People Of A Faraway Land

A People Who Were A Breed Apart, on Earth And Beyond

orbital foundries reworking metal ice harvests from packet-ships sling-shotted in from the Jovian

deep-ships trawling energy-optimal routes between Venus and Belt

sleep-ships nudged by iondrivers in the deep dark

slow-ships of wealthy w/solarsails

people of a new faraway land

There is a future ahead now, impossible for us to truly feel even if understood.

Over two centuries ago, a society built on whaling enjoyed a brief history as a breed apart. A self-styled exceptional society rose and fell in the 19th century on the island of Nantucket, which meant "Faraway Land" in the native Wampanoag.

Soon after their arrival in 1659, Englishmen who exhausted the island with their herds had set their eyes on a new "Faraway", past treacherous local waters, and at the deep sea with a dark bounty.

Whales would be their new harvest.

Whaling at its height in the 19th century rose to supply nearly a fifth of the North American economy.

At their peak, the whalers enjoyed a prosperity - an 18/19th century mashup of "East India Company"-style colonialism, "Nifty Fifty" - "FANGs" economic dominance. But it ended, whale oil was disrupted by “rock oil”. The work was risky but the returns of whaling investors were like the venture capital of their day.

Lots of losses and a handful of winners made a fortune for those who invested in the ships. Their ledgers probably should have had a preface of "Call Me Pareto".

Over two centuries from now, a society built on spacing will enjoy a brief history as a breed apart from those at home.

They will be in orbital foundries reworking the raw metal and ice harvest from packet-ships sling-shotted in from the Jovian colonies, working off contracts on the deep-ships that trawl energy-optimal paths between Venus and the asteroid belt, braving the first great sleep-ships that go even further out, nudged along by ion drivers, or cruising on slow gliding-ships with solar sails.

They will put in to call at home ports, embrace old friends at passport control at Lagrange point stations, like the ancient whalers, or retire after years of vacuum, radiation and low-g.

There is only so much can be healed by nanos, or work done by implants. They are the great-great-grandhchildren of restless Earthers with stars imprinted on their soul-software, hard-coded in their songs. Mountains of wealth will be credited to widows’ accounts should something go wrong in the endless night of a never-ending sea.

They are a people of a new "faraway land".