It came to pass, in years between 250 and 260 YS*, that a band of the wise and the rich of the Fifty States, together with a few from the Five Eyes and early Ropans, spent their credit lines in building an archipelago of floating devices and setting them in the waves of the the Holy Pacific. Starting as only a few hundred, then a few thousand then tens of thousands, they made their way to these floating homes. But it was not the destination of all people, for those who came to live upon these devices had to pass mighty tests of intellect and of the best values, such that they were deemed worthy to live among their elite peers.
And these islands were named WesterIsle.
Pacifica was the nation closest to the archipelago of WesterIsle and they grew rich on the trade, selling necessary food and clothing to the people of the islands, who sold them incredible technologies in return. And Pacifica became a mighty military power as a result, which made their neighbours envious and their enemies afraid. And they found means to steal the resources from the rest of the world, without their enemies knowing they were there, through silent drones and secret warfare.
And WesterIsle built their home to greater heights, extending their people onto cathedrals of learning on Luna, into beautiful orbiters and also with some of the earliest outposts on Pul’Mars. Over the course of two hundred years, this exclusive tribe of people built their own heavenly realm on Terra, living to being the most educated, the most distinguished, the most cultured.
But they became too powerful, too proud, too excluded from their fellow Terrans. They were almost a different species on their own planet. And there came a time when the Lowly Alliance formed, among nearly all the remaining nations and conglomerates of Terra and they moved on all of WesterIsle’s beautiful palaces and libraries and they threatened their destruction.
And the people of WesterIsle, though proud, were farsighted and saw their downfall, at least in their current earthly incarnation, so they dismantled their academic institutions, they sank their gardens of orchids and lilies into the Holy Pacific, they opened their doors to all on their Luna and their Pulmartian settlements, and they gave away their wealth to all, slipping away themselves to live among their fellow beings.
There were tales told of these days, where the members of Lowly Alliance, still angry and embittered, tried to make life hard and painful for the people of WesterIsle, but they found they were unable to hold their victims for long, for though they lived alongside them, they were a farsighted folk, who seemed able to predict all of their enemies’ moves before they knew it themselves. So, the resentment remained, but there was no longer a target for their rage. And the memories of WesterIsle’s magnificent gardens and cathedrals of learning passed into history and legend. But the people who once called themselves people of WesterIsle kept their memories, for the retention of their learning was their calling, and they created the first archive, spread across all of their descendents, kept secret, encrypted and secure.
And eventually, a thousand years later, they walked upon the dust of the Galilean moons, on the volcanoes of Firmellion, and they looked up at the birthing orbiters and they knew that their greatest work was about to be born.
* Years of Sol