Nation Shall Rise Against Nation: The Great Mellow

Just on the off-chance that it’s not clear, the following is not canon. It was inspired by a long discussion about whether we should end the game due to everyone having enough nukes to, in effect, make invasions impossible. Of course such an ending must somehow be explained…

 

 

April 1st, 1957
New Bergen
Morning

“So it’s finally ready then?”

“Yes. We have already launched the first wave; they should be hitting the Moon in about” – Sigurd looked at his watch – “five minutes.”

Anja blinked. “Launched? Without authorisation from the Cabinet? Wait, wait. Transit time to the Moon is not a question of minutes. How can you have launched without alerting our air defense network?”

Sigurd grinned broadly. “Ah, that’s the genius of it! Rockets, as you point out, tend to alert the enemy, especially when the flight time is around 30 hours. And who knows what the Moon-Georgians might cook up in retaliation while they waited for the impacts? So the Dovre-Ynglings came up with a new plan, one that doesn’t rely on missiles. Bred for brains, you know; in hindsight, spending all that industrial effort on developing our rocket technologies was a mistake, we should have just planned to get the finest Dovre geniuses to come up with a solution.”

Anja relaxed slightly. “Well, as relieved as I am to hear that you haven’t single-handedly started the first interplanetary nuclear exchange and put every missile-detection network on Earth on red alert… Just what the devil did you ‘launch’, then?”

Sigurd threw out his arms, still grinning. “Peace, love, and universal brotherhood!” He advanced as though to hug her; Anja recoiled in horror, and he desisted. At this closer range, though, she caught a whiff of something sweet, slightly smoky… “Sigurd,” she asked cautiously, “what are you smoking?”

“Just what I said, babe: Peace and brotherhood! It’s obvious – to get to the Moon, first you gotta get high! Listen. At Dovre, the rocket base lies empty; that’s all old-fashioned, phallocentric as they say. The Dovre-women have taken over, and they’ve got the solution: Biology is destiny, especially for Ynglings! Dig it for victory! They’ve been running a breeding program on the side – not humans – mah-ree-hu-anna plants. And wheeee, when we Ynglings set out to breed for a wanted quality we don’t mess about! That stuff is powerful. It’ll lift you or me right into orbit. But for the big-brained Dovre Ynglings, it’ll do even more. It’s a powerful psychic enhancer! Two hours ago, five thousand Ynglings – the biggest brains of their generation – each fired up a mongo spliff, and set out to think victory thoughts. Right now the first brotherhood brain-waves are getting to the Moon. By the time the Moon-Georgians realise what hit them, they’ll be so blissed out, the second wave can teleport right in – they should be firing up now – and just give them a peace sign, and that’ll be it! Anyone tries to give a war after that, nobody will show up; why harsh the mellow with a bad scene like that?”

Anja stared, speechless. Sigurd’s grin grew, if possible, even more broad. “Yeah, we figured you might have some trouble getting your head around that. You’ve been having a bad trip for twenty years now! So has most of Norway, in fact. So don’t worry, we’ve got your therapy right here!” He gestured, and a Dovre-Yngling appeared. Anja blinked; she was fairly confident he had been there all along, he certainly hadn’t walked in the door, but how the devil had he avoided her notice? Especially since – her nose wrinkled – the scent of the enormous joint he was smoking – as long as her arm! – was overpoweringly sweet?

“Yo, sister,” he intoned. “You gotta go with the flow, dig? There’s no percentage in aggro. Catch a brainwave and you’ll feel better!” He made a little throwing gesture in her direction, and to her surprise she did indeed feel better. In fact, she couldn’t quite remember what the problem had been. Something about a war? Not a good idea, probably. The Dovre-Yngling handed her the joint, and she took it unhesitatingly and dragged smoke deep into her lungs.

The effect was immediate; Sigurd had not been speaking metaphorically when he said it would launch her into orbit. She was still vaguely aware of her body sitting in the meeting room with Sigurd and the Dovre-Yngling; but her consciousness was, in fact, in Low Earth Orbit somewhere over the North Sea, watching the enormous column of pink peace-waves rise from Dovre and head for the Moon. She could see, however, that there was no serious resistance now; this wasn’t a struggle to overcome a transhuman ability to withstand outside psychic influence, it was a celebration of newfound brotherhood. The Moon was broadcasting something not readily translatable into words, but which in her exalted state she had no difficulty understanding as “Oh yeah, man! That stuff is good shit! Hey, we surrender, whatever, but we gotta have some of that leaf!”

After a while, she became aware that Sigurd was speaking, or at any rate communicating, not with her but with the massed psychic warriors at Dovre. “So yeah, guys, so far so good, but I’m getting the munchies. How about that third wave, so we can wrap this up and get some food?”

———————————-

In retrospect, the Maybe-Half-an-Hour, Could-be-Forty-Minutes War was an obvious solution to a longstanding social problem, namely, how does the world deal with having a lot of long-bearded Ynglings who want to rule it? The beards, indeed, should have been a powerful hint in themselves. One can view the Ynglings as warriors and soldiers whose self-image depends on manliness and courage; or as filthy stinking hippies. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m pretty sure I showered this morning, but hey, that’s just me. Whatever works best for you, man.) It took the brilliance of some anonymous Dovre-Yngling to realise that the second option was not only more, like, peaceful and shit, it also offered the means for a bloodless victory. By the simple expedient of broadcasting peaceful brain-waves into the capital of every Great Power, the Ynglings fulfilled their millennial ambition of taking over the world, since nobody who had experienced what they could do wanted to be the one to, like, harsh it up with tanks and missiles and stuff.

Now there are some carping critics – some people just don’t have the brain-space to get with it, and that’s ok, everybody is what they are, can’t help the way your brain is built; but no worries, the Ynglings will figure out how to help these poor guys see the light any day now – anyway, as I was saying, some critics have pointed out that once they ruled the world, the Ynglings didn’t seem to do a lot with it, with the obvious exception of the Cookie Tribute. Well, personally I feel that the organisation of the huge fleet of tribute ships that transports cookies (and some other kinds of munchies) from all over the world to Dovre is quite a feat, logistically, but yeah, they may have a point. But the thing is, who cares? I mean, I guess the Storting could give orders and people all over the world would do whatever it was, at least in a while. Maybe tomorrow. Because it would be kinda lame not to, you know? And if that’s not what it means to rule the world, well then what is? But the point is, why would anyone want to harsh up the Great Mellow like that? Hey, red flag with a lion or white flag with blue cross, or whatever, it’s all good! That’s the second thing the geniuses from Dovre realised: The point isn’t to have your flag be higher than the other guy’s flag, the point is to mellow the fuck out and just go with the flow, ok? So now we’re just letting it all hang out. And hey, it’s a lot cooler than all that war shiz we used to have. So, y’know, just say yes, right? Fair warning, though: Don’t let anyone see you not inhaling. That sort of stuff could be bad for your health.

History of the Great Mellow,
New Bergen University Press,
1970, or could be 1971, is anyone keeping track of that? Oh well.

———————————-

Mellowed-out Viking art by Foelsgaard:

Hippie Viking

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