Monday, 30th September 2019

Caledonian Cloud Computer

Text by: 

Ian Macartney

Photo by: 
Photo by Joshua Sortino on Unsplash

After the results of the third referendum were declared unreliable, a clean 50/50, virtuality saved the day.

          Independent Scotland was now of the mind, dreamed and devised via algorithm. In houses across the country, Aberdeen to Edinburgh to West Calder, those cuboids glowed black, humming fantasy into function. If a citizen dissatisfied with the old system tired of the gruel-grey sky of this Scotland, trapped in a union, they could slip inside their obelisk and let the velvet padding take them to a crackling dream.

          All secessionist thought was connected, here.
Green glades, amethyst bursts of heather over egg-pale mountains, the bistre hills. The new capital vibrated with its own simulation, glittering spires of pewter and sandstone, granite in some quarters.

          So there was peace. One half of the country absconded, became pure electricity, their inner socialism working magic on a grid of numbers. The others were left to wander dead pubs, worse streets, absent argument.

          The escapist half remained in machines; they gripped their syringes tighter. Anything but rainy skies. In their meadows the sun was always shining, blocky blades swaying to, then fro. Neo-Glasgow buzzed with crimeless life. Beautiful forever, the infinite goal reached, then reaching, further, then more. The ideal society.

          After ten silent months Westminster ordered the cuboids to be ripped open. Scotland smelt of mulch for weeks - half the country had become greenish blobs of soil. But were their minds light? Did bodiless conscience glide above a manifested dream, enthralled in the realisation of what could have been? It was too close to call.