The year is 2016 and Trudeau, second of his name, rules this Dominion of Canada. Here, in his most distant possession, the dukes and barons of the territory of Yukon joust, as they do every five years, to see who will become the ruling lord and thus avail themselves of the bounty that flows each year from Trudeau's treasury.
And what bounty it is. They say just under one billion coins of the realm do flow every year from the south-lands to this northern stronghold, ensuring a lifestyle out of all proportion to the means of production this remote region contributes back to the hardworking and overtaxed southerners.
There are many tales to tell how these monies are spent as the various warring nobles attempt to build vainglorious monuments to themselves or reward their supporters with roads, sporting arenas and assorted follies. Such is the foolish nature of humans.
It is with some trepidation that your humble scribe attempts to send a missive regaling you with all the exploits and deeds of the dueling houses as they compete for this treasure. The means of communication with this far-flung corner are sketchy at best, and liable to interruption. The messenger ravens are on standby should I fail through this medium.
The Guild that commands the thin and oh so slender wire that sends our plaintive thoughts to the outside wide world is all powerful and will brook no competition. The tentacles of the Guild reach into each home, be it castle or hovel, and without it we are cast adrift from the information path and can no longer surf the stories that we wish.
The single wire is meant to lay beneath the ground but it has no guardians on its long trip to the south. Occasionally evil machines will dig into the very earth itself and cut the sacred length.
All becomes chaos and trembling in the north. Communications is limited to what the few sky ships and sentinel towers of the very small waves will transmit, and the people bemoan the slowness of the connection.
There is much gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands and families wish they still had the Betamax and that copy of Labyrinth to still the anguish of the parents and the boredom of the children.
Merchants cannot sell their wares, for the plastic cards they take in exchange for goods will not speak to their machines, nor the machines to the cards, and little is known of whether the customer is good for credit.
Scribes at work are at a loss, for their forms are all stored within the wire, and without forms, scribes have even less to do while at their appointed desks.
Now some do say a second wire should be laid beneath the ground but take a different path. That way should a mechanical beast disturb the deep depths of the earth and cut the precious wire the information will flow again but on the second wire.
The distances in the north are vast though, and we are beset by strangers. The shortest path would be to the south, to the land of the Americans, to connect to their seaport of Skagway. From there they have laid a wire into the depths of the sea where it bypasses the monsters of the deep and travels to the south.
The path to the coast is perilous though, going over high rocky passes beset by snowstorms and stones cast down by the mountain giants. It would also mean leaving the Dominion of Canada, and having the wire be under the control of others, others who are not of the Guild, who might not share the best interests we have of providing each and every serf with access to feline moving pictures and recordings of popular minstrels.
The other option, the longer option, the option chosen by the current ruling Baron, is not for the timid nor weak. It would go north, far north, along a gravel trail that is dangerous and faint, and is often swept away by the tempests and torrents that plague that land. All should consult the augeries before setting out on that perilous path.
It would pass into the zones where the sun never rises in the winter and never sets in the summer. It would cross precious rivers and many mountain ranges and enter into the neighbouring realm that although different from us still swears allegiance to the Trudeau. It is to the northeast, but they insist on calling themselves as being of the northwest.
At the end this earth, where the northern ocean breaks upon the frozen shore, it would then head south along a mighty river, the mightiest of the northern rivers, and proceed all the way until it hit the oil kingdom ruled until recently by the beast with only a right wing.
There is trouble though, as the wire cannot easily be laid upon and within this barren soil. And there are those that say the current Baron and his advisors should go see the doctors that specialize in ailments of the logic and brain because the second wire will surely be rent asunder by the forces of nature as much as the first wire is shredded by the negligence of man. It would perchance be easier and perhaps even cheaper to go south even if it means giving up control of the wire.
But when one has the many dollars of other people's money to spend, thrift and parsimony do not often enter into calculations of the high and mighty.
It shall be interesting to see how the mighty Yukon houses, embroiled in the jousting to see who shall rule over us for the next five years, state their positions on such an issue of importance to the huddled masses.
House Hanson, orange in colour and left of ideology. House Silver, centrist and aligned in thought with that of far Trudeau. House Pasloski, right of centre and enamoured of the wealth in the ground. House De Jong, green is his stripe to show his love for all that grows.
These houses must state where they stand on the special wire! Only then will the people flock to their banner and support them in their quest for power.
And if they commit to breaking the power of the Guild and letting other guilds compete so we do not have to pay so many tithes to access the wire, that would be nice too.
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