I was just six years old when I discovered my fondness for evisceration. I was sitting in the garden of a gamekeeper’s lodge on the grounds of Blackstone Manor my father rented for the summer: an old cottage with overgrown ivy covering much of its fascia. A floral arch rose over the front door porch, which itself was a paean to a glory long lost to antiquity: large, solid heavy wood, probably oak, with brass furniture, and gloss black paint.
Space is at a premium. At least it is when you are the pilot of a packet-ship.
I am iDen 20786433717/190. One-ninety to you, pilot first-class. It is my job to convey the orders of The Agreement to extra-solar installations on the tether end of the information relay artery. We can only transmit detailed instructions the old-fashioned way. That’s by carrying half a tonne of code-embedded crystal through the redlines in a physical ship.
It is all about bandwidth. Out here, on the periphery, bandwidth is narrow. Why not build more routers? Easy. They wouldn’t work. Bandwidth is inversely proportional to the distance from the hub in redline-space.
Most of us browse the net on our phones while on the loo. Twitter, Facebook, and in my case RugbyRebels.co.uk. It seems to have taken…
