From firstname.lastname@example.org Sun Apr 29 22:49:46 2007
Received: by 10.67.17.1 with HTTP; Sun, 29 Apr 2007 20:49:46 -0700 (PDT)
Date: Sun, 29 Apr 2007 23:49:46 -0400
From: "Bryan Bishop"
> In 2017, this thing crashes on Earth, right? On a remote pacific island, like they
> always do. But it doesn't crash from space. It crashes out of the collective unconcious.
> This is the Carrier. A "superdimensional fortress" designed to wage wars on the
> boundaries of Heaven and Hell themselves. Sleeping inside, badly wounded, is an entity
> called Macross, an angel embodying nearly a dozen concepts as disparate as they are
> fundamental. And there are giants. Giants that want it back. Call them whatever you
> want; Fir Bolg, Zentraedi, Jotuns. They are tricksters and warriors and monsters, and
> there are a whole lot of them. They are relentless, except for a fondness for music and
> strong drink. The fortress looks for all the world like a Chancel, but it's not. It's an
> Excrucian weapon. You can tell, once you figure out what it burns for fuel.
> It eats culture.
An 12-22-2005, 05:13 AM continuation post from a 'solyent':
> Jimmy ran his hand through his dark hair as his handler led him through the dimly lit
> observation corridor. For humanity's last hope, he thought, this place sure doesn't look
> like much.
> Like the other kids in his class, he'd slogged his way through the Cook Islands
> Standardized Tests, the newest set of federally-mandated measures of america's
> academic health. Unlike 98% of the other kids, however, Jimmy had scored high enough
> in Mental Adaptivity and Logical Implementation to attract the attention of The Project.
> Now, here he was, on the heels of some poindexter in a lab coat, being led past a series
> of (he could only assume) two-way mirrors. He and his handler were on the good side,
> the side that let you peek in on the rooms on the other side. So far, what he saw didn't
> impress him. Intrigue, maybe, but not impress.
> For example, the one he had just passed on his left looked down on a set of cubicles of
> the type familiar to wage slaves everywhere. Middle-aged men and women sat hunched in
> front of word processors and laser printers, which seemed to be spewing page after page
> of cramped text. The mirror on the opposite side of the corridor looked in on what looked
> like a daycare center, probably the kids of the cubicle-dwellers across the hall.
> "So, what am I looking at?"
> The labcoat quirked a smile, having obviously been waiting for this very question. "This,"
> he breathed theatrically, "is what we call the Thoughtmine. This is where we brainstorm
> non-integral concepts to turn into weaponized ideas."
> "Non-integral concepts?"
> "They explained this to at orientation, right kid? You're going to be duking it out with
> invaders from outside our reality with ideas as your weapons. The better the idea
> resonates with the collective unconscious, the better the weapon it makes."
> "I get that. So why not send me out there with a sword made of Fire and a shield made of
> Gravity? I bet I could fuck up the Zentraedi pretty well with ideas like those."
> "Oh, that'd be fabulous, wouldn't it? Tell me, kid, what happens when you crack?
> Because no matter how well we arm you, eventually you will crack. Our monkey brains
> just aren't designed to operate in the theatre of battle you're about to be deployed to."
> Jimmy shifted uneasily. He accepted the fact that there were risks associated with
> fighting in a war. His recruiters had been stangely quiet when describing the effects of war
> fought with "weaponized ideas" instead of guns. Labcoat picked up as if he hadn't even
> expected Jimmy to answer.
> "When you crack, the Zentraedi will take whatever concepts you're armed with and carry
> them home with them. Which means they'll no longer exist in our reality. Do you think
> we'd risk something as precious as Freedom in the hands of a rookie like you?"
> The labcoat turned to peer through the window overlooking the cubicle farm.
> "Don't worry though, we've putting out some real brilliant shit these days. Those guys
> down there are bloggers - real good at capturing memes. They don't have much of a
> shelf-life, but when they're fresh they can pack a wallop."
> The labcoat turned to the mirror looking into what Jimmy had identified as the daycare.
> "This is one of environments for pre-schoolers. They're by far our best producers - the
> only problem we have is that we can't seem to document their stuff as fast as they come
> up with it. We try to get em before they've watched too much TV: recycled ideas out of
> the Hollywood 'Mine are what cost us the Pristine Beachhead."
> Jimmy nodded mutely as the labcoat led him past window after window. Here was a
> bullpen filled with comic-book writers and artists, who could be relied upon to create
> concepts that were well-realized and easy for new recruits to handle. There was a series
> of padded cells devoted to schizophrenics and other headcases: Their stuff was powerful,
> if a bit hard to get a handle on. The labcoat stopped at a darkened window and gestured
> for Jimmy to draw closer.
> Jimmy could barely make out anything inside, just hints of movement in the glare cast by
> hundreds of CRT displays.
> "What's in this one?" he whispered in a hushed voice, aware that this room held an air of
> menace that the others did not.
> "Fanficcers. You can't imagine what a One True Ship can do to a Zentraedi at close
> range. Almost makes you feel sorry for the bastards."