[b]The Plousios![/b]

An Imperial-era warship. They don't build them like this any more.

It takes almost week to realize the ship is being harassed by system patrol craft. These are mere ants, chemical powered in system interceptors, but like ants they've formed a column towards the carcass of a dead horse and in a constant flowing stream they ship across what primitive chemical and atomic warheads they can muster. It is instinct that drives these responders more than the instructions of the Crystal Knight - this obsolete species of voidborne fighter pilots, once a terror of the Skies, now reduced to traffic cops firing their pistols at an aircraft carrier.

It's only when an outer bulkhead finally collapses after what might have been the fiftieth atomic warhead and floods a recreation deck with void and voidcrabs (who immediately set to war with the ocean crabs already in residence) that the problem reaches the command decks of the [i]Plousios[/i]. Getting any sort of understanding as to what's happening is extremely difficult; the shrine to the God of War is not only in total disrepair but is so old it shows the historical figures of Athena and Ares, rather than the modern Minerva and Mars. Useless in other words, the ship is blind and deaf, you might as well be praying to Thor. So despite the total mismatch in size the Plousios is at the mercy of the system patrol craft as they work away with the bloody-minded determination of ants.

The leadership contest of the Silver Divers has immediately aligned around this problem. Whoever can solve the problem of these swarming fighter craft will be the alpha. Mosaic's light touch means that both Plundering Fang and Sagetip are empowered to take their own methods - Sagetip in reconstructing a defensive ELF array, Plundering Fang in reconsecrating the temple deck. 

The plan that remains is the simplest and the most daring: To board one of the ancient, rusted Plovers and go out to fight the enemy directly. Mosaic, here you are king and lady, Ember, you are knight and champion, Dyssia, you are commander and wingman. You stand on the launch deck in the regalia that suits your status as maintenance crews roll out these relics of a brighter age, plugging in cable-leashes that will transmit the Engine's power to the war machines over hundreds of kilometers. It is a moment for salutes, oaths of moments, vows and salutes and promises.

[b]Dolce![/b]

"Nonsense!" snapped the Architect, enormous eye narrowing. "This is not a roadside tavern, this is the greatest remaining monument to the glories of the digital age and an essential component in the reconstruction of the galaxy!"

The eye-screen shifted and flowed, a trillion tiny lights changing colours to show a galaxy wounded, scarred, bleeding. The bloody remnant of a divine spear run through it's heart.

"Over fifteen hundred habitable planets destroyed!" cried the Architect. "Shattered to pieces! Asteroid formations! The galaxy has shrunk and no life will ever bloom there again - unless I make it so! It is my job to haul the wreckage, ignite the cores, form the continents and the plate tectonics and dust the surface with life! And in between me and this most laudable of goals, itself in service to the Gods themselves, is a shattered remnant of civilization who thinks that I am a mere tractor that they can use to plough the fields if only they can find the correct key! You come here waving the flag of Zeus crying, hospitality, hospitality, and expect to bring this compromised creature into the most delicate of sanctums? If I open those gates to you then I shall in the course of weeks be flooded by every spy, assassin, technomancer and saboteur in the galaxy! No! You get food, shelter, and the termination circle until such a time as you decide that you are done and kindly [i]fuck off[/i] to your next destination."