[b]Mosaic![/b]

"Oh! Quite the crisis!" the mechanical device swings and rotates; something about the alignment of those rings indicated different postures of thought. It was like he was turning the keys of his thoughts. "If you'll permit me a brief digression into theory, I believe I can outline the nature of this problem in a more tractable way."

"Shipborne administration of an Imperial-era warship is, ideally, equal parts municipal government and military discipline. The crew needs to do what it's commanded swiftly and dutifully as it is only collective work that can survive void warfare, but by the same token each individual cohort possesses enormous ability to disrupt shipboard operations in a crisis. Voidborne servitor species are designed to possess strong senses of duty and tradition amongst the lower ranks balanced with humility and forethought in the highest ranks. However, this is a crisis situation representing the intake of a nonspecialized cohort." He rotated faster now, and then came to a stop, seemingly having completed the thought.

"The most important priority is to prevent the formation of stratification between the military servitors and the civilian crew," said Ohm. "The Ceronians will be inclined to form a highly insular pack that lords it over the populace and claims all the best for themselves. This cannot be allowed. They must be dispersed throughout the ship with varied and contradictory responsibilities. This will disrupt their pack instinct and make them protective of their various domains and the civilians who they are responsible for. At the same time, their examples will provide an authoritative edge and military discipline to each civilian group they lead."

"The second priority is to understand not all work is created equal. Labourers in the Engine will find themselves facing constant, back breaking work in hot conditions, whereas Bridge crew will be comparatively comfortable. This stratification between unspecialized servitors will create social classes -" Ohm's voice almost curls with contempt for the word. "- a profoundly unstable form of government, prone to strikes, mutinies and piracy. The second priority, then, must be to exalt those with the hardest jobs from the beginning. They must be showered with honours, tangible and intangible, bought into the Captain's confidence, allowed to retire when physically exhausted and treated as veterans afterwards. When possible acquire a dedicated void labour species and phase the mixed workforce out entirely."

[b]Ember![/b]

She hugs you like it's been forever, and she takes a little bit of your warmth into her heart forever. It's a little easier to give up on the dream of wolves knowing she can still have this.

In her place, though, there will be two candidates for the role of Alpha: Sagetip and Plundering Fang.

Sagetip is the scoutmistress, the invisible and relentless commander of the infiltrators. Professional, calm, patient and ruthless. You can sense in your genetics her paradigm as leader, one cold and daring and dedicated to the legend of the pack. She will work with Mosaic well when their interests align, and will break with her the moment they do not. She is too ambitious to be tamed.

Plundering Fang represents the assault company, a glory hound, first in and first bloody. She's a creature of passions and appetites, and one of those passions is loyalty. For a commander she respects she'll march into hellfire - and indeed, the challenge of having her as a subordinate is preventing her from doing so unprompted. 

The genetic legacy of the Warriors of Ceron is inherited directly, through the deliberate cloning of the most notable and glorious individuals. The unit Biomancer, Whispering Potions, is also the archivist who records the deeds of each of the wolves and will one day make their cases to the Clonelords of Ceron who oversee the vast industry that produces and refines the galaxy's finest warriors. Your gift, too, comes with a legacy - of leadership, of stealth, of single combat, or perhaps something else. In whose steps do you walk, Ember? Tell us of the warrior bloodline you have taken for yourself and which packleader it favours - if it does not favour you yourself.

[b]Dyssia![/b]

There is a great rumbling sound as the Engine starts to glow. Fire radiates out for miles, a new sun on the twilight horizon, the beach sand melting to glass, a catastrophic cloud of steam. This moment is the grand culmination of the chemical rocket launches that first took humanity, and later the Azura, to the stars. Impossibly, through fire and divinity, five kilometers of metal starts to rise. It's so beautiful, and so distracting, that you almost forget that you're supposed to get aboard.

As you do, it feels almost like mission accomplished. You've achieved a victory worthy of a Knight of the Publica, and if the diviners were correct then this is supposedly an important moment in the fall of the Skies. But as to the how... well, before you can celebrate, you need to dedicate your victory to the Gods, to reconsecrate the ship's temple, to make the oblations and all the works of ritual and respect. Which God do you reach out to in this moment of triumph, and what questions might you ask them when you have their attention?

[b]Dolce![/b]

"Great lord, it is in your very spirit of hospitality that we have come," 20022 went on. "And credit where it's due, my companion here is mostly responsible for this. We have returned your emissary to you, wounded though he is."

"You what?" said the Architect. "Why?"

"As I said," said 20022, "the spirit of hospitality compelled it."

The Architect stared blankly for a moment. Then his eye flicked around until it settled on the flickering body of the Emissary. A drone flicked down from the ceiling, connected to it with a mosquitolike appendage, and some sort of digital blood or spirit passed between them. Immediately the Emissary sat up. 

"An electronic storm!" he raged immediately, seemingly lost of context. "In my presence? Barbarous! This outrage will -" he stopped. "Why can't I access my database?"

"Your credentials were revoked the second we lost contact," said the greater Architect. "Standard protocol. You know this."

"How could I know that?" said the Emissary. "That's in the database!"

"Ah, well, nevertheless," said the Architect. His gaze swung around to focus on Dolce. "Thank you for the thought," he said. "But you really shouldn't have - I've already manufactured a replacement, but then you weren't to know. Thank you, I'm happy to take the raw materials."

Those construction drones had floated down to encircle the Emissary, those same laser cutters and wrenches they'd used to tear up and assemble the table and chairs now advancing towards the robot. "Wait!" he was saying. "I'm not compromised! I'm pure, you can trust me! Just integrate me again, you'll see, I swear before all the gods!!"

"Oh yes, yes," said the Architect. There was a bright flash as he eradicated the drone that had repaired the Emissary a moment ago, the pieces already being swept up and carried away. "But then, the Trojan Horse is the oldest trick in the book."