The Medieval Internet

Many summers have passed since humankind ventured out from the garden and into the TCP/IP, our eyes wide and our hearts open. Marveled, did we, at the Geocities sites that the kind Pathfinder Jeeves shepherded us along as we stumbled bravely into the wilderness.

But alas, we would find such untamed wilderness unkind. Knaves and miscreants, beasts and demons lurked behind every NAT, shadowed in the darknet, waiting to strike. Fearing that the light armor that leathersmith Gates fabricated for our quest might prove unsuitable to our protection from such foes, we sought out the safety of lands owned by Lord Bezos, the fellowship of Spacemaker Tom, and put our trust in Wayfarer Sergey. Those early summers, they warded off the demons with ease. Even mercenaries like Norton and McAfee did not so much as draw an ale from their taverns, for their kind, there was not a cent to be found.

Many a moon passed, Spacemaker Tom fell out of fashion as his guild struggled to rally the journeymen to his cause. Drawn were we instead to tales of the gleemen and minstrels in the spare, opulent halls of Overlord Zuckerburg. Even then it was knownst that such buskers were unpaid by his Royal Zuckiness, that Wayfarer Sergey was becoming as learned in the ways of the peasants as he was in the lands themselves, and that Lord Bezos had forced many a stationer to abandon the profession. When Duke Steve of Jobs arrived, promising each peasant a tome that could safely conjure the finest magics of wizards from every corner of realm, the wizards, so awestruck by the audacity of Sir Steve, rallied at the opportunity to tithe to the Duke in exchange for such access to the peasants.

And as the days passed, the Trojans failing to appear at the gates, the rumored rootkits buried deep in the kernel-forged foundations failing to awaken, we became complacent, at ease in the fiefdoms. So self-interested were we in staying in the relative safety of the gleeman, the wayfarers and the lords, that we failed to notice when we became bards and fiddlers in their service ourselves.

Dark are the days in which we now find ourselves. With each passing moon, Wayfarer Sergey’s apprentice, Lord Sundar, directs fewer traders to market towns, starving the legitimate chapmen and the greedy click-charmers alike. Lord Bezos's greed went far beyond the scribes and stationers: now, even mercers, grocers, hucksters, and haberdashers have been pressed into his lordship, tithing from their sales into his coffers. Overlord Zuckerburg, having promised merchants unending profits from his troop of unpaid bards and fiddlers, requests higher and higher tributes from them even as the fiddlers are replaced by mindless automatons of His Royal Zuckiness’s own algorithmic alchemy. Weary are we, as these few lords, steeped in their greed and their lust for power, extract and swindle each of us more and more as the days wear on.

But fear not! For there are those who made the wilderness their home from the earliest days: taming pythons, forging gems from ruby rails, and raising phoenixes. Even now, while the lords tighten their grip on their vassals, these wilderness natives await wanderers seeking a brave new world with open hands and open source. The Brotherhood of the Kernel, comprised as it is of journeymen chasing quests of heart, is an unruly bunch, squabbling when their passions find themselves at odds, but their life's toil has been prolific, never before seen in all the realms. Artificers, reforgemasters, bridge-smiths, and rune-wrights have tamed, forked, and reforged the old alchemy and summoned magic enough for every peasant to wield sorcery sufficient to divine their own sovereignty in the silicon wilderness.

The devil lords charm you with their convenience. So easy is it to seek out Lord Bezos with his horde of tradesmen bringing wares from afar for nigh a pittance. Tithing to the Fiefdom of Spotify for the songs of the greatest bards of the age barely feels a bother, even as they warp your mind with their dark magic, passing you to the bards commanding the least silver. But these charms seek only to enshroud the realm in a darkness where wealth surrounds the lords and the peasants must tithe to their fief to avail themselves of such wares that were once purchasable outright.

Weary traveler, I pray you seek to guard thine own sovereignty rather than tithe to the fiefdoms. Discharge the extra silver for parchment that Lord Bezos cannot seize when he tires of his rights management. Feel the weight of a video disc in your fingers, if only for a moment, rather than pledge your fealty to the Sony Empire. In wares both hard and soft, choose that which Terms of Service can nigh thieve from you nor bestow upon you unwanted eyes or automatons. Only in ownership of thyself and thy wares, disconnected from the dark alchemy of the feudal lords, can you dethrone those same lords that seek to own you.

Prophets from another dimension have foretold of grandiose ideals wherein the peasants rise up in mutual interest and rule themselves, commanding the limited domains as a deliberative collective. Such a body, novel as it may seem, could force the lords to comply to their will. Imagine a world where Lord Bezos meddlesome interventions with the haberdashers were outlawed, and the haberdashers, hard working as they are, kept their coin. Imagine a world where the bards in the Fiefdom of Spotify earned enough to make a living wage. Imagine a beautiful world with a greater diversity of haberdashers and bards, stationers and tome builders where good ideas stood a chance on their own.

Just beginning, are we, in the lifecycle of this world wide web. I fear a dark ages ahead where the lords will crush the peasants in their endless lust for power. But maybe, one day, a government for the people, by the people, can rule over the TCP/IP, bringing peace and prosperity where now there is only greed and barbaric power.