The crimson star falls from the sky.

The [i]Slitted [/i]is a warship. In its heart is a cathedral to Mars. Every new member of its crew, servitor or master, is taken into its depths where they are anointed with sacrificial blood. Their swords are chained to their wrists and their armour is fitted to their bodies. Biomantic rituals are done to kinbond the crew to their new home, to make them love and protect the ship as though it was their mother. The ship's lifeblood is thousands of sweating bodies carrying weapons in an unceasing motion of readiness, a battle pilgrimage around a monk's circuit of war. Every inch of the space is theirs. Every part of a future civilization with mastery of atom and gene has gone into making this the top of the line, the final word in interstellar warfare, a frame around which a fleet can be hung.

But Mars is Mars. Soldiers are soldiers. And not the turning of the clock, the artifice of science, or the terror of the Crystal Knight could stop soldiers from building a still and getting sloshed. 

In fairness, though, the pilots of the [i]Sellarfane[/i] are drunk too.

*

"Excuse me," said 20022 quietly, standing up.

"Who am I building it for?" said the Royal Architect. "For Empress Nero, of course! She refused to accept Zeus' sentence of death for humanity and journeyed into the Underworld to bring them back. When she returns, and I have no doubt she will return, I will have made the galaxy into a garden of gardens. They will arise from the earth into a new Babylon, an endless and fertile garden, the material world remade as an unending heaven. On that day I will gladly go to my own rest."

The Architect could not seem more solid in this conviction if he'd built a world around it. His life has been mapped out for him in a more complete way than any living creature, from birth to death. Not a single dream or ambition lives in him beyond this destiny and not a single care can be made to fit inside him if it does not fit with this vision. He is made of plastic and glittering light, a semblance with no soul.

The age of Atlas was an age of wonders and terrors. Thinking machines were among the worst of both, not because they rebelled - but because they did not.

*

The Crystal Knight looked down at the note in her hand. 20022's handwriting - [i]"Lady Governor, I suspect an ambush -"[/i]

She is already issuing the orders, the signal-lights flashing to the soldiers on the ground. Corvii formations start to rally, phalanxes starting to form up, the reaction instant and precise. She was ready for this. She sees you, down there, little hero. She saw you in the auguries, she saw your futile attempt to steal her prize, and she won't allow it. She was ready for this.

*

A plasma torpedo is an unstable weapon. A fragment of divine Engine-fire, condensed down in a self-fueled forcefield - they appear as balls of bright fire trapped inside bubbles. They cannot be handled normally and must be guided into their targets with precise grav-rail maneuvers. The graviton bubble of a Warsphere, properly directed, can fight against the puny emitters of the [i]Sellarfane[/i] in a direct battle. Landing a torpedo hit requires, as its first challenge, that the Warsphere's attention be directed elsewhere.

As its second challenge it must evade the ELF point defenses of the Warsphere. Intimidating dark spikes can emerge from all over the ship like the points of a pufferfish, each crackling with energy draining blasts that can pop the torpedoes like bubbles. To do this slows the maneuverability of the Sphere to a crawl but presents a wall of lightning for its enemies to deal with.

As its third challenge it must hit somewhere worth hitting - easier said than done on a Warsphere. A perfect, formless sphere with valuable components secured towards the core, an external armour hit is likely to simply destroy storage or crew quarters rather than essential systems. Worse, the Sphere will then rotate rapidly to present an undamaged section towards the enemy, making it hard to concentrate force on a breached section.

Last, of course, is that the torpedo might be a dud. One in two are. Making a plasma torpedo is an extremely delicate procedure and any mistake in the process can cause it to cook off prematurely. Many armourers, fearing for their safety, err on the side of caution. The Publica assigned you the best they could but there still exists the chance that even though you possess four torpedoes [i]none [/i]of them might work.

You feel the lurch of gravity starting to change. You see the ELF spikes emerging from their containment.

Launch.

You watch as four blinding sparks descend into a roaring thunderstorm. You can feel the Sellarfane shaking as Grav-Projectors search for your location, satellite-dish looking shapes trying to focus precisely enough to crunch your ship into a microsingularity. Time moves in strange ways and your sense of 'down' shifts and rolls like mad as the pilots give everything they have to evade. And then -

*

Mosiac looks up at the [i]Slitted [/i]eye as Zeus works her miracle.

Like a thunderbolt from the blue, two massive eruptions of cosmic fire burst from the crest of the Warsphere. It lurches and falls - sideways. It spins erratically, dropping like a stone in mad directions. Direct hits on its main Grav-Rail drive. Engine damaged. It can't hold stable. Flocks of parrots spill from the massive crater on its roof, a plume of rainbow blood forged from the ruin of the deceased.

The Corvii are ready for it, falling into their rough-throated formations and igniting their weapons, but their panic is palpable. The largest formation becomes the target for Quajl's great arquebus. The crystals of Beri align and it slashes through the Phalanx, tearing cube-shaped rents into reality. In the blast there is a [i]second [/i]Phalanx on top of the first - the Corvii having been somehow [i]doubled [/i]in an instant. Instantly they fall to fighting each other in confusion, a black ball of panicked fratricide, as all about them there rises the howling of wolves.

*

The Royal Architect falls to the ground, seizing - inner lights blinking on and off. The great ELF spikes of the warship are so powerful that the backwash is scrambling his digital brain, leaving him a breaking puppet. The soldiers are everywhere but 20022 is addressing them: "There is no time or point in saving this extension," he said calmly to the barrel of a gun. "We need to support the Crystal Knight drive off this attack to keep to your master's schedule. We need soldiers like you."

The glittering soldier considered, and then lowered his weapon. By some strange alchemy of courage and confidence, 20022 now seemed in command of twenty of the Architect's finest.

"Pay him no mind, Dolce," said 20022. He was not cruel but... calm, decisive. No wasted time or emotion in a crisis even as his guest is sprawled on the floor. "The Architect can generate those copies whenever it desires. We need to move fast to bring this situation under control."

*

The [i]Sellarfane [/i]had a plan from its birth to its death. 

Once again it has fucked up the plan.

All of its engines are out, the ELF storm has rendered every fuel cell inert and many of the crew temporarily stunned. Parachutes and hypertensile gliding wings deploy to help arrest an uncontrolled descent and guide the shuttle over to where an enormous black metal shape was halfway emerged from the water.

"Cor, that's a battleship," said the Pilot.
"The [i]Firetree II[/i]," breathed the Captain like a promise. "Pilot! Land us on that ship!"

The little assault shuttle slams in close, guided barely by wind and Rail. In an amazing show of professionalism, the pilot even swings it around as she touches down, presenting the rear assault ramp towards the beach. You can see through the gap the chain gangs, the phalanxes, the entire battlefield forming up like models on a board.

"At your command, Lady Knight," said the Captain as your soldiers unbuckled themselves from their seats, pulling shields and spears and jetpacks from their underseat luggage.

*

[Talk Sense - [b]5[/b]]

The Magi considers. She cannot brush your words aside; you have invoked Poseidon Earthshaker, and she would not be a Magi of the Azura if she played games with such an invocation. But she is a Magi all the same, and the sorcerers of the Skies are cunning beyond all known.

"Then I shall set you free, o sea daughter," she said, though she pulled you closer by the neck. "In the name of glorious Poseidon who rules the darkening skies. But before I release you, accept these gifts in tribute to your father-god."

She beacons forth a servitor who approaches with a box filled with magical tools and implements. With her free hand the Magi picks out the tools she needs without breaking eye contact with you.

"Behold, this ring of coral and ruby," she said. "A precious gift indeed. My apprentice dived into the rainbow black to recover it, naked and freezing in the voidstorm, until she clawed enough of the coral growth off a sunken battleship to make it. It is set with a ruby that was once the eye of a giant, bought to me by a hero who paid an arm for the victory. It is woven with spells of warding and comfort -" one hand took your throat, one hand pressed the ring against your forehead, and a paintbrush held in the final curve of her tail whirled as it wrote silver runes along your back. "- and you will find it a comfortable home. You are welcome, Ember, to the full extent of my hospitality, and you shall return my grace in kind."

There is a space inside the ring and it is home - the most warm and true home you have ever known. There is space inside for yourself, for Mosaic, for all the Silver Divers and more besides. A palace with endless doors and gardens, as safe and comfortable as a cottage's fireplace. Even a grand djinn would feel at home in such a crystal. 

But other than the feeling of luxury and safety, you are not otherwise compelled. You feel no special affection for the Azura sorcerer; you are not caged, you are not enslaved. But you [i]are [/i]her guest, and under the full weight of a traveler's duty to her.

"Welcome, then," said the Magi, finally releasing you and setting you down. "Ember of the Silver Divers. I am Merya of the Synthetic Academy. Please... make yourself at home."