The Eternal War, as the Psychological Warfare of the Bureaucratic Feudalist Religion’s fundamentalist ideology, is waged by weaponized institutions, organizations and systems against any and all.
The Eternal War | Doctrine | Systems
Mikel’s seated in one of the handstitched light tan Italian leather and gloss white hard composite backed seats loosely set around a hard composite and high gloss teak table and furnishings of the ACJ350. Seats which pivot 360 degrees silently and fluidly as if on antigravity. All the product of the world’s most advanced and overly priced engineering. The whole seating and productivity area is cleverly underlit to provide the feeling of being in a modern high-end apartment in any of the world’s most expensive luxury apartments.
The only difference is the muffled sound of air rushing past fuselage and through twin engines. Sounds which can’t quite be fully concealed no matter how much money one may have to throw at engineering and materials. None of it much appeals to Mikel. His tastes going more to the old, the historical, to natural materials, dark leathers, fabrics and woods. To things which had once been infused with life. It’s all rather artificially comfortable here, however, in this setting. He settles back in his seat aboard the watcher’s Airbus, as it soars through an ethereal evening sky, the borders of Iran and Pakistan tens of thousands of feet below. He can’t help but think, might as well enjoy comforts where and when you can.
His tall and heavy frame, impeccably clad in a Savile Row bespoke charcoal-gray suit, expertly tailored to accentuate his athletically sculpted frame, exudes a sophistication and power he’s just now, in his early thirties, coming into. Two decades since the poverty of the orphanage in Italy. The crisp white shirt beneath his suit, flawlessly fitted, emits an air of casual refinement, despite hiding a frame scared and built for fighting. The look topped off with a luxurious silk tie, tastefully adorned with a discreet eagle pattern subtly woven into the fabric, the merest hints to his heritage. All of it denoting an impeccable attention to detail had become his nature. Not unlike his father now long dead.
“It would seem we come to this same impasse in roughly eighty-to-one-hundred-year repeat cycles. Like clockwork.” Mikel continues, lightly sloshing about two fingers of single malt, descendent of ol’Archibald Mitchell, in the Wexford snifter in hand.
“Why do you think that is?” The elder gentleman, the watcher, who’d come to take him from the orphanage in Turin almost exactly two decades ago. The old man who’d whispered in the language that Mikel still keeps secret from the world. His watcher dressed impeccably in a tailored navy-blue suit that speaks to his years of experience and wisdom, emits an aura of timelessness. His silver hair, meticulously groomed, shines in the under and backsplash lighting of the jet's interior. He’s changed little over the years, the lines only a little more etched on his face, tell stories of a life stained with knowledge, experiences and secrets, of the dark sort. To say nothing of the manner in which his suit coat’s been tailored so as to nearly, but not perfectly, hide the shoulder rig with gun and spare magazines he yet carries.
On this flight back from Monaco to Singapore, seated across from each other in plush leather armchairs, Mikel and his watcher are sharing a glass, neat, of amber hued Springbank One Hundred and Seventy Fifth Anniversary, twelve year. Its aroma crisp and clear in the recycled and heavily filtered air of the cabin. Mikel leans forward, exuding an earned confidence as he prepares to share his thoughts with careful eloquence, with precision. His gestures having become measured and purposeful over the years, underlining the substance behind his habit of carefully placing his words. The watcher, his eyes quite aware yet dull with years and a certain natural distance, sits back unmoved by the bulk and readiness of Mikel as he leans onto the table. The watcher listens, recognizing all the subtle and not so subtle changes in Mikel.
“I think takers get to a point where they can no longer steal any more from current and future generations. Nor can they, anymore, hide all the secrets of dark deeds of their own and the previous two generations that setup and launched the current criminal regime. In order to ensure the full truth is never known, nor any direct reaction to their theft and usury is mounted. Heaven forbid to restore anything resembling commons. They drive the entire world to war. And if they can’t get this, well, then they go for civil wars. All to prevent the oligarchs and people from exacting punishment and recompence.”
“Is the Westphalian world come to its end then?” The watcher, quite interested to know where this still young man, whose fate is yet uncertain, is going with this line of thinking. A young man whose mortal fate, unknowingly, remains in the watcher and the organization’s hands.
“The treaties of Innsbruck and Muenster and the international rules-based order emerged from these, virtualized warfare. Allowing for the taking of assets through legal and economic competition rather than through purely physical capture.” Mikel pauses, as his mind seeks to grasp what his guardian is seeking for him to understand.
“To what purpose were these treaties come to?”
“The ownership of assets was never assured, due to the constant warfare which ensured the ownership of lands and estates and related assets changed hands regularly. To say nothing of all the assets which were destroyed in the fighting and all the value never realized as so much of the economies and finances of Europe went into war instead of investment into productivity.”
“And the commons?”
“The Westphalian world order ensured the commons would become the possession of bankers and the newly emerging power of industrialists though this would require the weakening and eventual destruction of the Nobility.” Mikel swishes then takes a pull on the scotch in hand. Looking out the window to the sky which is darkening. The sun having recently gone beyond the horizon.
“At least some powerful members of the nobility would have remained as defenders of local peoples. But many of the nobility stole the commons first. Then sold it off to the bankers and industrialists to sustain their power and lifestyles.” The watcher puts forward. Lifting his chin at the end of his statement, identifying for Mikel that he need express his understanding.
“Yes. Much of the nobility, to keep up with the wealth of the bankers and industrialists, as the economies of Europe and the UK shifted from warfare to business and finance, stole and sold the commons. Breaking a most ancient bond between the people and the aristocracy.”
“And the people?”
“The people were forced to starve or to indenture themselves in urban centers, make of themselves wage slaves to the industrialists. All of which fed the bureaucracies and bureaucratic institutions and state the industrialists established to manage the people’s lives, the aristocracy no longer bearing such burden.”
“There must have been some aristocrats and members of the nobility who did not steal the commons, who adapted and ensured their people could remain on the land of their ancestors.”
“Yes. These and others of the aristocracy who fought for the people in the new industrial driven world, well, most of them died in WWI. Which was perhaps the exact reason for WWI, to finally and permanently break the back of the aristocracy. To ensure there was no option for the people but to go willingly into the many factories of the industrialists, bankers and the financiers who supported and lived off them. To willingly participate in the usurious illusion of liberal democracy.”
“All the old empires of Europe and their aristocracies, healthy or not, killed off in a great raging war. Though it failed to fully end the British Empire.” It’s the watcher’s time to sip his scotch.
“The British crown has been held by a puppet of the bankers and industrialists since the late sixteen hundreds. No friend or ally to the historic British aristocracy and Nobility. In fact, as foreigners, Danes and Germans, not really fully members of the British aristocracy and Nobility. The British royal family is maintained almost solely to provide legitimacy to the bureaucratic state of the UK, and the bankers and industrialists who own it.” Or so it has seemed to Mikel.
He also can’t shake the sense the Crowns of Europe sold themselves to the industrialists and bankers, sought to have their thrones, though not their titles, rights and privileges, their wealth, removed. So they no longer had to bear the burden of ruling. Of course, all of this at the cost of the Nobility which had to be destroyed in WWI and what remained in WWII. Or the sale of the empires to industrialists could never have been realized. Of course, his own ancestors, having refused to participate, to end Nobility and monarchy, to bring about the end of empire, were couped, arrested and held before being taken into the forests where they were shot and buried. The unceremonious end to the great thousand year empire of the North.
In this setting, the stark and yet rich environment of the main seating area of the cabin, the contrast between youth and experience, vigor and sagacity, the difference in intensity between the two men, is palpable. This exchange, like others before it, carries an air of mutual respect and admiration, blending the knowledge of time with the brilliant dynamism of the present. There’s mutual respect here, though at a distance, as Mikel’s never once heard the name of his watcher in the two decades since first meeting. Nor of any of the members of the security detail which have changed regularly over the years since the orphanage and the academy, the years of university and career after.
“WWI ushers in the era of the bureaucratic feudalists state. And in the British Empire at least, a paper King is sustained to provide this extractive bureaucracy and its owners with the legitimacy they lack across the globe spanning empire.” The watcher continues as Mikel pours another couple fingers from the unstopped bottle. “To say nothing of continued influence and power over the former colonies of the US through the power and control of the City of London.”
Since his economics masters studies in Austria years prior, prior to being brought into investment banking at Barclays in Singapore. Mikel had been studying the financial system through all of this, from the early sixteen hundreds up through to the current day. Starting in the late eighteen hundreds all of this being fueled ever more, increasingly taken global, through the advent and increasing utilization of synthetic instruments in the Capital Markets, through the ever-increasing utilization of derivatives and debt. Extractive debt.
Not the kind of debt sustains economic systems and allows for growth and survival through cycles. No, the kind of debt steals the returns on the productivity of future generations, borrows against the future with less and less capacity to repay. In fact, with less and less intent to repay. Yet another theft of the commons. Even less accountably so than that of the aristocracy and industrialists across the seventeen and eighteen hundreds. Far more dark in its implications, as unpayable debts, social obligation contracts, have been increasingly excused in bloody wars, through activation of the force majeure clause in contracts. Liquidating liabilities being the slaughter of hundreds of thousands and millions, tens of millions and more.
“The dominance of Computational Capital, algorithmic finance, the modern equivalent of the alchemist’s dream, I fear, will lead to some very dark futures for much of humanity.” Mikel states, deeply, looking down to the scotch whiskey swirling around in his glass, his wrist rotating in just such a fashion as to keep the liquid moving but not sloshing out. “Now they've enough unearned Capital, trading in the system, stolen from far into the future. They will move to reduce populations. Dramatically.”
“Surest way to not have to repay debts stolen from current and future generations, is to remove them. Even better, to have them remove themselves.” This young man goes deep and is a thinker. But, his thinking will have to be shaped properly. His mind and reasoning are going to places very much like those of his father’s before him, and his royal ancestors of more than a century past. And while the watcher is disconnected from, he still admires the pluck, courage and work ethic of this young man he’d recovered from the orphanage and set on a very different path. But still, this thinking, unchecked, leads to deathly explosions in the night. Just as that which had taken his family and cast a very young Mikel – Peter - out into the cold hard world alone as a mere child.
“I never really understood the role and purpose of the talkers, the petty and excess elites, the talking class as I like to call them. Until just now.” Mikel smiles ruefully as he looks the old man in the eyes, downs what whiskey remains in his glass. Then continues. “They keep men of action from rising up. Their incessant talking confuses and obfuscates everything, prevents potential oligarch or people derived leaders from emerging.”
“And when and where and how necessary. Ensures the conflicts purposefully fostered and fed amongst humanity spill out into the streets. A spilling out in the shedding of others blood.” The watcher replies, looking Mikel fully in the eyes. Emotionlessly, cold and hard and fully in his role as teacher to those of such station as Mikel is, or may be one day.
“There’s a fatal flaw though.”
“Great houses will always war with one another, and the bureaucratic feudalist state will always war with them.” The watcher, recognizing where Mikel is going with this thought. “Yes. At some point, inevitably, the oligarchs will defeat the state. And then they will have to elevate a King from among them. A first amongst peers. To arbitrate.”
Mikel motions with his empty glass for his Singaporean Chinese assistant. He needs another couple fingers of this marvelously rich and warm scotch. They’re yet hours away from Singapore and this is going to be a dialogue. So it would seem.
Atbin, commander of The Order’s Singapore site, grins silently, internally, no trace of it nor any emotion rising to the level where it would show upon his aging rounded Indian face. It had taken two years of careful maneuvering and manipulation to get Olivia in the path of Mikel, at exactly the right time, in exactly the right way. A dame in The Order and member of Singapore’s most prominent and powerful family. Nobility, old matrilineal lines, not only being those of specific European titles and lineages, but of the biodata heritage of the entire world. Many of The Orders members, such as Oliva Lee, being also the descendants and relatives of modern oligarchs from all corners of the world.
Two more years of building trust and a professional yet personal relationship between them, as Mikel worked his way up in Barclays, she his personal assistant. Two years of small contributions of thought from her, from her own old family knowing, and coached by the team at the Singapore site, Atbin and his team. All leading Mikel slowly, subtly down a pathway of discovery. All the while being immensely careful not to arouse the suspicion of the watcher and local assets of the organization, the Royal’s Fund, as they shadowed Mikel’s every movement and interaction. Watching for the sins of his father, of his royal ancestors, in him.
“When Peter continued, the watcher’s reaction to this line of dialogue, was to close off and remove himself?” Atbin asks. Olivia having been trained to attenuate her already quite well-developed abilities to read that ninety percent of communication which is unspoken language, was perfectly suited to answer this type of question.
“I took a distinct tone of danger from it.” Olivia, sensing back through the conversation.
“But of course. There is very real danger.” Mikel, Peter as The Order recognized him, was beginning to skirt the very sin killed his parents and siblings. That had sought to kill him along with them. The sin of waking up to the post-monarchy, liberal democracy, lie. The watcher, himself of Dutch and Russian nobility, tasked with ensuring his ward moves on and up in investment banking, the path chosen. To stay away from anything resembling royal responsibilities and duty to one’s people.
The organization, tasked with ensuring members of the old noble houses of Europe are coddled, comfortable and removed enough from the people to never fully see the extortion, usury and extraction of their daily lives. Threatened enough with the burden and violence had so encumbered their ancestors in the age of monarchy and empire. Never to know, to be known by, to form bonds with all those masses who had once been their people. Never to pose a threat to the bureaucratic feudalist state and its all-encompassing “legitimized” slaver grift.
Olivia had been directed to covertly, oh so subtly, orient Mikel’s financial analysis to the pending population collapse, the impact of such upon all things. Not the least of, upon the global financial system and the tenuous balance of power maintained by such. Demographics yet that irremovable force drives and controls all things. Population decline, historically, not leading to sustainability and a lessening of crime, violence and war. No, quite the opposite.
This latest visit from the watcher, this weekend just completed in Monaco, ensconced unknowingly in the shaping arms of the organization, the comforts of elite living supported through the profits of the Royals Fund. It had been prompted by an analysis Mikel had developed, of his own accord, over a six-month period for Barclay’s industrial real estate practice. A copy of which Olivia had early provided to Atbin in the Singapore site. Report and analysis he’d forwarded on to the analysts of The Order. There were models put forward in it that the statisticians of The Order had wanted to test, as they fell outside their own, with interesting concepts put forward in computational form.
Mikel’s study had detailed the collapse of the US dollar system, the global system, far more the inevitable result of inescapable and irreversible population decline than any other single factor. With the first asset class to be most deflationarily impacted being commercial and then industrial real estate. He’d gone on further however to model urban centers becoming ghettos, attracting in the criminal, the addicts and the insane and the perverts and predators, being housed in formerly commercial real estate repurposed to the need. All of it supported with lax law enforcement, any perversion goes lifestyle protections and provisioning supported through government and non-profit subsidies. Not enough subsidies to get healthy, to recover, to escape, just enough to attract and retain large numbers of dangerous and broken people. Voters.
This hellscape of living for an increasing number of the populace made ever more desperate, and who gives a shit, through the steady decline, contraction and further polarization of wealth, all supported through the taxation of the commons outside the cities. Taxation of those who flee the cities for suburbs and rural living. This all made possible and sustainable through the increasingly larger voting pool in the ghetto cities. Their population numbers perpetually providing a disproportionate disengaged voting block at the state and nation state level due to proportionally representative governance.
Portions of which taxation would flow back into the ghetto cities to keep it all going. To sustain the bureaucratic state in its power to take and extort. Flood the cities with immigrants who're given a nebulous status that doesn't give them independence, fully enfranchised citizenship, but which allows them to vote and to be counted for congressional districting and apportionment in congress, as well as ever increasing funding for their maintenance which can be plundered and laundered back to politicians, political parties, et al. The ancient pattern of republican and democratic rot brings down all such representative governments and regimes throughout history.
All the freed-up enforcement capabilities of municipalities, counties, states and nation states, used to harass, extort and control law abiding citizens living in the suburbs and in rural areas. Not in large numbers at any given place or time, not in any specific pattern. In no way as to be obvious. But in total, in aggregate, vast and substantial. Should any community decide to rebel, to break away or push back against the absolute usury and abuse, they would be crushed and put back in their place. Through the use of gangs, cartels, and if need be, state level law enforcement and even militaries. But even this, never in such a way as to draw the attention of enough communities as to spark a general uprising. Something which would require domination and control and total pollution of the information space.
Atbin again smiles to himself, and this time such Olivia can see. Mikel had not of course worded his report in anything resembling this language. He’d understood the political thing to state, the corporate double speak, the banking slight of linguistics implied these things to the financially literate. Yes. Olivia is quite right. Mikel is in danger! There’s been a pattern showing in his reasoning and actions. This not the result of any culturing by The Order. However, it's a pattern those trained in The Order, those who’ve gone through the ordeal recognize. Nobility!
In the modern age, the one slipping away rapidly. There’s no greater danger than that faced by a Prince who wakes to his responsibility to and for his People. The need to stand and fight the bureaucratic state and those great houses created by it or benefitting from and supporting it. A capable and charismatic Prince bent on breaking the slavery grift system, monopolies, which keep his people enslaved to an unaccountable bureaucratic feudalist state. It was this very thing found his ancestors with bullets in their heads, left in shallow graves for the wolves to dispose of.
The Order would have to increase close in observations of Mikel. Of this Peter Romanov! “Ensure he hires the two housekeepers we’ve positioned.” Atbin instructs Olivia. Ensuring she understands the gravity of the situation by pausing and looking her straight in the eyes with the aged wisdom of a Senior Commander of The Order and direct descendant of ancient Kshatriya family.
“I’ve also begun regular casual conversations with the doormen we placed in the building.” Olivia states. Letting Atbin know she’s already increasing the readiness posture around Mikel. He should not forget, her ancestors are also nobility, even if informal, and they too know the ways of real power. Murder being top of that list.
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