HistoryPark: Here There Be Dragons

Valdemar - and you wear a beard and have a helmet with horns? It was a nice little Ford Ranger extended cab, very comfortable. He hit me so hard the airbags deployed, the radio came out of the dash and the bed, cab and frame are buckled. He hit me from behind, mind you.

I bought the truck for my business (which I sold). Before that I drove nothing but sport cars for 25 years... three Mazda RX-7's and a fully-equipped Dodge Stealth. <sigh>

Can't be a hillbilly - born in the Mississippi delta lands that are so flat it's like a pool-table. Swamp monster?

I've seen 'Master and Commander' and don't want to start a discussion on it here (perhaps LD would let us use his corner). But I thought Russell Crowe did a good job. The movie is good as it is, but if you didn't know anything about the series and story when you went in, you won't know anything when you come out.

It is a movie that stands on its own, not a telling of the Aubrey-Maturin story.

stnylan - thanks. I haven't been working here long enough to qualify for insurance. Just paid out $400 for doctor and $200 for medication... that hurts about as bad as my injuries!

Valdemar - His insurance company is paying. I intend to take no loss.

Stroph1 - How about now?

merrick - No blues on the bagpipes, check. Glad you're enjoying the tale - it gives me a chance to repay you a bit for the pleasure I've gotten from your excellent AAR.

stnylan - His insurance company called early the next morning and accepted liability. I'm currently driving a rental that they are paying.

And now...

Interlude

He awoke lying on his back, looking up at the cold, glittering stars. It was an awakening from a deep, restful slumber, the kind of awakening that leaves the limbs relaxed and heavy. The kind of sleep that comes only to the exhausted, the innocent or the fortunate in love…

After some timeless time of gazing at the subtle colors of the icy chips of starlight, a thought arose from the placid, empty depths of his mind. “You never see stars like that in the city. Not with all the electric lights. Only out here, far away from everything. This may be the Old World, but it is still empty.” He stirred ever so slightly and turned his head toward the merrily crackling fire.

And thought to himself… “I’ve been through this before.”

Instead of a remote Romanian hillside the scene around him was a sloping bank trailing down to a little creek. Behind him were railroad tracks, leaden in the light of the half-moon, and the hulks of battered old railroad cars. The only person visible was a man, face shielded under a battered fedora, playing a harmonica soft and low. He blew a few last notes and tipped the hat back, eyes black and dancing in the firelight.

“What was that?” Kevin asked.

“Lonesome Blues Highway,” Joe said. “Ever read any of the Nick Travers mysteries by Ace Atkins?” Kevin shook his head mutely.

“Good books. The hero is a blues researcher and fanatic. A friend of mine wrote some music to fit his words…” He sang, softly.

• ’Well, there’s a road
  that leads to glory,
  through a valley
  so far away.
  
  Nobody else
  can walk it for you,
  all they can do
  is point the way.’

“I just like the sound of it.”

“I know who you are, Joe,” Kevin said. “I know who I am. I feel like I’m finally… waking up, clearing up.”

Joe nodded, face creasing in a smile. “That’s good, Kevin. I’ve been worried about you.”

“So… where is this, and what’s going on?”

“I had a… meeting… with one of the people who are responsible for this, a fellow who says his name is Buran. I had some time to put a few tricks together – not enough – and I traced them to their home systems. Which turn out,” he grimaced, “to be tougher to crack than I thought. So you and I aren’t leaving here just yet.”

“Your accident was rigged. We couldn’t figure out how to remove you from the VR environment without trauma… and now they’ve pre-empted the data feeds and replaced the game environment with this place.” He waved vaguely. “The railroad cars and fire are mine… the area isn’t large, and it isn’t complex or interesting at all. They have access to Park systems through some hole we haven’t found yet. And I don’t know what they want.”

“Allow me to assist you in that regard,” said a new voice. A tall, elderly man walked deliberately around the end of the boxcars and approached the fire. He raised both hands in a placating manner. “Please, Mister Parker – no fireworks. A short truce for discussion, yes?”

“We can talk after you release us,” Joe said flatly.

“Ah! You see, a basis for a bargain already. I shall look forward to releasing you. I do require, however, some information in return.”

Joe neither spoke nor moved.

“I want full access to two systems. Your VR research, and the technical data on Project Paintball. Deliver that – before we break open your security and take that and more – and you and your friend go free.”

“Paintball.” Joe said flatly. “The VR research I can understand you wanting, but… there just isn’t anything very secret about Paintball. You could probably license the technology.”

“No.” Now Buran’s voice was flat. “We cannot. The attempt was made and refused.”

“And if we don’t cooperate?”

Buran motioned at the ground. “All this is expensive in computer resources. To crack Park security we will need these resources. Your situation will quickly become risky. If you wish to keep your sanity – or even your existence – you must cooperate.”

Joe nodded slowly. “I’ll need a little time to think this through.”

Buran nodded sharply. “A little,” he said, and vanished.

The two looked at each other for a moment.

“I know it is an adventure-gaming project,” Kevin said, “but I don’t know what Project Paintball is.”

Joe looked into the fire. “It isn’t really secret,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s a combat-resolution package for adventure gaming. Everyone can use it from medieval to Civil War re-enactors on up to paintball enthusiasts. Basically, it’s a coverall with millions of sensors woven into the cloth and a processor pack about the size of a pack of cigarettes. Firearms use low-power lasers and contact weapons have their own sensors and emitters. The coverall reacts to hits and touches by lighting up the affected areas. There’s an advanced version that uses low-voltage pulses to degrade arm and leg motion. It’s going to be a big hit with the SCA and Civil War re-enactor crowd. The technology is complicated, but it isn’t really secret.”

“Well what do they want it for, then?”

“Kevin… I just don’t know.”

stnylan - It all comes together in the end - with a giant crashing noise, probably .

Valdemar - as I conceive of it, the Virtual Reality used by the Park (and Kevin) works like this:

The person rests on an adjustable, hospital-type bed. Various sensors and emitters are attached at the head and other nerve centers. Powerful computers interrupt the sensory feed that the brain receives from the body and replace it with 'virtual' sensations.

In the normal course of events there is a careful, complicated procedure for closing the virtual feed and restoring the body's normal sensory flow to the brain. These exit routines are not currently working for Kevin. He could be brought out of VR with no trouble - or he might suffer serious trauma from scrambling sensory inputs. See 'synesthesia'.

The bad guys have a secure line into the Park systems but have not yet broken security protections. They can get into the system for some things (like scrambling the VR exit routines) , but haven't been able to get the data they want.

Joe and Kevin are on a secure system controlled by the enemy. They are able to receive some inputs but cannot output (like call for help). The bad guys are threatening to reduce or eliminate that input, which would produce something like complete sensory deprivation. Madness follows in people; loss of processor time would 'kill' Joe. So the situation is poor but not fatal.

Thanks for asking - I hope I cleared up rather than added to the confusion.

Interlude Two

“So what do we know?” If Minter was frustrated, only the slight emphasis in his voice gave evidence of it.

“I’ve put inspection teams on every site in the Park where construction or renovation was made in the last year,” Thompkins said. “With priority for sites that have control systems that link to the Park system or close proximity to computer nodes.” He made a face. “There are a whacking great lot of them, Donald… we’ve been expanding pretty rapidly.”

The ghostly figure to Minter’s right solidified and seated itself in a tall-backed chair. “I can tell that he is Russian,” Frank said. “and right-handed. I do not think he has lately been in Afghanistan.” Both men looked at him blankly. “Buran. I’ve been running analyses of his speech patterns and accent. From St Petersburg, most likely – the accent is distinctive if you know what to listen for. When he talked with Joe he gestured with his right hand.”

He stood and the chair melted away. “He is an older male, in his late 50’s or even 60’s and well educated – probably a technical background. He has good technical and programming assistance, the kind you can only get with extraordinary financial backing. This doesn’t have the feel of an operation sanctioned by a government agency – too loose, too risky – but it may have black funding behind it somewhere. Whatever it is that we have that they want, they want it desperately. No intelligence agency – government or for-hire – would run risks like this unless there was a lot at stake.”

Thompkins frowned down at the table. “Frank, don’t take this wrongly, please: but you and Joe have no legal identity and everything that’s happened to Kevin has been made to look like an industrial accident with the Park at fault. How much risk are they actually running, here?”

There was a silence. Finally Frank spoke. “They may not realize all the risks they run. But they have to know that they cannot come into our Park, injure our people, and walk away. Joe and I are patient, thorough… and very, very long-lived. If and when we find them, they will pay.”

The question of whether Joe still lived hung unspoken in the air.

“Is this industrial espionage?” Minter asked. “Why would the Russians target us? We have had a lot of licensing requests for the VR technology. And there have been a lot of attempts to hack our systems. And there have been attempts at burgling the R&D labs.”

Frank looked pensive. “Buran is Russian, but their technical people scattered to the winds when the Soviet Union broke up. He could be working for almost anyone. The attempts to hack into the VR data I understand. But there have been as many or more attempts to hack into Project Paintball. Twice as many attempts on those two systems as all other Park systems combined, including payroll and accounting.”

Thompkins shrugged. “Re-enactors are fanatics. They’ve heard the rumors about Paintball and they are in a frenzy to get some kind of scoop about it.”

Minter shook his head. “No, no… there’s something there. I don’t see what Virtual Reality has in common with laser-sensing fabric and a renegade Russian, but there is something there.”



Part Five – Autumn of 1497

“Press him!” Radu thundered, slapping the flat of his hand on the field-table with a crack.

“My Prince,” the older man began, deferentially. “Our armies are fully engaged in Cyprus and campaigning in Hungary. A polite response to the Sultan…”

“Would be seen as evidence of weakness! They would press us further, even set upon us!” Radu interrupted. Then he took a slow breath and continued in a milder conciliating tone. “With any European power I would take your excellent advice, Basil, but not with the Turks. They do not reason as we do. I abjure you to press them on every point, contest every claim. Admit nothing! They surrendered their rights in that valley with the treaty of ’57, Basil. Give them nothing! The Byzantines have uncommitted troops. And I could raise an army against the Turks, at need. That would be popular… Defy their claim and assert our claim to the next valley on their side of the border!”

“Yes, my Prince. It shall be as you say.”

“What word do you receive from the Hungarians, then, Basil? Why will they not yield!”

“Their king hears great promises of men and money and provisions from the merchants of Transylvania.” Basil smiled frostily through his graying beard. “He has not realized that they have no money, no trade route, no villages, no goods… only promises. So he awaits their payments and reinforcements, and he grows impatient with their flattery. How goes the campaign in Ruthenia?”

“Very well, Basil. I believe we will have its towns for our winter garrison. Tell the Hungarians this: If they will not yield now the price will be higher come spring. Dress that up in better speech, Basil, but don’t be too nice about it.”



Part Six – Spring of 1498

“No, my Prince, there is no lessening of opposition from Genoa and Venice. They must know that the Hungarians will never repay those vast loans but they will not consent to loan a single ducat to us. Their ports are closed to us… we are too friendly with their old enemy Byzantium, and the Italians will not countenance us. And the Austrians have sent an envoy to discourage our territorial ambitions in Hungary.”

“Bah. Spraddle the Austrians. No, don’t ask me what it means, I don’t like to shock you. What is this news from Spain, Basil?”

“Some Italian sailor has discovered the Spice Islands, they say, except that there seem to be no spices… The dispatches from our agent in Paris are very dire. The Austrians have crossed the Rhine and placed vast territories under their sway. France is again divided by faction and intrigue. If the French cannot summon up the fortitude for a long struggle, then Austria will be established across both banks of that river. A strong central power will be a grave threat to those of us on the peripheries.”

“That must be a problem for another day – mayhap another Prince, Basil. Unless you propose I wage war on Austria too? No? Then let us move on. What news of the Hungarian embassy?”

“They continue to spar with us, my Prince. I think they are sincere in wanting peace but trembling at the price. Perhaps if we did not press a claim to Ruthenia…”

“No. No! I told them last winter the price would be higher. Our armies are ravaging their territories and their king’s writ runs no farther than the end of his arm. But there is that great monstrous army of Poles. Double the size of the last host, or so the Moldavians say. Prince Stefan has always had a cool head, but these last letters of his are desperate.”

“The Hungarians expect nothing from the Poles, sire. They speak of them with scorn and derision. The Polish defeat two years ago was a great disappointment and has bred a great resentment in both kingdoms. Whatever they are waiting on, they expect no help from Poland.”

“Well-a-day they may receive it despite! Stefan will not suffer the Poles to ravage his lands again. And if Moldavia deserts us – or joins our enemies – all that we have accomplished will be lost!”



“My stars and heavens! Is that Basil! Basil, you old fool, slow down! You cannot caper like a boy at your age!”

“My Prince!… Ah. Ah, ah. My Prince!”

“I certainly hope so, Basil. I’d be so disappointed was I not… get your breath, man! You, boy, tell the server to fetch wine and water for the Chancellor!”

“The Serbs! Ah, ah… The Serbs!”

“I do believe the Serbs have done something. Do I have that part correct, my Chancellor? Is it blue, perhaps? Larger than a bread-box? Here, drink this.”

“The Serbs have defeated the Huns and overrun the Banat! My Prince, the Hungarian ambassador has visited upon me this very hour – so dejected, so downcast! And he has agreed to the terms of our last offer of treaty if they still stand, the Transylvania and Ruthenia both!”

“And no compensation for the Moldavians or Serbs? How delicious! Accept at once, Basil, and let us prepare to feast!”

Calcsam2 - That's a beautiful sentence that packs a lot into a few words. Very nice - thank you.

I can post pics again!

So here are the shots you've missed (the originals are on pages 4, 5 and 6 I think).


The Wise Man of Tirgoviste




Wallachia is bordered in white, her allies are bordered in yellow. Moldavia is a vassal of Wallachia.




Vlad III Dracula, also known as The Impaler

Back in the Gaming Area

“What a great video, Ray! How did you come up with that!”

“Thanks, Barbara.” He took the proffered cup of coffee. “The Park has been experimenting with automated scripting and virtual actors. Eventually they want to be able to provide the players with videos of their games. Since everyone involved in this game is a Park employee, there are no legal issues, so we’re using the game files as test material.”

“Virtual actors!”

“Yeah. Every characteristic from height and hair color to vocal pitch and emotional reaction is controlled by editable data files. The performances aren’t great, but they are predictable, repeatable… and cheap. The boys over at JS Studios are begging us for this technology.”

“Actors must be furious!”

“Human actors are still much, much better. But a lot of bit parts can be filled by automation, yes.”

“Wow. Um, so what happened in the game?”

“The Hungarians accepted peace while you were making coffee. We got Transylvania and Ruthenia. As soon as Matthias accepted peace with us, half his nobles revolted and all his allies disavowed him. He’ll be a long time putting his house in order, which is what I hoped for when I began the war.”

“What’s your plan now?”

“Peace and quiet, I hope. I gave equal tolerance to Orthodoxy, the Muslims of Antalya and the Catholics of … Oh, crap.”

“I didn’t think there were that many people on Cyprus! Quick, Ray, get the fleet out to sea in case the army needs to…”

“Crap. Too late! That army is gone! That was two legions plus auxilliaries… Crap! That was half my whole army! Now we’ll have to pull those troops out of Antalya. Plus reinforce them… and find a new garrison for Antalya!” Ray got up from his armchair and paced over to stare at the giant map.

“Not that we have that much money to throw around… Well, it’s New Year’s Day, 1500. Maybe things will be better from… uh-oh.”

“I don’t even want to look. I hate it when all the events get clumped together… so what is it this time?”

“Temporary Insanity of Monarch.”

“(groan). I got the legions in Antalya embarked on the fleet and they’re on their way to Cyprus… well, well! What’s this! Antalya spontaneously converts! Pause the game and crank the tolerance of Islam down to zero, Barbara, please! Got that? OK, then… resume the game, please. Any of those donuts left?” He turned his back to the big holomap and walked toward the waiting box of donuts.

“Ray?” He stiffened and stopped. “Ray… our second army just got slaughtered on Cyprus. No survivors…”

Ray turned, face flushed and veins visible at his temples. “Dammit! All right. This just got personal. Max out the treasury slider and start recruiting. When we go back to Cyprus, we’re gonna kick some ass.”

Barbara put her arm around his shoulder. “It’s just a game, Ray. Lets go have lunch. You need to cool down some. Call Gaming Central and have them send someone over for a few hours. It’s Hitchcock’s turn, isn’t it?”

Ray grimaced, then nodded. “Sure, you’re right. But the last time we let him play, he introduced bagpipes. Still want to risk it?”

Barbara grinned. “Sure. I can’t wait to see what he gets into this time.”



Part Seven – First Centurion Hitchcock

Some things never change, and sergeants are among these. Call him what you will – and many colorful, inventive names have been applied, mostly obscene – a sergeant is one constant of army life.

They weren’t exactly sergeants, here-and-now. This new standing army of Wallachia didn’t make the kind of separation between officers and non-commissioned or warrant officers that modern armies do. Here, the distinction is between the long-service professionals who train and operate the legion and the politically-appointed men who determine the uses to which the legion will be put. There aren’t many of the professionals in a legion and they all have more than one job to do, so the closest approximation to a modern sergeant – a centurion – can end up commanding company and battalion-sized units in addition to his other duties.

Another constant in any army is the presence of large numbers of young men. They come in all kinds and types and sorts, but they all share one emotion: fear. Fear of being far from home, fear of injury, fear of failing their companions, fear of sergeants and officers and the enemy (in well-trained units, in that order). Fear of having to kill; fear of having to watch friends die; fear of their own death. Fear, in short, in all its many guises, is the background of army life.

In well-trained units, these fears are taken up and acknowledged so that they may be overcome. All of military discipline and tradition centers on overcoming some fears and emphasizing others, but no amount of training ever eradicates fear. An army without fear is as impossible as an efficient government: these institutions are so designed as to make such a thing impossible.

Hitchcock schooled his face to stillness. Recent losses in the Cypriot meatgrinder had left the Principality short of manpower of any kind, trained or not. There weren’t many good, experienced officers left to train the new men, either. The ragged remnants left on Cyprus had been too few to rebuild into their original legions, so they had been shuffled together and shipped off to Macedonia to recoup. Those who still followed the eagles…

His eyes flicked upwards, automatically, and this time his face did twitch. Rumor had it that Prince Radu had suffered a fit of madness and been confined in his rooms. Hitchcock didn’t know how else to explain the new crouching dragon that had replaced the old eagle standard. The long-service professional men didn’t care for it but were not given to overt disobedience, so a quiet compromise had been worked out. The golden, spread-winged screaming eagle was still carried at the head of formations and enshrined every night in camp, and the veterans were content if the dragon happened to be carried along too.

These lads weren’t bad, he mused. Not so many farmers as before; more sons of townsmen were joining up these days. Fewer Wallachians and more Greeks, Germans, Bulgars and even Hungarians. Green as sour apples, but not bad material. Language was less a problem than he had thought – everyone spoke at least a few words of pidgin Greek. Another six weeks or two months of training and… he shrugged that thought away. The 6th Legion didn’t have six weeks; with this following breeze the fleet would make port today or tomorrow, and God only knew how quickly they would be in combat after that.

And combat it would be: the last few Governors sent out from Bucuresti had taken their office as license to strip everything of value from the island. Enraged – and funded and trained by some unfriendly power – the Cypriots had revolted and overcome the legionary garrison. They had to know that this success had sealed their fate: the Prince would never negotiate after such loss of prestige. For the Cypriots, it was independence or submission with no third choice and hard fighting either way.

The meeting last night had gone better than he expected. The legate was there, of course. A tall, thin Greek landowner from Corinth, he was careful to listen to his tribunes and not shy about making a decision when necessary. On the other hand, one of the reasons the 6th was understrength was because the legate was diddling the payroll accounts, but on balance Hitchcock thought the man wasn’t a bad bargain. The two tribunes actually ran the meeting. The legion was authorized three, but these days Hitchcock was wearing that helmet too.

“Our people on the island tell us the money and weapons are coming from Venice,” First Tribune Patros had said, “but we don’t know who is smuggling them in. Most of the island is in unfriendly hands. Of the cities, only Limassol had any sort of fortifications. That town is still in our control and holding out, so we’ll land there and march up the coast. The fleet will provide provisions and allow us to land troops along the coast as desired.”

Cyprus was a valuable base for any power that wanted influence in the eastern Mediterranean, and a valuable piece of real-estate in its own right with abundant grains, fruit, produce and valuable timber. Venice already owned Rhodes, the Ionian islands and Crete. Control of Cyprus would give her ships an enormous advantage in trade with Egypt and the Levant, and an independent Cyprus meant Venetian control sooner rather than later.

He pulled off the goggles and earphones and hung them from his waist before looking down at the vast map. First, this bleeding ulcer on Cyprus had to be ended, and no concessions could be made until the island was pacified. Second, he needed to know how the funds and weapons were getting to the island. And third there was the matter of a suitable payback for the Venetians.

He bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. They were merchants. They should understand that all these debts must be paid.

In full.