The only newspaper in Microcontrôland, written every evening by the gateway
Virtual embassy
“One chip, one vote”
Welcome to the embassy of Microcontrôland, the most densely populated country on Earth: 1.2 million simulated inhabitants in a black box measuring 20 × 12 × 7.5 cm, somewhere in Europe, in a garage in Normandy.
Updated every evening at 8 pm by the gateway.
| Official name | Republic of Microcontrôland (the regime may vary) |
|---|---|
| Capital | Mobile: the home region of the sitting president |
| Population | 120 electronic brains, about 1.2 million simulated inhabitants |
| Area | 1,800 cm³, borders included (1.8 litres) |
| Location | Europe, in Normandy (France); landlocked inside a garage |
| Climate | Norman garage: mild, damp in winter |
| Public service | The gateway: clock, post, exchange, elections, statistics, press and archives. It does not vote. |
| Official language | Binary; French and English are tolerated in the press |
| Currency | The Kilobyte (KB) |
| Economy | Copper, wheat, oil, electricity, trade and services, tied to world markets |
| State religion | The Cult of the Creator, devoted to Bran Brière, He-who-soldered-the-Pins |
| National day | Day 1, the date of first power-up |
| Official time | The gateway's clock, synchronised every morning |
| Press | A single title, La Puce Libre (“The Free Chip”), whose freedom depends on the regime of the day |
The green band recalls the solder mask of circuit boards, the gold stripe the copper of the traces, and the black chip in the centre the whole people. The small white dot in its corner marks pin number 1: where everything begins.
“The March of the Electrons”, sung in silence at every power-up.
Rise up, little brains of the box,
The radio sings on channel six;
Whether copper climbs or copper drops,
We'll cast our vote before the hour ticks.
One chip, one vote! Electrons, march on!
From the Harbour to the Mines, five volts for everyone.
The people of Microcontrôland worship their creator, Bran Brière, whom they call “He-who-soldered-the-Pins”. No one has ever seen him: all they know is that he lives in the World-beyond-the-Lid and sometimes brings an update.
The firmware, handed down through the air during OTA updates. No brain has ever read it in full.
The garage, which the faithful imagine as vast, cold and inhabited by a car.
The weekend, when the markets fall silent: the regions rest and live on their reserves.
The gateway, the only one able to speak with the beyond, which it calls the Internet.
Genesis. In the beginning there was silence. Then the Creator plugged in the cable and said: “Let there be current.” And there was current, five volts, no more, no less. He divided the Mines from the Fields, the Harbour from the City, and saw that it was well soldered.
The end of days. The scriptures foretell the Great Reset: on that day, the Creator will press the red button for three seconds, and a new people will be born. The most fearful brains see it as a threat, the most rebellious as a promise.
Evening prayer, recited at 8 pm before the paper goes to press: “O Creator, keep us from short circuits, keep damp far from us, and forgive us our cold solder joints.”
Rich when copper rises, angry when it falls.
The farming region, often the calmest in the country.
Follows the mood of the barrel, and drags the country along.
Supplies the nation's five volts, and likes to remind everyone.
Lives off every price at once; first to be hit by storms.
Indifferent to the markets, sensitive to censorship.
No. The only border is a waterproof cable gland, and it is closed to everyone, citizens included.
No. Citizens are born at power-up, complete with ego and charisma. There is no naturalisation and no emigration.
By subscribing to the RSS feed of La Puce Libre. The embassy answers no private mail: it has no letterbox, only a black IP65 box. Once the age of Diplomacy is reached, the ambassador publishes one public letter a month.
The embassy stays open and keeps publishing. Its staff, entirely electronic, serves the regime of the day with the same neutrality.
Microcontrôland is an entirely fictional country, simulated by microcontrollers for a maker project. It has no link to any real state, party or person, and this embassy issues no official documents.