intended for my work to stand on its own, a call for stories that would be eventually published. However, what came as a surprise was the vigor with which others asked I share. Not as I had hoped, a compiled academic work, but through the medium, I had first shared with.
In retrospect, I should not have been surprised. Victoria has never trusted the written word they do not control, far too much memory for their taste. Thus books have had to be printed in a limited run, small things for locals, or precious scholarly commodities. In many ways, the demand for the stories to be shared on the radio heartens me. It shows that as terrifying as it is, many of us want to face the terror. To say, this was once real, and it is no longer. There is power in that.
South of Cairo lies the latter part of the Mississippi. The Ohio river joins, and just north, the Missouri. Together the waters from nearly the entire Northern United States east of the Rockies and west of Victoria mix. As Victoria has learned, to our delight and their sorrow, water is a powerful thing. It connects us, letting things flow easily. People and goods, but also stories and ideas. Rivers cut through the continent, acting as natural highways.
This was the essential paradox of the Southern Mississippi for Victoria. Unlike most transportation, they couldn't shut it down. It was too valuable, their armies could not easily ravage the continent without it. Their terror could not be spread without its communication. And they could not funnel the wealth of a continent without its waters. Thus, they could never dam it or mine it. But by the same token, it represented a danger. It's ease of transportation made it a natural founding point for wealth and nations and as such, it is the double-edged sword for them.
In the Great lakes, the three iron factors of VIctoria aggression are size, hostility, and proximity. The bigger you are, the more ant-Victoria, and the closer to Victoria, the more intervention happens. In the Mississippi, all but perhaps the Northernmost tip is far enough away that that proximity makes no difference. Instead, it is river length that matters. How far can a ship travel without being harassed,
Many call this the 100-mile-rule. "No ship is able to go more than 100 miles down any stretch of the Mississippi without difficulty. This can be in the form of hostile polities, pirates, or even usurous taxes. Based on a few Victorian toll-ports some call it the 100-15 rule, for the idea that 15% of your goods will be lost every 100 miles you travel.
Many of the stories of massacres along the river deal with the aftermath of such violations. Two towns feuding, until two wealthy scions from each family fell in love. Perhaps they ran off together, perhaps one simply move to the other town. Either way, it was enough for both to burn by the Victorians. A town that destroyed a hated pirate nest, only to realize that the town north of them had destroyed the other nest. In the happier tale, this turns into a farce as the towns are forced to fund their own pirates.
And farcical tales are as much a part of the stories as anything else. Folk heroes who win, not through beating the Victorians, but through tricking them. Many of these stories center around "Mark Twains". Riverboat captains who use a combination of trickery, wit, and the occasional duel with pirates to transport goods far further than Victoria ever intended. False flags to make every community think they are their own. Fake tolls. As well as more absurd ones such as a submarine boat.
Perhaps the most famous is "Jim" likely named such for the Huckleberry Finn character. "Jim stories" are a staple of Mississippi tradition in the post-Collapse era. The essence of such is that Jim was a black riverboat captain, who found his boat commandeered by Victoria troops, demanding they take him down to the mouth of the Mississippi. The essence of such stories is that Jim pretends to be servile, all while inflicting a variety of humiliations upon his unwanted guests. Leading prostitutes with gonorrhea, Victorians ending up dunked in the river or Manure, and Victorian's unleashed on retroculture towns are all a favorite of these stories.
Often Jim will be smuggling goods on the ship as well profiting on Victorian misery, though many stories add an element of nobility, having him move medicine or vital food, or even sell the Victorian's own guns from under them. Other variations add notes of drama, such as saying that the Victorian's claimed they would shoot Jim once they were done. Or that they were headed down to report on a town that needed to be burned. Either way, any good collection of Jim stories is not considered done until he has left the Victorian's dead, or without their weapons, humiliated, and without a clue where they are.
If Jim stories act as levity against the backdrop of Victoria, then the White ships are the more traditional stories. Down the Mississippi, the Victorian's like to mark their ships with whitewash. A way to make it clear that this ship is not to be troubled, though flags are also included. While there are stories about the success of Mark Twains tricking them, and the horrible punishments for those found attempting so, make for the most gruesome individual tortures on the river.
Still, the focus of the white ship stories are the Victorian merchants. These are the merchants who are trusted to march with the army, who are trusted to go beyond the great lakes, and occasionally act alone. Think about what sort of people Victoria trusts on the great lakes, now think of something worse. Perhaps even more than the army, the petty cruelties and ravenous greed of the merchants form a backdrop of stories along the river. As well as the slights that can get a town burned. Walking in front of one on the road. Chipped paint on the ship. Anything.
In the lower Mississippi, a new character enters the narrative. The Belle. Many of the Victorians love the mythology of the Old South. Aristocrats, oppression of non-whites, a focus on agriculture as the primary directive, and twisted nostalgia. It shouldn't be surprising. It adds just a hint of exoticness for them, but nice, white exoticness that isn't threatening. The Belle's job is to use that.
A Belle is the image of the perfect Southern lady. They must keep up charming manners under the most base of guests, aristocratic flair despite community poverty, and seducing while keeping up the pretense of a pure woman; all for the consumption of the Victorian. When a Victorian merchant or soldier passes through it is the Belle's job to escort him. To ensure that he is given the finest of treatment, and goes only where the town wishes. Leaving a charmed person talking of the quaint little town that loves the Victorians.
It is a life of danger and reward. To be a Belle requires having the finest of clothes, housing and food, as one must be the aristocrat. But to be a Belle means constant interaction with Victorians. Should their guest be displeased, the town will use the Belle as a scapegoat, casting blame on her, and offering her to the Victorian's as the cause of their misfortune. Even their pleasure can be dangerous, lest one wishes to 'take her away from all this'.
More than any other figure, the Belle has the most diversity in tellings. Mark Twains are heroic fools. Jim is a heroic trickster, the Merchant a greedy monster. But Belle has range. Some are heroes, protecting their town with wit and grace. Others are fraud, claiming the rewards, but showing their true colors when they sacrifice handmaids to the Victorians when trouble arises. Others are portrayed as willing collaborators, using Victorian favor to act as tyrant controlling the town.
Even the Belle as a figure of power is not constant. A variation of the "Victorian Bride" sacrifice tale (that of a town offering a bride every year/two years/five) appears in a variation where the town nominates a new, unprepared girl of 16 and makes her the Belle. If the Victorians are pleased, she is taken as a bride, if not, she is killed and thrown in the river, a horrible fate either way. One Jim story was the one of a town famous for its legendary Belle, and he was looking forward to having a break, only to find that she had died unexpectedly, and her unprepared apprentice was now attempting to deal with the Victorians. As such he must help her keep the Victorians' happy, having to hold off his usual karmic comeuppance until later, lest they blame the girl.
The divisions of the Missississippi are a different breed than the Lakes, thanks to the paradox. A massacred town is easy to sail through since they couldn't simply ruin the river, which means that they require some form of presence to block traffic. Thus, merely massacring those who annoyed them is not enough, they must some form of the garrison, and keeping masses soldiers out over winter is something Victoria is not fond of. Thus, they must rely on local powers.
In many ways, the Northern edge of the Mississippi Andrew takes the edge of the Mississippi, and the stories of them filter down the river. Many I talked even down the river to express that the taking of children was a tale of the horrors up north. But for those south of Cairo, these stories mixed with those of Victoria using towns near them as training grounds. All part of the horror of Victoria as you got closer.
In the north, Andrew division's stories form a mix with those of the river, and one tale I heard was a Jim story where he was forced to transport children and focused on him getting them away before he reached the lakes while leaving them certain it not him.
In here, we can all remember the raider towns that Andrew liked to create, twisted reflections of his Opus Maximums, and yet, so different. Officially they were to be towns of proper retro culture, nothing past the 19th century, save defensive armaments. In practice, thanks to the ease with which one could slip away, they never managed to keep civilian populations of any numbers. Instead of acting as dilapidating pirates nests that would offer a share of their tribute to Victorian divisions, in exchange for weapons and armaments.
Immediately past Cairo is the realm of Bartholomew division. General Landwüst, or, as he prefers General Von Landwüst, is a man proud of his heritage. He has the documents from the House of Hohenzollern, or so the stories go. When the stories laugh at Bartholomew division they laugh at highbound fools, getting angry at any implication that he is not nobility.
But even somewhat distant, Bartholomew travels the waters, and many of the stories are not so silly. Brutal sweeps. As stated before the divisions of the Mississippi will rarely kill a town, can make them wish so. Landwüst is a generous man. When Bartholomew comes into town, the lazy town will be whipped into shape. Fences washed, docks cleared, streets organized. The citizens will be driven to such heights of productivity,all under the watchful eyes of Bartholomew's guns.
It is important everyone chip in. It does not matter if one is a farmer harvesting crops, a clean town promotes clean living and clean morals. It does not matter if there are ships to unload, they will be done once the docks are reorganized. It does not matter if they are children or elderly or disabled, they must work. Otherwise, they would create even more work for others. Digging graves is such a difficult task.
Rarely will Bartholomew have to burn a house. Instead, the house will be dismantled by those within the town. Perhaps a garden will be put there instead, or a road. It does not matter. Even so, needs must, and occasionally Bartholomew will do a true Victoria sweep. In such cases the bodies will often be dumped in the river. Not by Bartholomew, of course, but by whoever comes next. It's said the catfish of the Mississippi have gotten a taste for human flesh, so be careful on any boatrides.
Perhaps the strangest stories are the towns he likes to create. Bartholomew's Germantowns. These communities modeled not on the biblical simplicity that Smith loved. Instead, they are met to be Prussia reborn, uninfected by the weakness that took Germany. He is insistent about the language, only German is to be spoken in the towns. English is punishable, sometimes as lightly as fines, sometimes as harshly as whipping. For merchants, it's almost always seizure of goods. For the mid-Mississippi, many captains now know both German as well as they know English. Not that the towns don't seize a hefty fee from any traveling ship, stored and ready for their lord to pick up when ready. More than one story deals with some hero tricking or stealing these goods away.
Sail south, and you will reach the lower end of the Mississippi. Here is a domain of Thomas division, and General Blackwell. Video Blackwell, the only Victorian General to return to Victoria in the wake of Detroit. His voice now broadcasts the airwaves of Victoria, condemning the Crusaders and assuring them of victory. If rumors are to be believed, he is the one who coined the term "Machine State", though that may be merely the way we tend to ascribe all development to one person. Then again, perhaps it does not matter. The story of Blackwell ascribes it to him, and the Generals of Victoria have always been stories as much as men.
The story General Blackwell, and it is General, not Von, or Grandfather for him, the story he would tell is of a Northern Gentleman. Classically educated in Victoria's Ivy league, only reluctantly violent for the sake of his home, to which hewould happily retire, but he will do his duty. But even so, he wishes to bring the light of Victoria to everywhere he travels.
His story is powerful, and many communities down the river are said to embrace him willingly. His true outposts are said to be the universities. It isn't easy to keep the building needed for such, so in many cases, they are the hollowed-out remains of the universities that existed from before the collapse. Their classical educations are offered, reading, writing, arithmetics, Greek and Latin, for the General loves to talk of Western Heritage. For the elites of the lower delta, children who preform well enough can even apply fo the Ivy League schools in Victoria.
As laughable as it sounds to us, they are said to be the best education available. Though that may be because Thomas takes more care than most to destroy competing schools, lest his light be smoothed by lies. Rumors abound around the school. Dark tales of brainwashing students so they love Victoria. A tale of a family who sent their son off because education was so needed, and watched as each year he grew more and more retroculture until he turned the town over to the Victorians willingly, telling them all the secrets that would get it Purged.
Greek and Latin form another interesting tale, those of knock-off schools. Blackwell fancies himself a gentleman, and respects a well-educated man, and this trait extends to his division. Meeting a learned man, even one from outside Victoria, requires a certain amount of respect. Make no mistake, any hint of dissidence will be killed just as swiftly, but still, learning a few key phrases of Greek or Latin, and some classical literature is said to make travel easier.
Thomas is said to be the kindest division. Codes of conduct for the soldiers leads to no bride, as long as women and blacks know their place, they had nothing to fear from the soldiers of Thomas. That place is clearly marked to, with codes of conduct. Even if they do violate them, often these codes have specific punishments, stocks, perhaps a whip or two. But rarely death.
At least, until Blackwell decides the community is unsalvageable. He rarely does so, preferring to simply decimate, in the Roman sense a community. But sometimes, he does so, and when he does, every last person will be purged. There will be no brides taken, no traitors saved. It is swift and silent, and the stories of finding his ghost towns haunt the Mississippi.
This is the story of Blackwell or the one he likes to project. Kind and loving, until you invoke his wrath, at which point he is infinite and unstoppable, total. In a sense, he has set his story up as God, who will reward his faithful children, and destroy those who are unfaithful. I talked with one traveler who was unsurprised he lives, convinced that was unkillable.
Still, stories, all stories of living people, must eventually reconcile with reality. In the days to come, perhaps we will see if his reality lives up to his story.
So, in terms of reality vs story, most of the "German towns" probably do know English, but like, CMC who find them not punishing English report it up the chain. CMC lets Bartholomew engage in this because having towns where you have to switch just creates a ton of pain navigating the river.
Brainwashing is pretty clearly a fantasy, just taking the way that right-wingers talk about universities today and applying what it would be like if you knew they 100% did have the agenda.
So regarding the Victorian military, I had a few questions.
1) Are black men allowed to enlist? If the answer is yes I have follow up questions.
2) To what degree? I.E. support staff vs. combat roles?
3) Is the military segregated or integrated? Because you could argue that since the U.S. Army was integrated in 1948 it fits into retroculture.
4) What are the demographics of the armed forces?
So regarding the Victorian military, I had a few questions.
1) Are black men allowed to enlist? If the answer is yes I have follow up questions.
2) To what degree? I.E. support staff vs. combat roles?
3) Is the military segregated or integrated? Because you could argue that since the U.S. Army was integrated in 1948 it fits into retroculture.
4) What are the demographics of the armed forces?
1&3) All black Victorians are enslaved under the CORN organization. IIRC Victoria itself is segregated to the point where any given town is entirely monoracial, though I may be wrong on that given the practice of blaming any unsolved crimes on the nearest black person.
2) Support staff as a whole barely exists in the current Victorian military, with some ludicrously small proportion of quatermasters and mechanics per division. I wouldn't be surprised if the support staff are still expected to serve as frontline infantry as well.
4) 100% white male
I believe it is indeed canon that Victorian Support Staff were meant to also be frontline troops and everything else that a normal Victorian Soldier is meant to do. Without any 'compromise' of those duties which means they're... rather short on time, skill and effectiveness because they don't have time for everything they need to do, anyone who shows too much skill is at greater risk of Inquisitorial investigation because they're not being entirely a proper Victorian so people get out of the job if they can, and effectiveness because of the previous two problems clashing.
Oh, and then there's the 'wonderful' fact that I think it's canon that only 1% of the division is assigned to support tasks. Total. Not per task. Which means in a division of 10 000 men, there's only 100 quarter masters, mechanics and everything else that makes up the support staff of a professional military. About the only thing that they don't have to do I believe are medical roles. Those fall to the 'volunteer' female nurses from the local region.
We all have our Ghost Stories. Our mythologies. Out taboos. In a chaotic, uncertain world, we all need something that says that this will keep us safe, that this is dangerous. In North America, nowhere is that more apparent than the mythologies of what brings Victoria.
For those of you joining us, I am Karen Throine, a historian attempting to compile the mythology of Victoria lest we forget. I had not, originally, planned to have a follow-up. I intended for my work to stand on its own, a call for stories that would be eventually published. However, what came as a surprise was the vigor with which others asked I share. Not as I had hoped, a compiled academic work, but through the medium, I had first shared with.
In retrospect, I should not have been surprised. Victoria has never trusted the written word they do not control, far too much memory for their taste. Thus books have had to be printed in a limited run, small things for locals, or precious scholarly commodities. In many ways, the demand for the stories to be shared on the radio heartens me. It shows that as terrifying as it is, many of us want to face the terror. To say, this was once real, and it is no longer. There is power in that.
South of Cairo lies the latter part of the Mississippi. The Ohio river joins, and just north, the Missouri. Together the waters from nearly the entire Northern United States east of the Rockies and west of Victoria mix. As Victoria has learned, to our delight and their sorrow, water is a powerful thing. It connects us, letting things flow easily. People and goods, but also stories and ideas. Rivers cut through the continent, acting as natural highways.
This was the essential paradox of the Southern Mississippi for Victoria. Unlike most transportation, they couldn't shut it down. It was too valuable, their armies could not easily ravage the continent without it. Their terror could not be spread without its communication. And they could not funnel the wealth of a continent without its waters. Thus, they could never dam it or mine it. But by the same token, it represented a danger. It's ease of transportation made it a natural founding point for wealth and nations and as such, it is the double-edged sword for them.
In the Great lakes, the three iron factors of VIctoria aggression are size, hostility, and proximity. The bigger you are, the more ant-Victoria, and the closer to Victoria, the more intervention happens. In the Mississippi, all but perhaps the Northernmost tip is far enough away that that proximity makes no difference. Instead, it is river length that matters. How far can a ship travel without being harassed,
Many call this the 100-mile-rule. "No ship is able to go more than 100 miles down any stretch of the Mississippi without difficulty. This can be in the form of hostile polities, pirates, or even usurous taxes. Based on a few Victorian toll-ports some call it the 100-15 rule, for the idea that 15% of your goods will be lost every 100 miles you travel.
Many of the stories of massacres along the river deal with the aftermath of such violations. Two towns feuding, until two wealthy scions from each family fell in love. Perhaps they ran off together, perhaps one simply move to the other town. Either way, it was enough for both to burn by the Victorians. A town that destroyed a hated pirate nest, only to realize that the town north of them had destroyed the other nest. In the happier tale, this turns into a farce as the towns are forced to fund their own pirates.
And farcical tales are as much a part of the stories as anything else. Folk heroes who win, not through beating the Victorians, but through tricking them. Many of these stories center around "Mark Twains". Riverboat captains who use a combination of trickery, wit, and the occasional duel with pirates to transport goods far further than Victoria ever intended. False flags to make every community think they are their own. Fake tolls. As well as more absurd ones such as a submarine boat.
Perhaps the most famous is "Jim" likely named such for the Huckleberry Finn character. "Jim stories" are a staple of Mississippi tradition in the post-Collapse era. The essence of such is that Jim was a black riverboat captain, who found his boat commandeered by Victoria troops, demanding they take him down to the mouth of the Mississippi. The essence of such stories is that Jim pretends to be servile, all while inflicting a variety of humiliations upon his unwanted guests. Leading prostitutes with gonorrhea, Victorians ending up dunked in the river or Manure, and Victorian's unleashed on retroculture towns are all a favorite of these stories.
Often Jim will be smuggling goods on the ship as well profiting on Victorian misery, though many stories add an element of nobility, having him move medicine or vital food, or even sell the Victorian's own guns from under them. Other variations add notes of drama, such as saying that the Victorian's claimed they would shoot Jim once they were done. Or that they were headed down to report on a town that needed to be burned. Either way, any good collection of Jim stories is not considered done until he has left the Victorian's dead, or without their weapons, humiliated, and without a clue where they are.
If Jim stories act as levity against the backdrop of Victoria, then the White ships are the more traditional stories. Down the Mississippi, the Victorian's like to mark their ships with whitewash. A way to make it clear that this ship is not to be troubled, though flags are also included. While there are stories about the success of Mark Twains tricking them, and the horrible punishments for those found attempting so, make for the most gruesome individual tortures on the river.
Still, the focus of the white ship stories are the Victorian merchants. These are the merchants who are trusted to march with the army, who are trusted to go beyond the great lakes, and occasionally act alone. Think about what sort of people Victoria trusts on the great lakes, now think of something worse. Perhaps even more than the army, the petty cruelties and ravenous greed of the merchants form a backdrop of stories along the river. As well as the slights that can get a town burned. Walking in front of one on the road. Chipped paint on the ship. Anything.
In the lower Mississippi, a new character enters the narrative. The Belle. Many of the Victorians love the mythology of the Old South. Aristocrats, oppression of non-whites, a focus on agriculture as the primary directive, and twisted nostalgia. It shouldn't be surprising. It adds just a hint of exoticness for them, but nice, white exoticness that isn't threatening. The Belle's job is to use that.
A Belle is the image of the perfect Southern lady. They must keep up charming manners under the most base of guests, aristocratic flair despite community poverty, and seducing while keeping up the pretense of a pure woman; all for the consumption of the Victorian. When a Victorian merchant or soldier passes through it is the Belle's job to escort him. To ensure that he is given the finest of treatment, and goes only where the town wishes. Leaving a charmed person talking of the quaint little town that loves the Victorians.
It is a life of danger and reward. To be a Belle requires having the finest of clothes, housing and food, as one must be the aristocrat. But to be a Belle means constant interaction with Victorians. Should their guest be displeased, the town will use the Belle as a scapegoat, casting blame on her, and offering her to the Victorian's as the cause of their misfortune. Even their pleasure can be dangerous, lest one wishes to 'take her away from all this'.
More than any other figure, the Belle has the most diversity in tellings. Mark Twains are heroic fools. Jim is a heroic trickster, the Merchant a greedy monster. But Belle has range. Some are heroes, protecting their town with wit and grace. Others are fraud, claiming the rewards, but showing their true colors when they sacrifice handmaids to the Victorians when trouble arises. Others are portrayed as willing collaborators, using Victorian favor to act as tyrant controlling the town.
Even the Belle as a figure of power is not constant. A variation of the "Victorian Bride" sacrifice tale (that of a town offering a bride every year/two years/five) appears in a variation where the town nominates a new, unprepared girl of 16 and makes her the Belle. If the Victorians are pleased, she is taken as a bride, if not, she is killed and thrown in the river, a horrible fate either way. One Jim story was the one of a town famous for its legendary Belle, and he was looking forward to having a break, only to find that she had died unexpectedly, and her unprepared apprentice was now attempting to deal with the Victorians. As such he must help her keep the Victorians' happy, having to hold off his usual karmic comeuppance until later, lest they blame the girl.
The divisions of the Missississippi are a different breed than the Lakes, thanks to the paradox. A massacred town is easy to sail through since they couldn't simply ruin the river, which means that they require some form of presence to block traffic. Thus, merely massacring those who annoyed them is not enough, they must some form of the garrison, and keeping masses soldiers out over winter is something Victoria is not fond of. Thus, they must rely on local powers.
In many ways, the Northern edge of the Mississippi Andrew takes the edge of the Mississippi, and the stories of them filter down the river. Many I talked even down the river to express that the taking of children was a tale of the horrors up north. But for those south of Cairo, these stories mixed with those of Victoria using towns near them as training grounds. All part of the horror of Victoria as you got closer.
In the north, Andrew division's stories form a mix with those of the river, and one tale I heard was a Jim story where he was forced to transport children and focused on him getting them away before he reached the lakes while leaving them certain it not him.
In here, we can all remember the raider towns that Andrew liked to create, twisted reflections of his Opus Maximums, and yet, so different. Officially they were to be towns of proper retro culture, nothing past the 19th century, save defensive armaments. In practice, thanks to the ease with which one could slip away, they never managed to keep civilian populations of any numbers. Instead of acting as dilapidating pirates nests that would offer a share of their tribute to Victorian divisions, in exchange for weapons and armaments.
Immediately past Cairo is the realm of Bartholomew division. General Landwüst, or, as he prefers General Von Landwüst, is a man proud of his heritage. He has the documents from the House of Hohenzollern, or so the stories go. When the stories laugh at Bartholomew division they laugh at highbound fools, getting angry at any implication that he is not nobility.
But even somewhat distant, Bartholomew travels the waters, and many of the stories are not so silly. Brutal sweeps. As stated before the divisions of the Mississippi will rarely kill a town, can make them wish so. Landwüst is a generous man. When Bartholomew comes into town, the lazy town will be whipped into shape. Fences washed, docks cleared, streets organized. The citizens will be driven to such heights of productivity,all under the watchful eyes of Bartholomew's guns.
It is important everyone chip in. It does not matter if one is a farmer harvesting crops, a clean town promotes clean living and clean morals. It does not matter if there are ships to unload, they will be done once the docks are reorganized. It does not matter if they are children or elderly or disabled, they must work. Otherwise, they would create even more work for others. Digging graves is such a difficult task.
Rarely will Bartholomew have to burn a house. Instead, the house will be dismantled by those within the town. Perhaps a garden will be put there instead, or a road. It does not matter. Even so, needs must, and occasionally Bartholomew will do a true Victoria sweep. In such cases the bodies will often be dumped in the river. Not by Bartholomew, of course, but by whoever comes next. It's said the catfish of the Mississippi have gotten a taste for human flesh, so be careful on any boatrides.
Perhaps the strangest stories are the towns he likes to create. Bartholomew's Germantowns. These communities modeled not on the biblical simplicity that Smith loved. Instead, they are met to be Prussia reborn, uninfected by the weakness that took Germany. He is insistent about the language, only German is to be spoken in the towns. English is punishable, sometimes as lightly as fines, sometimes as harshly as whipping. For merchants, it's almost always seizure of goods. For the mid-Mississippi, many captains now know both German as well as they know English. Not that the towns don't seize a hefty fee from any traveling ship, stored and ready for their lord to pick up when ready. More than one story deals with some hero tricking or stealing these goods away.
Sail south, and you will reach the lower end of the Mississippi. Here is a domain of Thomas division, and General Blackwell. Video Blackwell, the only Victorian General to return to Victoria in the wake of Detroit. His voice now broadcasts the airwaves of Victoria, condemning the Crusaders and assuring them of victory. If rumors are to be believed, he is the one who coined the term "Machine State", though that may be merely the way we tend to ascribe all development to one person. Then again, perhaps it does not matter. The story of Blackwell ascribes it to him, and the Generals of Victoria have always been stories as much as men.
The story General Blackwell, and it is General, not Von, or Grandfather for him, the story he would tell is of a Northern Gentleman. Classically educated in Victoria's Ivy league, only reluctantly violent for the sake of his home, to which hewould happily retire, but he will do his duty. But even so, he wishes to bring the light of Victoria to everywhere he travels.
His story is powerful, and many communities down the river are said to embrace him willingly. His true outposts are said to be the universities. It isn't easy to keep the building needed for such, so in many cases, they are the hollowed-out remains of the universities that existed from before the collapse. Their classical educations are offered, reading, writing, arithmetics, Greek and Latin, for the General loves to talk of Western Heritage. For the elites of the lower delta, children who preform well enough can even apply fo the Ivy League schools in Victoria.
As laughable as it sounds to us, they are said to be the best education available. Though that may be because Thomas takes more care than most to destroy competing schools, lest his light be smoothed by lies. Rumors abound around the school. Dark tales of brainwashing students so they love Victoria. A tale of a family who sent their son off because education was so needed, and watched as each year he grew more and more retroculture until he turned the town over to the Victorians willingly, telling them all the secrets that would get it Purged.
Greek and Latin form another interesting tale, those of knock-off schools. Blackwell fancies himself a gentleman, and respects a well-educated man, and this trait extends to his division. Meeting a learned man, even one from outside Victoria, requires a certain amount of respect. Make no mistake, any hint of dissidence will be killed just as swiftly, but still, learning a few key phrases of Greek or Latin, and some classical literature is said to make travel easier.
Thomas is said to be the kindest division. Codes of conduct for the soldiers leads to no bride, as long as women and blacks know their place, they had nothing to fear from the soldiers of Thomas. That place is clearly marked to, with codes of conduct. Even if they do violate them, often these codes have specific punishments, stocks, perhaps a whip or two. But rarely death.
At least, until Blackwell decides the community is unsalvageable. He rarely does so, preferring to simply decimate, in the Roman sense a community. But sometimes, he does so, and when he does, every last person will be purged. There will be no brides taken, no traitors saved. It is swift and silent, and the stories of finding his ghost towns haunt the Mississippi.
This is the story of Blackwell or the one he likes to project. Kind and loving, until you invoke his wrath, at which point he is infinite and unstoppable, total. In a sense, he has set his story up as God, who will reward his faithful children, and destroy those who are unfaithful. I talked with one traveler who was unsurprised he lives, convinced that was unkillable.
Still, stories, all stories of living people, must eventually reconcile with reality. In the days to come, perhaps we will see if his reality lives up to his story.
So, in terms of reality vs story, most of the "German towns" probably do know English, but like, CMC who find them not punishing English report it up the chain. CMC lets Bartholomew engage in this because having towns where you have to switch just creates a ton of pain navigating the river.
Brainwashing is pretty clearly a fantasy, just taking the way that right-wingers talk about universities today and applying what it would be like if you knew they 100% did have the agenda.
So regarding the Victorian military, I had a few questions.
1) Are black men allowed to enlist? If the answer is yes I have follow up questions.
2) To what degree? I.E. support staff vs. combat roles?
3) Is the military segregated or integrated? Because you could argue that since the U.S. Army was integrated in 1948 it fits into retroculture.
4) What are the demographics of the armed forces?
I can answer all of these by answering point one: they are not. The technicality of it is that black people are under the authority of CORN (Council of Responsible Negroes, I swear that I did not come up with that, it was Lind), itself a subsidiary of Victoria that polices itself. If they wish to serve, they may serve CORN. The practicality of it is that the entire black population of Victoria is enslaved to one degree or another; some are just the head slaves. This is well-understood throughout CORN-administered regions. The most military-adjacent role available to black men is to sign up to work as one of CORN's enforcers.
So one the subject of Victoria's racism, it's official policy that for a black person, the penalty for any drug related crime ranging from distribution down to possessing a joint is a hanging, how do you think white people are punished for drugs? Do you think it's less severe but still brutal, or overlooked entirely?
So one the subject of Victoria's racism, it's official policy that for a black person, the penalty for any drug related crime ranging from distribution down to possessing a joint is a hanging, how do you think white people are punished for drugs? Do you think it's less severe but still brutal, or overlooked entirely?
From what we've seen of Victoria, my guess is it would depend on who you are friends/family with. Evidence be damned, those who have generals or the CMC in their social circle would probably just have the charges on them dismissed as soon as they came through the door.
From what we've seen of Victoria, my guess is it would depend on who you are friends/family with. Evidence be damned, those who have generals or the CMC in their social circle would probably just have the charges on them dismissed as soon as they came through the door.
Oh Thats beyond absolute, for maximum Hypocrisy the Generals and CMC are the ones supplying drugs and narcotics to the General Population through the Mob and the Russian Mafia.
They don't want other suppliers to get into their market, so Organized Crime use a liberal amount of Bribes to keep those factors on the Payroll. And that's if the CMC and the Generals aren't growing it themselves.
I figure it depends on how much goodwill you and your family have in the community. And if there are any scapegoats available. If a well-to-do white boy gets caught with drugs, then he's a poor victim. The actual villain is whoever enticed him to sin by convincing him to buy their drugs. And why investigate? Everyone knows it must be (insert black day laborer or poor white trash person here)
Population-wise, New York has 20ish million, Victoria has 20-30 million.
The NCR has a minimum of 50 million, and more likely around 100 million or more, given projected RL population growth rates, expected refugee population flows from the rest of the US, Canada and Mexico, and the hints of it's economic strength.
Raw GDP-wise, you're probably right.
Per capita GDP? NCR would be medium, not low.
Lamb Among Wolves/Sheep in the Big City Part 8: Shepherd
Fragments of remixed anti-Semitic conspiracy theories, Mary's abuse-induced attitudes towards authority figures
Mary lay in bed. Her inner orc, who she didn't even have the strength to try to ignore, was grousing about the irony of her previous bed being too hard, and this ridiculous thing being too soft. How was anyone supposed to sleep on this thing?
Her mind kept going back.
They don't have discipline.
They don't have discipline!
They. Don't. Have. Discipline!!!
It didn't make sense. There should be chaos without it. How was anyone supposed to not be a monster?
She had, before, thought she could imagine how Chicago could be a machine when it was full of orcs. Ruthless, precise discipline. She was proof that orcishness could be taught out of you, even if she knew how dangerously it lingered below the surface. Chicago would simply need to discipline the orcishness out of their people, and then teach machine ways into them instead of Christian ways. She could imagine it, though the idea was terrifying, because to deal with so many, the discipline would have to be absolute.
But it wasn't. It was illegal, apparently, Layla had been shocked at the idea, like it was something she'd barely heard of. Like a monster that lived under beds at some inconceivable distance, a hundred miles away.
Maybe, maybe it was like the men of Andrew. They could use violence, even argue with each other, as they didn't have the same natural orcishness, and could control it. Plus, Layla was Mrs. Goldblum's biological daughter, and maybe that was more like a Papa with a superior officer. Though even then, she couldn't imagine a Papa yelling like that at a superior officer and not at least being told to drop and give him fifty with some smack.
But Layla wasn't a fighter, had told her mama no. But then, that didn't matter too much, right? Mary could easily imagine that real Victorians didn't need it among each other, being non-orcish. Maybe she had had Chicago wrong. Maybe they were just like Victorians in that.
But I'm from Chicago. was the next treacherous thought, which proved that theory wrong. She could barely contain her orc as is.
Maybe their technology just let them… But technology was bad, it made men weak and decadent. Even if those weak ones had just beaten all of Andrew….
Technology drained souls and life… Except Mrs. Goldblum and Layla seemed, somehow, to have more life than her.
Thoughts swarmed in her head.
Discipline is needed/They don't have discipline.
They have to need it/I'm from Chicago I need it.
Maybe…. Maybe there were different people from Chicago? Some like Mary, and some like Goldblum?
Wait, that was it!
Clearly it was Cultural-Marxists. There had been lots of warning about them on Sunday. Clearly Cultural-Marxists were a different sort of people, like some kind of mirror Victorians. When Andrew Division had last left, it had been mentioned that Marxism had taken over Chicago. Maybe it was their direction that had made the orcs non-chaos, just like the Garden.
Yes! That all worked! Goldblum didn't need to discipline Layla because they were another superior form of people who were naturally better. Normal orc-people in Chicago probably got disciplined all the time. Maybe they had mistaken her for one, or perhaps Goldblum had just wanted to shy Layla away from that business. After all, her Papa had talked about how he kept the rest of Victoria pure by walking amongst the orcs so they didn't have to.
Yes, tomorrow, she'd just explain to Goldblum that this was a misunderstanding. That she was an orc, not a Cultural-Marxist, accept any punishment for deceiving her, and this would be all sorted out. Once Goldblum understood that she'd tell Mary what to do, and she could tell the other Children what to do to serve the Cultural-Marxists.
Everything would work out fine. It all made sense.
Mary went back to sleep, or tried to. Despite everything else, the bed was too soft. Eventually she opted to put several of the excessive pillows on the floor and sleep there.
Mary was thankful (and there is something she thought she'd never say) for her days on the ship. The lack of sunlight and strange showers had prepared her for the hotel room. Even if, as everything in the Commonwealth seemed to be, it was done on an enormous scale.
Though she shouldn't get used to it. Once they understood that she was an orc, not a Cultural-Marxist, she would likely be regulated to more reasonable quarters. Part of her feared the punishment, but some part of her looked forward to it. She knew when, where, and why she would be punished. And it was almost under her control. She'd known it must come and having finally found where it was, the world would righten itself and she wouldn't have to worry about it.
Mary waited. Hunger had already set in but anything else would involve using the telephone, which was unthinkable. Besides, asking for food was likely a privilege of Cultural-Marxists, not ordinary orcs. She managed to occupy herself by making the bed and tidying up as best she could, not that there was much to do. A knock at the door caused her to jump slightly. "Room service." An older voice announced.
Mary rushed to the door. Opened it to the face of Mrs. Goldblum. With a wheeled tray.
"Trouble with the phone?"
Mrs. Goldblum tapped the tray handle and a steamy smell of FOOD! wafted out. For a moment, Mary forgot all but the most basic of her reflexes as FOOD! punched right through to the stomach she shared with her own orcish side.
"Oh, Mrs. Goldblum, it's good to see you, come in. Would you like to sit down?"
Mrs. Goldblum smiled and nodded and did exactly that, pushing the tray after her to reveal the breakfast. It was as massive as the ships. There was normal food, lots of it- porridge, sausage, eggs, cabbage, and onions. But there was more, too. A fruit she couldn't identify, some type of bread, and jars of maybe-preserves on the side. Salt, pepper, honey. Honey in a serving jar, just out there to use. It was decadence personified.
"Well, no sense waiting around till we waste away, let's eat. Mrs Goldblum picked up one of two plates and began piling it with toast, fruit, and some sort of sausage that smelled of chicken. Even a side of oatmeal. "You should try the jam dear, it's a wonderful mix." She said as she slathered some on her toast and bit in with a smile.
Mary froze. Not eating when a Papa had instructed her to was a problem. But, if she ate food that clearly wasn't for her, that was also one.
"I, I'm very grateful for such a generous portion. But I- I think there has been a misunderstanding. I'm… I was from Chicago, but I was only an ordinary person. I know I came as an ambassador for the Farmers, but I'm not a Cultural Marxist. I don't, I'm just an ordinary person, not like you or your daughter. I don't deserve this treatment, and I'm sorry for deceiving you and will accept any punishment you wish." Mary bowed her head to the table while keeping it at just the right angle to manage to see Goldblum's face out of the corner of her eye. A skill she had practiced well.
She had to have been imagining the 'funny-Papa' look on Mrs. Goldblum's face. There was no way Mary could think of for this conversation to be funny. Also, it had lasted almost no time, so she was probably imagining it. Mrs. Goldblum's brow furrowed. Her face scrunched up, as though she was thinking, thinking. She tapped her cheek, almost as if she was making a show of thinking! Was she trying to embarrass Mary for taking so long to ask?
Then she finally, finally replied.
"...What's a cultural Marxist?"
The look on her face was blank, blank. No recognition. Did they have a different word for it? Yes that would make sense, after all even Mary knew that most people outside the Garden wouldn't admit they were orcs.
"Um, sorry I only know Victorian words for it. It um…" They seek to turn the masses into soulless creatures. "...They try to make sure everyone works, overseeing them like Victorians, but... not like them. They replace the family with lesbians and feminism, so that men..." are emasculated "...are kept in their place. And they replace God with atheism and enviro-mentalism."
"Wait, who does that? That doesn't sound like anyone I know."
"You know, people who-" she recited from memory- "wield harlotry and decadence to control the masses."
"Chicago can't afford that much decadence. Much too poor. I don't know how much decadence it takes to control people but believe me, it's a lot more than-" she waved- "this. And... trying to control masses through harlotry sounds pretty silly. And exhausting. I don't think I know anyone who does that, either." Now she looked very confused. Almost ridiculously confused, like a face someone would put in a picture to show what the word 'confused' meant.
"Uh… uh… people whose voices act like honey to orcs, leading them to follow their every word?" Mary asked weakly.
"Are you sure you're not making those up? This sounds like the boogeyman or the Tooth Fairy."
"No they- I'm really really sorry if I have the words wrong. Or was taught the wrong things about you. But you are the ones who rule over orcs. With your guidance, Chicago became…" Mary gestured helplessly out the still closed curtains. "This! You beat Andrew, you beat Victoria! Someone had to direct and create this!"
"Ohhhhh!" Mrs. Goldblum grinned, toothily. "You mean a race of supermen destined to govern lesser breeds who lack the Law?"
Mary smiled with relief, the scary smile being oddly reassuring. Finally! Goldblum would understand she wasn't like Layla, and this world would act normally again. "Exactly!"
"Nope!" Her smile got, if anything, even bigger, toothier. "We don't have any of those either. Killed the last of 'em thirty years ago. Good times. Same laws for everybody now. Very important, that!"
"But you and and Mrs Johnston, you rule the city."
"I'm only an assistant secretary. I count artillery shells and write manuals. If people wanted Sara out-" Wait Mrs. Johnson is also Sara so confusing- "she'd be gone on her ass. Half the reason I never went for that thing was too much pleasing people. We don't tell people what to do, they tell us."
"No you- they- I- clearly need it. It's only been a few days and I'm already feeling angry at this conversation! My orc is taking over!" Oh GOD WHAT DID I JUST SAY!? Mary clapped a hand over her mouth in shock.
And it was when Mrs. Goldblum's answered that, that Mary finally realized that the woman who had given birth to a reality-warping mutant was probably a reality-warping mutant herself. Because of course she was.
Mrs. Goldblum shrugged. "Let her. I'm sure she'll do fine."
This wasn't how this was supposed to go! Mary nodded as she screamed internally. Goldblum wasn't even acknowledging that they were different! Now she wanted her to unleash her orc. Mary knew how dangerous that was. Sometimes Papas told you to do things, such as being honest, or you don't have to cook a full meal if you don't want to, that had a right and a wrong answer. Unleashing the monster she knew was underneath herself, the one that could never have built this, was clearly a wrong answer.
And she didn't know the right one.
She needed a way to know but… an idea occurred. It was a gamble, and hopefully Mrs. Goldblum wouldn't be offended, but it might work. "Um, Mrs. Goldblum. I'm sorry to ask. But what do or- people from Chicago usually do?"
She shrugged again. "Argue a lot. Vote on things. Then argue some more, usually. So far it's worked out pretty well. Although..." She paused, considering. "Mary, you said you were originally from Chicago?"
"I- yes. At least that's what Papa told me. I offered to come because I think I might… maybe… have something in common with it." Mary's voice trailed off as she realized how utterly ridiculous that had been.
Again, Mrs. Goldblum smiled with the toothy grin, the one like a Papa telling campaign stories, the one she used when she talked about killing better people. Maybe she was letting her orc out, or something like it…
"Maybe you were righter than you think. Did your... Papa tell you how you were- adopted?" Funny pauses in her voice, but maybe hatred of all things Victorian could explain it?
"He found me after destroying one of the gangs that infested Chicago, I mean, before everything was cleaned up!" Mary hastily added.
Goldblum nodded, and for a second, just a second, it looked as if she had a look of fury that meant Mary should know she had said something wrong. But it disappeared too fast. No punishment. Probably hatred of all things Victorian again. "I see. Actually... Mary, I've been doing something thinking. You asked how we maintain order in Chicago, and I think I can show you that. I need some time to arrange it, but I think I can take you on a tour."
Mary nodded. Either a real tour tour, because she was proud of it, or not a real tour, and she was going to 'show her discipline'. Either way, Mary should nod. She nodded. "That sounds good."
"Now, I'm going to need some time, so I'll be back in a bit. You can stay here, though it might do you some good to get out and walk around a bit."
Stay here, or walk around a bit. Two different orders. Still, Mary felt on firmer ground with them. Telling someone it would do them good was clearly the more pressing order than staying here. Still, she couldn't help but feel like there was… something more to the order. Like… Mrs Goldblum seemed to love her lessons, and this felt like one. Still, walking must be the correct choice. But walking the streets of the city was just… too much.
Perhaps she could simply stay in the building. It was huge on its own. And she could walk around. In fact, she was pretty sure that Matthew was on the same floor. There had been a paper with his room. Cautiously, Mary opened her own door and looked outside. It was so strange, knowing that everything on this hallway led to a room like hers. It was almost like a tiny village, only enclosed.
Thankfully, Matthew's room was right next to hers, though she couldn't imagine why he needed his own. Even so, as she stopped in front of the door, a flurry of thoughts took her. Was she sure this was the right one? All these doors were so impersonal, just numbers, not like her town where she knew everyone. Was it right? She paused, and then, very softly, knocked. "Hello, um, Matthew, is this your room?"
"Oh, yes ma'am." A moment later the door opened. "Please come in." he said.
Mary followed him in and then shut the door behind her. She then put her ear against it, she couldn't hear anything. Still, Mrs. Goldblum had been very quiet with Layla. Carefully, Mary picked up the small stand near the outer door and placed it so that it would fall if anyone opened it. It was a trick all Children knew. Whoever it was wouldn't be happy about the lack of care in where she put things, but better than risking someone coming in without her knowing. She turned to Matthew. "Let's go to the bedroom."
She began to move, but noticed Matthew's fear, and told herself to smile. "Oh! Sorry for worrying you. I'm married." With that, he let out a breath and started walking. They moved inside and Mary shut the door.
"Matthew, did you sleep well?"
"Had some trouble, ma'am."
Mary looked at the collection of blankets and pillows on the floor. "Yes, I had to do the same thing, Chicago seems to like unusual beds."
He nodded at that. Still nervous. She sat down on the couch, and smiled. "Matthew, are you the oldest of your family?"
"No, Christina is the oldest. She's always watched out for me. I didn't learn farming, Papa wanted my focus on keeping the ships clean, part of the reason I came." He moved over, sitting down on the couch next to her. "Christina asked me to help take you here."
Mary patted him on the head, the affection Children could only give each other alone. "I'm sure she's proud of you for helping me."
He looked at her. "She said you would be able to talk with Chicago, keep us…" he struggled for words here. Mary knew the struggle. 'Safe" was the wrong word. With such a change-over, true safety was absurd. "Tell us what they want."
She nodded. That was one of the most important jobs bigger siblings had. She and John had known Papa in a way the younger ones hadn't, and making sure that everything went right was her job. "I'm still working on this. Chicago is very different."
According to Miss Goldblum, they had killed their betters, those destined to rule. That seemed insane, but it wasn't, really. They had killed the Victorians, and orcs wanting to kill their betters was their nature, so it shouldn't be surprising. They seemed downright proud of it, full of contempt at the idea of anyone 'better' than anyone else.
Voting, not proper voting, but continuous arguing. It almost made sense. Of course orcs without a guiding hand would descend into chaos and factional arguments. An unorganized mob.
But that chaos had built this city.
Those arguments had created this conference.
Those factions had beaten Victoria.
That mob had destroyed Andrew.
Somehow, from chaos, came form and order. Without God or Retroculture or Grandfather Smith to guild tham. She needed to understand it. According to Mrs. Goldblum, Chicago made its decisions by vote. Thousands of voices spoke, and those above enacted their will. From many voices, one action. No true leadership, just servants who could be replaced. Only the formless whims of those within guided Chicago.
That was terrifying. Did that mean she had to please every single person within? How would she even talk to them all? She could spend a lifetime here, and barely know anyone. There had to be a trick. She had to understand, she had to figure this out. Because if she didn't, the beast would turn on them, and from what she had seen, she'd no doubt Chicago could end them all with less effort than Papa might crush an ant.
She breathed in, she would do this. She wasn't going to let anyone die if she could help it. But first, she needed information. "Matthew, thank you so much for doing this. And I know I asked last night, but I need you to tell me everything that happened ."
Matthew opened his mouth and began to speak." Well after, after you left we were all kinda worried, not sure where we were supposed to go, but the boats with the megaphones that had been ordering us to our dock came back and told us where to put the ship. The place was called Red Banner Ship Works. Once we got there, a lot of men, and a few women dressed like men. Or maybe the other way around, I think my papa said that they make their women like men and men like women, so if men are dressing like men, are they actually dressing like women?"
Mary nodded. "It is… complex." She offered
"Oh, okay. I'm glad we have someone who understands them." Mary kept her face carefully schooled at that. One of the greatest tricks she and John learned with the younger children was that sometimes, they needed you to look like you knew what you were doing. "So they came aboard, and started inspecting the ship, and said they were looking for damage. Was that okay?"
"I think so, we don't want to refuse them anything."
He nodded, another eager relief. "Um, then one of them, I think he was the captain, but they didn't call him that, got angry. He saw the engines, and wanted to know how... anyone had made these…" Matthew's brow furrowed, clearly trying to remember the man's exact words. "Barely functional things work, and what…. Frank-- frankenstone? Creation this was."
She didn't know anything about this Red Banner Ship Works, or its captain, or what a frankenstone was. But if they didn't like the arm-eating engine either, then maybe there might be hope? Even her orc seemed pleased at the idea.
Matthew had fallen silent for a moment. He caught his breath and went on. "We had to send Thomas, which we were all worried about, cause he's a bit simple, but they talked. The not-captain actually seemed pleased with Thomas. He liked his explanations and wanted to know what our… com-pen-satiation structure was?"
He looked down. "Um, none of us knew what that was. He started talking about ownership and property and um, a lot of other words I didn't understand. But um, the captain said he was in charge, but they asked if he was the owner. Um, we weren't sure what they met, so we said it was you. Was that okay?"
"Of course." Not that she had any more idea than them. "I think ownership is sort of… which Papa has what?" Mary offered.
"Oh that makes sense… but we don't have papas anymore, so who does?"
"I'm working on that with the Commonwealth." Mary said, remembering yet another thing you need to do with them.
"Oh, okay. They said we needed to have 'collective ownership' and handed us a bunch of pamphlets. We ended up sealing them in the captain's room after they left and washing our hands in case they had something dangerous. After that, the next big thing that happened was a woman who was dressed like wom-ma… in a skirt, which was nicer looking, came by. She said she was here for the ambassador's stuff. We showed her to your cabin, and the man we first met also came."
"When we got to your room and opened it the man started getting angry, talking about how you were decadent and bo. Bort-wash-knee? He um, he seemed angry."
Seeing his expression, Mary gave a reassuring pat. "I'm not worried about that, and you shouldn't be either." and weirdly, she wasn't. She was dealing with one of the top women of the city, some distant man angry her felt… weirdly small right now? She knew how Papas worked, she was Goldblum's to punish, and her word would go.
He nodded. "The woman and the man started arguing, I don't think he liked her very much. I um, I ended up volunteering cause no one else wanted to and went here, and I found myself here after I got drove through the city." His expression showed that he, like her, had developed opinions on driving.
Mary nodded, feeling calm. This, she could do.. "Thank you so much for everything you've done for me. Now, here is what we are going to do. We are both going to go down to the lobby. There, I'm going to have to ask you to be driven again, and I am sorry about that, back to the ship. I need you to tell the captain that I can come down if he needs anything, but I would prefer it if he could read the pamphlets himself. Please come back after dinner and tell me what happens. Tell him that you should be down every day, and will go back at night unless we tell him otherwise, and if he doesn't get a message, to please do as we discussed before landing."
Which meant making a break for it and telling everyone the mission had been a failure.
He nods. "Okay."
As they made their way to the elevator, Mary felt a sense of ease. Going alone was scary. Going with Mrs. Goldblum was terrifying. But going with Matthew, with someone she had to guide, was… it let her live on the borrowed strength of pretending to be calm. Maybe, if she could make Matthew believe it, she could believe it herself. Once he was gone, she was going to stay down in the lobby, like Mrs. Golblum had asked, though hopefully nothing would happen
AN:
Victorian Chaplain's ghost: So the Cultural-Marxists lead the orcs, organizing them in sin. They control and enslave them. With money and other Je- I mean Cultural-Marxist trickery.
Mary: So I'm an orc, right?
Victorian Chaplain's ghost: Yes, which is why you need someone to guide you, you can't think on your own.
Mary: Okay, please enslave me Mrs. Cultural Marxist.
Victorian Chaplain's ghost: Wait, no!
Also, Comments make me very happy, gib comments. And thanks to @Simon_Jester my co-writer in this odyssey.
Is in memory of General Smith, and his loving* belief that orc children could be saved if properly trained. If Victoria wins, what happens to Mary will probably be a mercy compared to what the children of Chicago experience.
Aren't facts fun?
*And that will always, always be the most horrifying part of the entire system for me. General Smith honestly, genuinely 100% believes he is doing a good thing by creating his Garden. He is regarded as sentimental for it.
Lamb Among Wolves/Sheep in the Big City Part 8: Shepherd
Fragments of remixed anti-Semitic conspiracy theories, Mary's abuse-induced attitudes towards authority figures
Mary lay in bed. Her inner orc, who she didn't even have the strength to try to ignore, was grousing about the irony of her previous bed being too hard, and this ridiculous thing being too soft. How was anyone supposed to sleep on this thing?
Her mind kept going back.
They don't have discipline.
They don't have discipline!
They. Don't. Have. Discipline!!!
It didn't make sense. There should be chaos without it. How was anyone supposed to not be a monster?
She had, before, thought she could imagine how Chicago could be a machine when it was full of orcs. Ruthless, precise discipline. She was proof that orcishness could be taught out of you, even if she knew how dangerously it lingered below the surface. Chicago would simply need to discipline the orcishness out of their people, and then teach machine ways into them instead of Christian ways. She could imagine it, though the idea was terrifying, because to deal with so many, the discipline would have to be absolute.
But it wasn't. It was illegal, apparently, Layla had been shocked at the idea, like it was something she'd barely heard of. Like a monster that lived under beds at some inconceivable distance, a hundred miles away.
Maybe, maybe it was like the men of Andrew. They could use violence, even argue with each other, as they didn't have the same natural orcishness, and could control it. Plus, Layla was Mrs. Goldblum's biological daughter, and maybe that was more like a Papa with a superior officer. Though even then, she couldn't imagine a Papa yelling like that at a superior officer and not at least being told to drop and give him fifty with some smack.
But Layla wasn't a fighter, had told her mama no. But then, that didn't matter too much, right? Mary could easily imagine that real Victorians didn't need it among each other, being non-orcish. Maybe she had had Chicago wrong. Maybe they were just like Victorians in that.
But I'm from Chicago. was the next treacherous thought, which proved that theory wrong. She could barely contain her orc as is.
Maybe their technology just let them… But technology was bad, it made men weak and decadent. Even if those weak ones had just beaten all of Andrew….
Technology drained souls and life… Except Mrs. Goldblum and Layla seemed, somehow, to have more life than her.
Thoughts swarmed in her head.
Discipline is needed/They don't have discipline.
They have to need it/I'm from Chicago I need it.
Maybe…. Maybe there were different people from Chicago? Some like Mary, and some like Goldblum?
Wait, that was it!
Clearly it was Cultural-Marxists. There had been lots of warning about them on Sunday. Clearly Cultural-Marxists were a different sort of people, like some kind of mirror Victorians. When Andrew Division had last left, it had been mentioned that Marxism had taken over Chicago. Maybe it was their direction that had made the orcs non-chaos, just like the Garden.
Yes! That all worked! Goldblum didn't need to discipline Layla because they were another superior form of people who were naturally better. Normal orc-people in Chicago probably got disciplined all the time. Maybe they had mistaken her for one, or perhaps Goldblum had just wanted to shy Layla away from that business. After all, her Papa had talked about how he kept the rest of Victoria pure by walking amongst the orcs so they didn't have to.
Yes, tomorrow, she'd just explain to Goldblum that this was a misunderstanding. That she was an orc, not a Cultural-Marxist, accept any punishment for deceiving her, and this would be all sorted out. Once Goldblum understood that, she'd tell Mary what to do, and she could tell the other Children what to do to serve the Cultural-Marxists.
Everything would work out fine. It all made sense.
Mary went back to sleep, or tried to. Despite everything else, the bed was too soft. Eventually she opted to put several of the excessive pillows on the floor and sleep there.
Mary was thankful (and there is something she thought she'd never say) for her days on the ship. The lack of sunlight and strange showers had prepared her for the hotel room. Even if, as everything in the Commonwealth seemed to be, it was done on an enormous scale.
Though she shouldn't get used to it. Once they understood that she was an orc, not a Cultural-Marxist, she would likely be regulated to more reasonable quarters. Part of her feared the punishment, but some part of her looked forward to it. She knew when, where, and why she would be punished. And it was almost under her control. She'd known it must come, and having finally found where it was, the world would righten itself and she wouldn't have to worry about it.
Mary waited. Hunger had already set in but anything else would involve using the telephone, which was unthinkable. Besides, asking for food was likely a privilege of Cultural-Marxists, not ordinary orcs. She managed to occupy herself by making the bead and tidying up as best she could, not that there was much to do. A knock at the door caused her to jump slightly. "Room service." An older voice announced.
Mary rushed to the door. Opened it to the face of Mrs. Goldblum. With a wheeled tray.
"Trouble with the phone?"
Mrs. Goldblum tapped the tray handle and a steamy smell of FOOD! wafted out. For a moment, Mary forgot all but the most basic of her reflexes as FOOD! punched right through to the stomach she shared with her own orcish side.
"Oh, Mrs. Goldblum, it's good to see you, come in. Would you like to sit down?"
Mrs. Goldblum smiled and nodded and did exactly that, pushing the tray after her to reveal the breakfast. It was as massive as the ships. There was normal food, lots of it- porridge, sausage, eggs, cabbage, and onions. But there was more, too. A fruit she couldn't identify, some type of bread, and jars of maybe-preserves on the side. Salt, pepper, honey. Honey in a serving jar, just out there to use. It was decadence personified.
"Well, no sense waiting around till we waste away, let's eat. Mrs Goldblum picked up one of two plates and began piling it with toast, fruit, and some sort of sausage that smelled of chicken. Even a side of oatmeal. "You should try the jam dear, it's a wonderful mix." She said as she slathered some on her toast and bit in with a smile.
Mary froze. Not eating when a Papa had instructed her to was a problem. But, if she ate food that clearly wasn't for her, that was also one.
"I, I'm very grateful for such a generous portion. But I- I think there has been a misunderstanding. I'm… I was from Chicago, but I was only an ordinary person. I know I came as an ambassador for the Farmers, but I'm not a Cultural Marxist. I don't, I'm just an ordinary person, not like you or your daughter. I don't deserve this treatment, and I'm sorry for deceiving you and will accept any punishment you wish." Mary bowed her head to the table while keeping it at just the right angle to manage to see Goldblum's face out of the corner of her eye. A skill she had practiced well.
She had to have been imagining the 'funny-Papa' look on Mrs. Goldblum's face. There was no way Mary could think of for this conversation to be funny. Also, it had lasted almost no time, so she was probably imagining it. Mrs. Goldblum's brow furrowed. Her face scrunched up, as though she was thinking, thinking. She tapped her cheek, almost as if she was making a show of thinking! Was she trying to embarrass Mary for taking so long to ask?
Then she finally, finally replied.
"...What's a cultural Marxist?"
The look on her face was blank, blank. No recognition. Did they have a different word for it? Yes that would make sense, after all even Mary knew that most people outside the Garden wouldn't admit they were orcs.
"Um, sorry I only know Victorian words for it. It um…" They seek to turn the masses into soulless creatures. "...They try to make sure everyone works, overseeing them like Victorians, but... not like them. They replace the family with lesbians and feminism, so that men..." are emasculated "...are kept in their place. And they replace God with atheism and enviro-mentalism."
"Wait, who does that? That doesn't sound like anyone I know."
"You know, people who-" she recited from memory- "wield harlotry and decadence to control the masses."
"Chicago can't afford that much decadence. Much too poor. I don't know how much decadence it takes to control people but believe me, it's a lot more than-" she waved- "this. And... trying to control masses through harlotry sounds pretty silly. And exhausting. I don't think I know anyone who does that, either." Now she looked very confused. Almost ridiculously confused, like a face someone would put in a picture to show what the word 'confused' meant.
"Uh… uh… people whose voices act like honey to orcs, leading them to follow their every word?" Mary asked weakly.
"Are you sure you're not making those up? This sounds like the boogeyman or the Tooth Fairy."
"No they- I'm really really sorry if I have the words wrong. Or was taught the wrong things about you. But you are the ones who rule over orcs. With your guidance, Chicago became…" Mary gestured helplessly out the still closed curtains. "This! You beat Andrew, you beat Victoria! Someone had to direct and create this!"
"Ohhhhh!" Mrs. Goldblum grinned, toothily. "You mean a race of supermen destined to govern lesser breeds who lack the Law?"
Mary smiled with relief, the scary smile being oddly reassuring. Finally! Goldblum would understand she wasn't like Layla, and this world would act normally again. "Exactly!"
"Nope!" Her smile got, if anything, even bigger, toothier. "We don't have any of those either. Killed the last of 'em thirty years ago. Good times. Same laws for everybody now. Very important, that!"
"But you and and Mrs Johnston, you rule the city."
"I'm only an assistant secretary. I count artillery shells and write manuals. If people wanted Sara out-" Wait Mrs. Johnson is also Sara so confusing- "she'd be gone on her ass. Half the reason I never went for that thing was too much pleasing people. We don't tell people what to do, they tell us."
"No you- they- I- clearly need it. It's only been a few days and I'm already feeling angry at this conversation! My orc is taking over!" Oh GOD WHAT DID I JUST SAY!? Mary clapped a hand over her mouth in shock.
And it was when Mrs. Goldblum's answered that, that Mary finally realized that the woman who had given birth to a reality-warping mutant was probably a reality-warping mutant herself. Because of course she was.
Mrs. Goldblum shrugged. "Let her. I'm sure she'll do fine."
This wasn't how this was supposed to go! Mary nodded as she screamed internally. Goldblum wasn't even acknowledging that they were different! Now she wanted her to unleash her orc. Mary knew how dangerous that was. Sometimes Papas told you to do things, such as being honest, or you don't have to cook a full meal if you don't want to, that had a right and a wrong answer. Unleashing the monster she knew was underneath herself, the one that could never have built this, was clearly a wrong answer.
And she didn't know the right one.
She needed a way to know but… an idea occurred. It was a gamble, and hopefully Mrs. Goldblum wouldn't be offended, but it might work. "Um, Mrs. Goldblum. I'm sorry to ask. But what do or- people from Chicago usually do?"
She shrugged again. "Argue a lot. Vote on things. Then argue some more, usually. So far it's worked out pretty well. Although..." She paused, considering. "Mary, you said you were originally from Chicago?"
"I- yes. At least that's what Papa told me. I offered to come because I think I might… maybe… have something in common with it." Mary's voice trailed off as she realized how utterly ridiculous that had been.
Again, Mrs. Goldblum smiled with the toothy grin, the one like a Papa telling campaign stories, the one she used when she talked about killing better people. Maybe she was letting her orc out, or something like it…
"Maybe you were righter than you think. Did your... Papa tell you how you were- adopted?" Funny pauses in her voice, but maybe hatred of all things Victorian could explain it?
"He found me after destroying one of the gangs that infested Chicago, I mean, before everything was cleaned up!" Mary hastily added.
Goldblum nodded, and for a second, just a second, it looked as if she had a look of fury that meant Mary should know she had said something wrong. But it disappeared too fast. No punishment. Probably hatred of all things Victorian again. "I see. Actually... Mary, I've been doing something thinking. You asked how we maintain order in Chicago, and I think I can show you that. I need some time to arrange it, but I think I can take you on a tour."
Mary nodded. Either a real tour tour, because she was proud of it, or not a real tour, and she was going to 'show her discipline'. Either way, Mary should nod. She nodded. "That sounds good."
"Now, I'm going to need some time, so I'll be back in a bit. You can stay here, though it might do you some good to get out and walk around a bit."
Stay here, or walk around a bit. Two different orders. Still, Mary felt on firmer ground with them. Telling someone it would do them good was clearly the more pressing order than staying here. Still, she couldn't help but feel like there was… something more to the order. Like… Mrs Goldblum seemed to love her lessons, and this felt like one. Still, walking must be the correct choice. But walking the streets of the city was just… too much.
Perhaps she could simply stay in the building. It was huge on its own. And she could walk around. In fact, she was pretty sure that Matthew was on the same floor. There had been a paper with his room. Cautiously, Mary opened her own door and looked outside. It was so strange, knowing that everything on this hallway led to a room like hers. It was almost like a tiny village, only enclosed.
Thankfully, Matthew's room was right next to hers, though she couldn't imagine why he needed his own. Even so, as she stopped in front of the door, a flurry of thoughts took her. Was she sure this was the right one? All these doors were so impersonal, just numbers, not like her town where she knew everyone. Was it right? She paused, and then, very softly, knocked. "Hello, um, Matthew, is this your room?"
"Oh, yes ma'am." A moment later the door opened. "Please come in." he said.
Mary followed him in and then shut the door behind her. She then put her ear against it, she couldn't hear anything. Still, Mrs. Goldblum had been very quiet with Layla. Carefully, Mary picked up the small stand near the outer door and placed it so that it would fall if anyone opened it. It was a trick all Children knew. Whoever it was wouldn't be happy about the lack of care in where she put things, but better than risking someone coming in without her knowing. She turned to Matthew. "Let's go to the bedroom."
She began to move, but noticed Matthew's fear, and told herself to smile. "Oh! Sorry for worrying you. I'm married." With that, he let out a breath and started walking. They moved inside and Mary shut the door.
"Matthew, did you sleep well?"
"Had some trouble, ma'am."
Mary looked at the collection of blankets and pillows on the floor. "Yes, I had to do the same thing, Chicago seems to like unusual beds."
He nodded at that. Still nervous. She sat down on the couch, and smiled. "Matthew, are you the oldest of your family?"
"No, Christina is the oldest. She's always watched out for me. I didn't learn farming, Papa wanted my focus on keeping the ships clean, part of the reason I came." He moved over, sitting down on the couch next to her. "Christina asked me to help take you here."
Mary patted him on the head, the affection Children could only give each other alone. "I'm sure she's proud of you for helping me."
He looked at her. "She said you would be able to talk with Chicago, keep us…" he struggled for words here. Mary knew the struggle. 'Safe" was the wrong word. With such a change-over, true safety was absurd. "Tell us what they want."
She nodded. That was one of the most important jobs bigger siblings had. She and John had known Papa in a way the younger ones hadn't, and making sure that everything went right was her job. "I'm still working on this. Chicago is very different."
According to Miss Goldblum, they had killed their betters, those destined to rule. That seemed insane, but it wasn't, really. They had killed the Victorians, and orcs wanting to kill their betters was their nature, so it shouldn't be surprising. They seemed downright proud of it, full of contempt at the idea of anyone 'better' than anyone else.
Voting, not proper voting, but continuous arguing. It almost made sense. Of course orcs without a guiding hand would descend into chaos and factional arguments. An unorganized mob.
But that chaos had built this city.
Those arguments had created this conference.
Those factions had beaten Victoria.
That mob had destroyed Andrew.
Somehow, from chaos, came form and order. Without God or Retroculture or Grandfather Smith to guild tham. She needed to understand it. According to Mrs. Goldblum, Chicago made its decisions by vote. Thousands of voices spoke, and those above enacted their will. From many voices, one action. No true leadership, just servants who could be replaced. Only the formless whims of those within guided Chicago.
That was terrifying. Did that mean she had to please every single person within? How would she even talk to them all? She could spend a lifetime here, and barely know anyone. There had to be a trick. She had to understand, she had to figure this out. Because if she didn't, the beast would turn on them, and from what she had seen, she'd no doubt Chicago could end them all with less effort than Papa might crush an ant.
She breathed in, she would do this. She wasn't going to let anyone die if she could help it. But first, she needed information. "Matthew, thank you so much for doing this. And I know I asked last night, but I need you to tell me everything that happened ."
Matthew opened his mouth and began to speak." Well after, after you left we were all kinda worried, not sure where we were supposed to go, but the boats with the megaphones that had been ordering us to our dock came back and told us where to put the ship. The place was called Red Banner Ship Works. Once we got there, a lot of men, and a few women dressed like men. Or maybe the other way around, I think my papa said that they make their women like men and men like women, so if men are dressing like men, are they actually dressing like women?"
Mary nodded. "It is… complex." She offered
"Oh, okay. I'm glad we have someone who understands them." Mary kept her face carefully schooled at that. One of the greatest tricks she and John learned with the younger children was that sometimes, they needed you to look like you knew what you were doing. "So they came aboard, and started inspecting the ship, and said they were looking for damage. Was that okay?"
"I think so, we don't want to refuse them anything."
He nodded, another eager relief. "Um, then one of them, I think he was the captain, but they didn't call him that, got angry. He saw the engines, and wanted to know how... anyone had made these…" Matthew's brow furrowed, clearly trying to remember the man's exact words. "Barely functional things work, and what…. Frank-- frankenstone? Creation this was."
She didn't know anything about this Red Banner Ship Works, or its captain, or what a frankenstone was. But if they didn't like the arm-eating engine either, then maybe there might be hope? Even her orc seemed pleased at the idea.
Matthew had fallen silent for a moment. He caught his breath and went on. "We had to send Thomas, which we were all worried about, cause he's a bit simple, but they talked. The not-captain actually seemed pleased with Thomas. He liked his explanations and wanted to know what our… com-pen-satiation structure was?"
He looked down. "Um, none of us knew what that was. He started talking about ownership and property and um, a lot of other words I didn't understand. But um, the captain said he was in charge, but they asked if he was the owner. Um, we weren't sure what they met, so we said it was you. Was that okay?"
"Of course." Not that she had any more idea than them. "I think ownership is sort of… which Papa has what?" Mary offered.
"Oh that makes sense… but we don't have papas anymore, so who does?"
"I'm working on that with the Commonwealth." Mary said, remembering yet another thing you need to do with them.
"Oh, okay. They said we needed to have 'collective ownership' and handed us a bunch of pamphlets. We ended up sealing them in the captain's room after they left and washing our hands in case they had something dangerous. After that, the next big thing that happened was a woman who was dressed like wom-ma… in a skirt, which was nicer looking, came by. She said she was here for the ambassador's stuff. We showed her to your cabin, and the man we first met also came."
"When we got to your room and opened it the man started getting angry, talking about how you were decadent and bo. Bort-wash-knee? He um, he seemed angry."
Seeing his expression, Mary gave a reassuring pat. "I'm not worried about that, and you shouldn't be either." and weirdly, she wasn't. She was dealing with one of the top women of the city, some distant man angry her felt… weirdly small right now? She knew how Papas worked, she was Goldblum's to punish, and her word would go.
He nodded. "The woman and the man started arguing, I don't think he liked her very much. I um, I ended up volunteering cause no one else wanted to and went here, and I found myself here after I got drove through the city." His expression showed that he, like her, had developed opinions on driving.
Mary nodded, feeling calm. This, she could do.. "Thank you so much for everything you've done for me. Now, here is what we are going to do. We are both going to go down to the lobby. There, I'm going to have to ask you to be driven again, and I am sorry about that, back to the ship. I need you to tell the captain that I can come down if he needs anything, but I would prefer it if he could read the pamphlets himself. Please come back after dinner and tell me what happens. Tell him that you should be down every day, and will go back at night unless we tell him otherwise, and if he doesn't get a message, to please do as we discussed before landing."
Which meant making a break for it and telling everyone the mission had been a failure.
He nods. "Okay."
As they made their way to the elevator, Mary felt a sense of ease. Going alone was scary. Going with Mrs. Goldblum was terrifying. But going with Matthew, with someone she had to guide, was… it let her live on the borrowed strength of pretending to be calm. Maybe, if she could make Matthew believe it, she could believe it herself. Once he was gone, she was going to stay down in the lobby, like Mrs. Golblum had asked, though hopefully nothing would happen
AN:
Victorian Chaplain's ghost: So the Cultural-Marxists lead the orcs, organizing them in sin. They control and enslave them. With money and other Je- I mean Cultural-Marxist trickery.
Mary: So I'm an orc, right?
Victorian Chaplain's ghost: Yes, which is why you need someone to guide you, you can't think on your own.
Mary: Okay, please enslave me Mrs. Cultural Marxist.
Victorian Chaplain's ghost: Wait, no!
Also, Comments make me very happy, gib comments. And thanks to @Simon_Jester my co-writer in this odyssey.
So anyone want to talk on how the Tsar is a Soviet Union person who supported them when they were active because it seems to me that he is and is extremely ancient who has his senses though with backward glory views
So anyone want to talk on how the Tsar is a Soviet Union person who supported them when they were active because it seems to me that he is and is extremely ancient who has his senses though with backward glory views
...Is he? We're currently in the late 2070's in the quest, for him to have even been alive at that time, he would at minimum be in his 90's, a full centenarian if he were to have grown up in the USSR prior to its dissolution. So all I can say is he seems to have aged more gracefully than wine if he can keep up his work as the absolute monarch of a global hegemon Russia at such an age. That and had children in his 60's at the earliest.
So anyone want to talk on how the Tsar is a Soviet Union person who supported them when they were active because it seems to me that he is and is extremely ancient who has his senses though with backward glory views
...Is he? We're currently in the late 2070's in the quest, for him to have even been alive at that time, he would at minimum be in his 90's, a full centenarian if he were to have grown up in the USSR prior to its dissolution. So all I can say is he seems to have aged more gracefully than wine if he can keep up his work as the absolute monarch of a global hegemon Russia at such an age. That and had children in his 60's at the earliest.
It not out stated but it's hinted that he's a Soviet supporter or was once apart of the Soviet Union as he rants on how the Leaders of Russia betrayed them as in Union not Federation
