“Maiden of the Hunt.” He sees without looking. He addresses without moving. “Thrice have I locked the attache’ case before moving my documents. Twice have I reviewed every form my pen has touched. Not once have I wielded the ink before seeing in whole the form of the stroke. I would not disrespect your forest with anything less.”

“But it is curious.” Seconds pass. His voice neither lingers nor rushes. Breath fills him like the tide. Slips past a throat pressed to choking. “For the privilege of power, I must give over the overwhelming share to the Royal Architect, the Crystal Knight, and 20022. What is left to me is fourteen minutes spare. On a good day. What is left to me can do nothing, on its own, to change the rest.”

His hand drifts to the pen by the shortest line. His fingers meet its cold surface as one, and as one, they squeeze. One by one, he flips the blank papers in front of him, pulling out one page, and then the next. One he places before him. The other sits to the side, where ink will not run. Thrice he consults the maps of Beri. Twice he reviews his selection of fields. Not once does he wield the ink before seeing in whole his next stroke.

Well. It’s one thing for a chef in a cafe to say there’s nothing he can do about the way things are. It’s no use saying as such when a shot in Artemis’ forest falls in your lap. 

The Corvii formations have sufficient forces. Surplus squads are sent to guard out-of-the-way positions against runaways and deserters. They will have the honor of faithfully guarding a mountain pass of wide open fields, many hours away by even the swiftest messenger. It is a reasonable position to place them. After all, it was roughly even odds whether refugees might go here or the pass a few miles south, where they would have to wind through dense forests to safety. A perfectly reasonable allocation of spare forces.

Supply depots are positioned along well-trodden roads. It is their own country, and they face no armed resistance. There is no need to be coy with their movements, and miss the convenience and speed of well-maintained highways. This particular location will suit the quartermaster he’s placing in charge of their supplies. He’s an ambitious one, and will make good use of the roads to move his position forward to keep pace with the lines. It’s a bold tactic, one that does carry some small vulnerability to overextension and ambush, but the front line troops will appreciate the shorter supply lines.

There are, technically, a few stations capable of dealing with the orbital minefield. His choice will get them cleared in time. If only just. They are notorious for how they loathe to put aside work until it is properly finished, and they are currently wrapping up a set of constellation charts for Triden. They will get to the minefield when that’s done. And if there is a need for them to drop everything, well! It’s a good thing this station is so close to the monastery. A message fired off in the morning with the maximum priority will reach them before lunch.

Such orders find their way into his stack at the end of each day. Any given task may have any number of forms associated with it. There is variance, an expectation of independent discretion in the Service. A quick glance through his papers will find roughly the correct volume of paperwork. A leafing-through of documents will find everything reasonably sorted, in all meanings of the word. A thorough check of his work may find some curious judgments. A full audit of all his doings might - might! - unearth a worrying collection of strings strewn loosely throughout the workings of the administration. And while the tangle may appear benign, a sharp tug on any thread could cause these perfect plans to crack.

20022 works overtime to ensure this operation proceeds as scheduled. There is no time for a full audit.

By diligence and care, by clear eyes and sharp instinct, Dolce reaches through a storm of jaws and plucks out *opportunity.* Potential. Options. For what, he does not know. Perhaps when his work is done, it will all go as 20022 said it would, and he will watch those who remain of eighty thousand collapse on newly-carved shores as their homes sink into the sea.

But then again, perhaps he could be waking up every day to cook a meal that would never be tasted.

It’s no good to pray for rain, and never once tend to the fields.