2558 CE Pan­tha­lassa, officially the Pan­tha­las­san Kingdom — they mean it in the “kingdom of life” sense — is Earth’s weirdest and least human country. Stretching lon­gi­tud­in­ally upwards from about the Kermadec Islands to Rotuma and much of former Kiribati, Pan­tha­las­sans are a hugely diverse assortment of sapiens, where even the most tweaked-out Aussie will be called a luddite. This is where animal pro­vo­lu­tion got its proper start, and where they began to fight for their rights rather than being seen as a mere genetic curiosity.

Biodiversity

The Pan­tha­las­san culture’s primary cha­rac­ter­is­tic is doubtless its extreme mor­pho­lo­gi­cal diversity. The national census finds it unseemly to collect figures on the matter, but estimates place the percentage of Pan­tha­las­san citizens with a common human body plan (wood-toned skin, two arms, two legs, nose-breathing, so on) at 13%. For comparison, the next lowest figure among land-dwelling countries is Aus­tra­la­sia’s, at 73%.

The most common alternate morphology is that of the “earth people”, tailed humanoids of about 2½ metres in height whose skin varies from teal to indigo,¹ but even this is only a splash in the melting pot, making up another 19% of Pan­tha­las­sans. The rest of Pan­tha­las­san humanity comes in a dizzying array of radically altered phenotypes; among them are merfolk and partially adapted spacers who spend one year in orbit and another back on the ground.

For the most part, the remainder of Pan­tha­las­san sapiens are provolved animals of various species. (Techno­genic life is by no means unwelcome, and synthiens and biorgs can be found across the country; it is merely a matter of cultural tradition that people around these parts would rather deal with wetware than software.) When “real” pro­vo­lu­tion (no technogen clamps, no endlessly modified humans, no funny business) was first achieved, the Pan­tha­las­san spirit jumped at the chance to make good on the promise to respect all creatures of land, sea, and air. Lacking a native or imported population of large primates, the first provolved Pan­tha­las­sans were a pack of New Guinea singing dogs; their descendants, the lycan Clan Wharton, are prevalent all across the nation’s islands (though less accustomed to sea­stead­ing). Pan­tha­lassa is also a capital of delphin culture, having the largest delphin population per capita² of any state; tens of thousands congregate annually at the centre of Abemama Atoll for the world-famous _c7-_w3752, more palatably branded to humans as the “Ecco Eisteddfod”.

Religion

The bio­di­vers­ity is what one notices when visiting Pan­tha­lassa. It is only when staying in Pan­tha­lassa that one will begin to properly notice the state religion. Now, the origins of the faith are something of a national sore spot for them, so if you, the reader, are using this article as a travel guide, take heed: do not mention what we are about to tell you in polite company. With that in mind: Pandorism, Pan­tha­lassa’s state religion and ethos, is based on a series of early-21st-century science-fiction films by the country’s founding father. They were, at the time, an enormous success, but since then have faded from cultural memory.³

The patriotic Pan­tha­las­san will, if this is brought up, acknowledge that Pandorism indeed started as mere utopian fiction — but only Pan­tha­lassa had the technology to make it real. “Eywa”, the gestalt of the back 1% of every Pan­tha­las­san’s brain-power, is the national god — but in less theistic terms, it is the national vibe, a loose hive-mind where people can do as they wish but are inexorably affected by the moods of their compatriots, and have a strong urge to protect their environment and make it beautiful. This is why, despite most of them being set in artificial habitats, every town in Pan­tha­lassa is lush with native flora and funga, why the country was so stridently pacifist in the face of the Third World War, and why Pan­tha­las­san society is so diverse.

Economy

The Pan­tha­las­san economy’s main draw is Iho, its centrally located spacelift. Spacelifts aren’t too fashionable these days, and even at the time of Iho’s construction they were quickly going out of style; however, there exists a certain type of spacer who, once they have experienced their first jostling by skyhook, will take one look at the leisurely pace of a spacelift’s cargovator and never look back. It is that demographic which the Pan­tha­las­san authorities have relentlessly catered to; if a port, of all things, can be said to have a cult following, Iho is it. It may be located in the middle of nowhere, but it has low fees, friendly staff⁴, and the smoothest ride up and down of any lift in the solar system, all anchored at the bottom by Iho City, a beautiful organic seastead grown by electric current, where anyone who’s anyone will come to shop, take in the culture, and, fingers crossed, see the sights that the rest of Pan­tha­lassa has to offer.

Other than providing services for inter­planet­ary trade, the next biggest sectors of Pan­tha­lassa’s economy are fishing and biotech. Delphin communities are the primary operators of the former, as eco-conscious humans are still a little troubled by the idea of farming living, feeling creatures en masse just to sell their corpses. The latter is where Pan­tha­las­san influence is most acutely felt across the globe; the small gen­gi­neer­ing industry punches well above its weight, matching titans like Thailand and Australia through sheer quality of output.

Government

Despite the name, the politics of the Pan­tha­las­san Kingdom take place in a confederal, republican framework. Each tuake (the local jargon for any island, seastead, or ocean habitat) is largely free to govern itself as its residents see fit, so long as there is a fundamental respect for the rights of all life. On natural islands this may take the form of traditional Polynesian and Melanesian clan governments, passed down through the ages; free-floating tuakes prefer direct democracy, with occasional additional elements like mor­pho­lo­gi­cal quotas or weekly “all hands on deck” meetings.

On the confederal level, while Pan­tha­lassa does have a national legislature, its primary function is to deal with the boring, day-to-day tasks of lawmaking that would be unfeasible through the nation’s preferred solution: direct democracy. Eight times a year, each Pan­tha­las­san citizen receives a ballot in the post (or, for marine and nomadic dwellers, a digital data-dump) with detail of all the policies, chosen by a mix of national petition and lottery, that are up for debate in the country.

The binding results of these ballots will usually reach margins of up to ninety percent of the vote in one direction; an outside observer from a more chaotic democracy might suspect fraud, but this is just the Eywa system at work. With everyone in Pan­tha­lassa connected to the same loose hive mind, public opinion is as united as it is fickle: the populace’s opinions are strongly held, but sometimes all it takes is a little push from one particular group for emotion to swing the other way, and then suddenly we’ve always been at war with Eastasia.

Foreign relations

On the world stage, Pan­tha­lassa is a member of the United Nations and the Association of Equatorial and Space­far­ing Communities. It has especially warm relations with its bigger neighbour, Aus­tra­la­sia, and the United States, both key allies in the Pacific. Diplomacy with Tonga is in a historic warm period; in the past the Tongan government often condemned the Pan­tha­las­san practice of “vibe imperialism” to encourage neighbouring communities to join. No formal diplomatic ties exist with the techno­phobic Kastomate of Tafea, whose long-ruling president has described Pan­tha­las­sans as “a perverse travesty of the human race”.

Inter­planet­ary relations, too, are largely warm, thanks to Iho’s reputation as a friendly port for spacers of all stripes; it is the only Earthling country of its size, for example, with an embassy on Mars (Areipolis, to be precise). Off­world­ers have returned the favour: since it is one of the few places on Earth where space-adapts will not turn heads and garner stares, interplanetary holiday-makers flock in their local winters to soak up the blazing Earthling sunlight. As not every planet runs at the same pace or the same calendar, Pan­tha­lassa’s tourist industry is resistant to the seasonal boom-and-bust cycles that characterise other tourist communities, instead drawing a steady stream of visitors all year round.

Clarke Station, one of Jupiter’s largest orbital habitats, has a considerable Pan­tha­las­san community; locals prize the “Little Pandora” district for its distinct seafood cuisine, a refreshing break from the common algæ-and-mushroom-based Jovian fare. Close-in around Neptune orbits LillyHab, a small colony of space-adapted delphins who trace their roots back to an intentional community circling Tavu-Na-Sici, in the south of the country.