Thanqol

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

"Mosaic..." she whispers. Awe. It's a flattering feeling.

She's gone through her kata effectively, the exquisite mathematics it takes to maneuver all those limbs and a four meter weapon that you might have snapped if your knuckles brushed against it in flight. It is unclear to both of you if she had the shot during your flight. It is crystal clear to both of you that she didn't even roll the dice.

But now at this range it's impossible to see how she could miss.

The breeze blows between you as the glittering dust starts to settle, leaving quartz-diamonds shining in the duelists' hair.

"Fine then," she said. She said it with the renewed determination of someone who knew how to be in awe of herself too. "Mosaic. You wish the mountain. You wish your name upon my lips." She shucked some complicated mechanism at her end of the longarm, those rainbow crystals began to glow. "Your prizes lie beyond my rifle. Come and claim them if you can."

You can see her eyes beyond the mask. Grey. Feline. Prepared to pounce.

[Roll to Finish Her]

Ember!

In the distance behind you you can see the great, hulking shape of the Warsphere. It descends from the heavens like an unlovely eye, gazing into the ocean's black. Gazing down at your prize. The sea can't help but love it and it's toxic gravity. False tides. False moon.

You feel the distant call of a war howl.

*

You have only begun to develop a sense for the strategic movements of the Silver Divers, but it's as beautiful as their dance.

Something the training is very clear on is that the reputation of the Warriors of Ceron does not rely on their physical might or their lightning reflexes. That is why they blindfold you through so many of those exercises, or make you fight eight opponents at once, or make you fight with your arms tied behind your back, or make you fight Plundering Fang before whom you might as well be a fragile little princess all over again. Again and again the lesson, drilling it down so that it pierces below the reputation: they are good because they are soldiers. The ability to field strip a base camp and move to a point inside the enemy's search pattern in a single co-ordinated movement was strategic invisibility and worth more than mere chameleonic skin.

The popular imagination of a secret Ceronian military base is something like a fortified compound of advanced technology, surrounded by mines and traps. Indeed, the Silver Divers built a dozen of those when they arrived on the planet. They just haven't been back to them since unless they needed to throw a tail. Instead their base of the moment is inside a servitor village co-opted for the task.

There's a particular energy in an occupied town, a kind of dazed giddy panic. It's like meeting the devil and oh no she's hot, oh no she's everywhere, oh no we're helpless and entirely at her mercy. The shadows of wolves watch the roads and politely turn around any strays. Many people are holding exotic treasures parceled out from the administration offices, and there's a merry bonfire going as the land, ownership and census records are burned outside. The rabbitlike clerks who collect that information are getting the personal attention of a squad of pheromantic specialists who are working hard to overload their senses to the point where they won't be able to use their photographic memories to recreate the records later. They could probably manage the duty with just one set of scented gags, the rest must just be for fun.

Time for your report.

Dolce!

"I saw the Skies once," said the Decaying Soldier, leaning forwards on her crutches. It was a miracle of adaptation that she could eat noodles with chopsticks while possessing only six total fingers, and a militarized brain that made her learn to do so while moving. "You know, people talk about it. But they don't get it. They don't get it until they see - a hundred Azura moving at the same time. They hate being close to each other, makes 'em too horny to think. But to see a Satrap and his entire court go to war is like seeing the armies of Heaven itself. I cried afterwards. I tried to bury myself in the mud because my broken body was an offense against them. CO warned me, of course, gave me the blindfold, but I wanted to see what we were fighting for. Still have nightmares about it."

-

"Politics..." said the Thoughtful Songbird. The Lyri were beautiful, ornamental, charming figures, each one a sylphlike blessing. "Why would you want to get involved in that? Maybe there was a time in the distant past where ordinary people could have political influence, but my bones are made out of custard and fairy kisses and I feel like I risk a compound fracture if a hot guy looks at me too long. Every Lyri on the planet couldn't stop a single Azura from taking whatever she wanted. No amount of political organization or class consciousness can cross the line of military force that is inherent to a genetically stratified society. Much safer just to avoid the whole topic."

-

"Government? Wrong word," said the Beloved Spy. The slow-witted Stone Tribe intelligence agents were community favourites in a How Do You Do Fellow Kids kind of way, and it was considered a breach of etiquette to break the keyfabe of letting them think they were getting away with it. "They. Design ecosystems. Self sustaining. Interconnected. To them. We are animals. No malice. Raised up or. Wiped out. Accidentally. Not relevant. They have bigger goals."

Dyssia!

Servitors are artificial in origin, yes, but they're their own people. They've had their own childhoods, formative memories and unique personalities. A clone like Yaji doesn't. No past and no future, she's a static creature with a rigidly pre-programmed brain. Her ability to self reflect, to learn, to grow is completely stunted. She is what she is and that's a terrible thing to see in a living creature.

You see it at her most fluidly cruel. It would take a truly malicious mind to say those things and mean them, but there's no actual pleasure happening there. Her eyes are empty. She's... it's like she's just predicting what word to say next for maximum effect. That she doesn't truly have any of the emotions like pride or disgust to which she's constantly referring, she's just some hideous quirk of condensed language that has been structured in such a way that makes it say horrible things. The more time you spend with her the more you become convinced that this was never a person, that it is a literal abuse golem.

But then, that's your answer. When she's in the flow she literally can't change course. You can flick her whiskers, scratch her ears, probably even stab her with a flaming broadsword when she's in the flow and she doesn't slow down or even process that anything is happening. It's only really her hangers-on, her junior mean-girl cronies, who cover for the gaps in her perception and personality. They're all scared of her but can't vocalize why; the uncanny valley effect of realizing that they're this close to something this wrong has them as trapped and tense as you.

Still, it means that when you do make your move you've got a lot of leeway on how to do it.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

They have made their bids. She makes hers.

< Whoever defeats me, > Solarel signs with large, sweeping warlike gestures, < will have my obedience. My devoted service. My blade at your beck and call, in accordance with the Codes of Zaldar. >

Solarel smiles. They realize their mistake.

If there are two Empresses, why not three? If two Empresses are willing to promise so much to have their armies lead by the Aeteline, how could either of them stand against the Aeteline piloted by the Hunter of Huntresses? They'd come to this gala with their courtiers, their generals, their vassals, figures of power and ambition. And now in their arrogance they'd placed the greatest prize of all on the table: the word of the one honourable warrior in the Evercity.

So, Empresses - which of your servants do you trust with Imperium?

[Who's the Monster? 9
- The wrongness of their act is exposed to all; they mark XP if they change their mind. If they don’t, they must attack you or take a Condition.]

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

There are yellows that fade into muddy brown or corrupted orange. This touches on electric green.

Once it had been designed for concealment, a faceless hunch, a blackened void. Tropical conditions, a litany of battle, and a repressed fashion sense have done for that. Now you see the lower half of a jaguar, lightless obsidian, plated with fabric stretched over steel. What had once been robes were remade as armour plates, that thin layer of neomaterial stronger than the metal frame that supported it. Four fierce paws scratch at the ground, feline grace admixtured with the fierce stomping of a horse.

Above the jaguar rises a machine angel. Here the torn robes give way to feminine curves written in chrome metal and glittering crystal. A fierce mane of hair, running all the way down her back, moves as though it was underwater, as though it was blown by the wind. Her face wears a pale golden death mask set with jasper and lapis lazuli. Wings comprised of thickly-bunched cables and wires, brightly coloured and moving like tentacles, rise up above her. There is nothing like her in all the galaxy; she is artist and canvas both. Some part of you wonders if the reason she hid this from you in the past was out of the fear one so glorious must have of arousing the jealousy of the gods themselves.

"Mosaic!" blares the jaguar angel, voice distorting as it tunes into human frequencies. "In the name of Hermes, the custodians of this mountain have hired me as their defender. Though the Skies may fall, the price of stone shall be paid. Run back to the Royal Surveyor and let him know that the Arquebusier will defy him and all his whipped hosts."

Ember!

There are colours in the deep.

Poseidon is always out of reach. To the Azura he was the sky; to humanity he was the sea; where the two merged there was the rainbow. Here on this world, with civilization taking place in the sweat and sun, he has taken on his human aspect. You are of the sea, you are of the outside, you are the scratching claws and winter howls on the edge of civilization. And so the oceans are yours. So too are its treasures.

Glowing corals light the way. Jellyfish that hunt like sharks, spearing salmon on lightning quick electrified tendrils, light up the dark with blue and bloody red. Schools of fish surround deep water vents, feeding on the exotic chemicals and refining them internally until they can detonate with the force of a grenade. Crabs. An arsenal in the depth, a growing peril, an arsenal awaiting a diver who has gone deep enough, waiting with the promise of the end of worlds.

And beyond these lights, in the lightless depths, surrounded by an ocean of toxic filth, looms a leviathan. Larger than a mountain. A vast underwater structure the likes of which you have never seen before.

Dolce!

"For official use only," said 20022. "We're too far from the centers of power to be particularly cautious about an intelligence threat, so you're not going to bring the Skies down with a little loose talk, but discretion is always appreciated. I can put you in touch with Service councilors or a union representative if you'd like information from someone other than me. It's very natural to want to follow an authority figure in isolation, but we work for an institution, and trust me when I say that there is no higher pleasure for any of us than understanding what that means."

He smiled and stood. "Oh, and just so you know, there are a plenty of perks. Corrective biomancy, choice of assignments, wellness retreats, objective-based work, high quality management. All of us are our best selves after a good night's sleep, a full breakfast and a delicious cup of tea, and the Service will ensure that you're always at your best."

And, if there was nothing further, on that note he'd leave with a smile. The Mayor's bodyguards carried him, stiff as a plank and snoring, heels and shoulders out through the door, leaving you in the ruins of your destroyed cafe.

Dyssia!

You quickly hit an obstacle. What's worse is that you know how and why she's an obstacle: Lieutenant Yaji, stabilization clone. She's an artificial Pix directly administered by the Biomancers who serves to enforce ideological uniformity amongst the Pix. She immediately identifies the Pix talking about your dangerous new ideas and picks a fight with a few, stealing their badges and redistributing them to loyal maids. She is the direct manifestation of the Biomancer's will, an optimized darling of the Art designed to be stronger, faster and more charismatic than all the Pix around her; a cultural paragon who will bend all of her natural gifts towards maintaining the status quo.

Your idea has appeal but it won't get traction so long as Yaji's collar is around the neck of her sisters. You need to accomplish two things: Removing or discrediting her, and staging some sort of mass breakout before she can be replaced - it's still not everything you want, but it's the only path forwards you can see in the time you have.

Luckily, Yaji is pretty knowable. She spends all her time engaged in or listening to gossip, taking a malicious delight in going after nonconformists. She takes a particular pleasure in looting the finery of her sisters and walking about in sweeping luxury. She exceeds in grandeur even the Captain but her unambitious mean girl nature means that she never makes a move against her, stifling political mobility at the top if a third of all social capital is locked up in the body of someone who embodies the status quo. She likes tea parties, party parties, ruthless public mockery, and ruthless public demotions and punishments. How will you get her out of the picture?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

She glows in the dark, lit up in lilac and black by the force of kisses. It shines through her bodysuit, revealing her shapes and curves. It is like the darkness has undressed her.

"Everything, then," she said. "I will give you everything I know how to give."

Then she's swept away, towards the centre of power.

There are certain concepts that Solarel does not possess. That conflict is undesirable. That parties should not end in conflagration. But one of the big ones is that she doesn't understand the idea of theft. To creep like a thief in the night and take something that belonged to someone else - that concept fell apart on multiple levels. Possession was worthless; ownership was decided by the spirits. Giving offense with dishonourable tactics could cause a feud between tribes that would last generations. That if you took something then you were also taking the responsibility to use it on behalf of your tribe. Stealing a bucket meant drawing from the well.

So she had to stand before her Empresses directly and declare her intent.

There was a BANG and a crash that shocked through the rising din as she cut a table in two with her sword of gold. No words. Not for these, Outsiders in the truest sense. For them she merely points, and hefts her sword. This is a feud. All know how she was wronged. All know the justice of her case. The destruction about to commence is but the return of toxic energy. She is fighting for love. For justice. For honour itself.

At least, that's in Solarel's head it's that clear. To onlookers her appearance could mean anything. This was a tribal warrior from the stormlands who had a religious duty not to explain anything to anyone. She was speaking through her actions and, despite what she might think, cutting a table in half and advancing menacingly could be taken in a variety of different ways.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Through the buzz of her mind, through the radiating warm energy that was filling her, Solarel felt the underlying structure of her thoughts shift. A mind tilted diagonally and a vast edifice of thoughts sliding away down the hill. A new idea had begun to form. Debris from stagnant thought processes swept away freeing up what felt like a frenzied new energy. Even the sophomoric effects of the equations seemed to sweep away into the background as her purpose became fully crystal clear.

For the first time tonight she looked away from Mirror.

She looked at Matty. A gaze of endless, contemplative ice. Stars in her eyes, the weight of danger absolute. A predator suddenly and absolutely aware of her presence, soaking in every part of her with the same deadly intensity that she had only showed Mirror.

[Entice: 12+1 13]

Her gaze then turns to Kirala. Her claws tighten possessively on Mirror's back but there's no mistake that in that moment Kirala was the centre of Solarel's world. When her muscles tensed and squeezed they were in Solarel's mind adjusting to the different size, the different weight, the different tolerances. How to hold her like she needed to be held. How to hold her like she was the only thing that mattered. The fierceness of that embrace and how tightly that would fit, how tempting it would be to step into it...

[Entice: 10+1 11]

Then her eyes fixate on Slate. Her gaze bores through the mechanic's eyes into her mind. She sees there the wires, the circuits, the designs. She sees the things she couldn't predict and account for. The speed of Mirror's reboot, the redundancies and efficiencies, the way she guarded the pilot champion with such love. The beautiful body and mind, the dedication that made the God-Smiting Whip what it was. There was hunger there, a hunger to have her work on Solarel's bodies with the same dedication as she worked on Mirrors'.

[Entice: 11+1 12]

Solarel understood now. She understood how she could have Mirror helpless before her and still lose. She was only one piece - and not the whole. She saw each of her other parts now, saw them with a hungry, tactical intensity. These were the girls she needed to corner. Seduce. Burn holes through with the force of her stare, to tempt into mistakes, to reprogram with tangled loyalties. She saw them as individuals now and she wanted to unpick and solve each of them. To hold the shivering whole in her hands.

"Not one more time," she said, taking in the whole of her enemy. "The first time. With who you are now."

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

The camouflage cloak comes off in a whirl.

It was hiding a gun of comical length and thinness. Four meters long, held up with supports, while being scarcely more than five centimeters wide, comprised entirely out of red wood. Along the top, running between raised wooden spikes like electrical cables between power lines, is a thin coiled copper wire. The trigger and details is in old-fashioned, hand crafted bronze and is inset with an intricate crystal device. You can see it gleaming for a moment before it fires.

Rainbow light arcs along the string, pausing for a second on each of the connecting spikes and building in intensity. By the time it reaches the end it's surging in power until there's a crack like a thunderbolt and all of that energy arcs down into the gleaming head of a crossbow bolt that bends light around it as though it was being launched by a microsingularity.

It doesn't hit you. It embeds in the mask of one of the Stone Tribe champions. For a moment you think you've found an ally.

But then the turtlegirl breaks into two and hits you from both sides at once.

The impact is hard to parse given how crystal clear it is; cube-shaped holes, three-dimensional pixel distortions, fragments of two worlds overlaid at once, like the universe is running two different graphics settings at the same time. The Stone Tribe champion emerging from this chaos is clearly an exact copy of the same person, and from the way it bleeds off fragments that are absorbed back into the rift it pulled itself out of, sealing it again, you know it's not long for this world. But this is also the best of your opponents and now there's two of them. Worse than that, with their identical instincts they're working at a level of harmony and co-ordination even the Ceronians can't match.

You get a glimpse of the girl behind the weapon before you're fighting hard on the defensive. You only knew her in passing. Yellow robes. Yellow thoughts. Walking behind you into forever because she wanted to see what came next. You didn't forget her name because you never knew it, but it was the same path.

But you also see that she isn't reloading. She's staring at you too, the way you move filling her head with memories. That's a blessing - if she started multiplying your opponent even further then you'd be in serious trouble.

Ember!

Someone breathes a grid at you.

It's - it's a weird, inexplicable moment. You weren't trained for this. No one was trained for this. This is a completely new tactical experience, and you can feel a prickling hyperawareness. Your senses sharpen and glands release sharpening chemicals, every moment of what happens here embedding crystal-perfectly on your memory. Adaption Instinct - when encountering a new threat, Ceronian biology pushes a hyperaware state so that you can record every detail and communicate it to your Pack later.

There is a dragon (silicate, transparent, predatory) overhead, a fifty meters up. Five meters long nose to tail. Unnatural flight - its wings have long fingers but there is no matter in between them, instead glittering hologram light, filled with colour. Secondary defenses (claws, fangs, tail). Primary weapon: the light grid. In its open mouth is a glittering crystal array that projects patterned light on a variety of wavelengths specialized for cutting through water. Where it directs this cone of grid-light it creates a topological map of the undersea surface. Where the light falls across your back it picks you out as clearly as it picks out the fish around you.

The crystal dragon turns its head and focuses its crystal laser into a connecting beam of light. It sweeps this across the beach. The alert goes up instantly.

Previously this was just an opportunity for action on a slow day for the Corvii. The second that laser goes off they get serious. Depth charges start hitting the surface - sludgewater bombs, underwater solid projectile munitions that turn swathes of ocean into horrible walls of poison. The warsphere blares a siren in the distance and starts drifting eerily towards this area. Shuttles carrying teams of commandos start sliding down from above. It's a full response.

Unfortunately to be expected. On the land this could have been just an idle incident. In the water means that they've assumed that this is a Silver Diver incursion and are responding in force. But more important than your test is now reporting on that dragon - the capability to spot submerged warriors represents a threat and it's your genetic duty to assist in the Adaption process.

Dolce!

"Don't mind that," said 20022. "Attitude is far more important than experience. I'd have to train anyone who I took on board anyway, and our kind have a tendency to... imprint. We work for a master who likes things to be done a certain way and it's very easy to internalize those facts as just The Way Things Should Be. It's pleasant to speak to someone who focuses on the fundamentals: service, diligence, anticipation, invisibility. Those are far more transferable skills even if you don't know the details of graviton climatology economics or what have you."

He finished his coffee, smiled politely, revealing nothing, and stood up. "Of course, I won't rush you. I'll have an ID tag delivered tomorrow. If you decide to wear it approach me at any time and we'll find work for you."

Dyssia!

The first problem you experience is that the system is designed to be impossible for any one person to disrupt. There's always at least one check for deployments or changes - a formality, but a velvet wall. Various guardians, like the ones who maintain the id-wards that keep the Pix from the hidden decks, are weaponized obsessive-compulsive disorders who have panic attacks if they don't check every ID pass every time. There is an routine of regular blood and saliva samples in mass public gatherings to identify shapeshifters - so practiced that it is quick, habitual and ironclad. Biomancers shape societies just as they shape flesh and their own society has optimized for the frontier of security and convenience.

In the end, though, there is only one weakness you're able to identify: the ship itself.

The biomancers have the ability to project a lot of force an extremely limited distance. For three days in a close environment they could utterly overwhelm the thousands-strong crew of the Firetree, but in a protracted campaign on the ground the limitations of drone swarms become crippling. A campaign of extermination would have to be waged by a warrior species, which is not simple to arrange. If you can convince the Pix to commit to abandoning ship entirely then the timeframe for purging them goes from days to decades.

The problem, then, is that the Firetree is a hell of a ship. It's a spectacular, gleaming Imperial era warship with room for ten thousand crew and enough firepower to go toe to toe with Shogunate warbands. How to convince a pack of scheming foxgirls that there's something even more important out there?

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

Mars is with you. You are alight with glory. Ripe grain sprouts from beneath your feet and a wreath of oak leaves glitters on your forehead. This is a world of summer and summer is the season of glorious war.

You see six. Mars whispers that they have sent seven.

They run crouched low to the ground, burdened under the weight of their heavy turtle shells. Their masks are stone, their weapons are stone - their acid talons would be far more lethal but this is not that kind of war. They model themselves after Ceronians, pack hunters seeking to encircle you, harry you, undermine you with co-ordination and hammer blows until you are forced to flee.

They are not Ceronians. Their formation lacks the fluid adaptability of those warriors, craftsmen playing at soldier. But there is something more than a gap in those places, the edge of a missing scent - the scrubbed nothing of cleaning chemicals, familiar somehow. Their seventh warrior is a mercenary, lurking in secret. An acquaintance from a dream.

Ember!

There are a dozen Beachcombers here already. Tall, curved and sun-tanned, they're angels in paradise.

Galaxy-class beaches don't just happen. These mountains are fresh, new geologic activity creating sudden descents down into coves of sharp gravel. Not only does it prick to walk on so many edges but it also absorbs summer heat and burns hot. The ideal sand is fine and soft and that takes work. Day after day the Beachcombers pick their way across the scorching sharp gravel. With every footstep the huge crushing jaws of their feet pick up stones and grind them against diamond-hard plates. With each step they leave finer and finer dust behind them. Eventually, when the beaches are soft enough, they'll transition into gardening this landscape - sweeping beautiful patterns and sculptures into the sand each day before the tide washes it away.

You're able to put miles behind you in this way, but the Corvii are having a slow day. Unkindnesses start to fall, surrounding Beachcombers in threes and fours, appreciating the opportunity to harass beautiful creatures in beautiful locations. Soon enough they'll be landing to question you too, and the ways out are in towards the town, forwards towards the headland and its caves - or out, towards the ocean.

Dolce!

"Oh!" said 20022. "I misunderstood, you're not an Employee. Normally we wear these identification badges," he flicked the plastic tag in his ear, "but it's not mandatory, so I couldn't be entirely sure. Well, let me lay it out plainly for you."

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a little easel. He set it on the table and then laid a piece of paper atop of it with a list of talking points. Every so often as he spoke he'd slide the paper away to reveal the next page. The graphics were incredible, frankly, hand-drawn masterpieces by high quality art servitors; Raphael's slideshow.

"The galaxy has a great number of evolved species," said 20022. "But only two of them arose to sufficient heights to master Biomancy: the Azura and Humanity. Through their conflicts and unions they progressed the state of the Art to the point where they could delegate ever greater aspects of galactic administration to servitors. This, then, is my job: a very small part of the infinite machinery of the cosmos. Indeed, it's more than my job, it's my species' job - and that means it's your job too. We, the Synnefo, occupy a privileged place in the galactic hierarchy. While the Warriors of Ceron may glory in the blessings of Zeus, we are the invisible hands of Artemis.

"My job, specifically, involves managing Mayor Kaspar and ensuring that all his decisions are made with the best interest of the Endless Azure Skies in mind. In the short term this involves taking a more authoritarian tack than I am personally comfortable with. However, there's a reason for this - specifically, this planet is borderline decolonized. It has a huge and almost entirely unadministered servitor population with minimal biomantic oversight as well as an active Ceronian insurgency. Without an active Azura Court, less than a hundred citizen residents and a colloquial name that shames the Skies, the Crystal Knight - that is, the Sector Governor - might decide to Decommission the planet at any moment. As such, my objective is to assist Mayor Kaspar in running a model world and nip any compliance issues in the bud. We're hoping to build a reputation as a welcoming tourist location and retreat world while upskilling into some aesthetic architecture. However, our current military garrison is backwards and insufficient, not the kind of specialized force required to maintain the kind of stability expected from a resort world. There's a lot of challenges in getting the budget to expand it. It's delicate work, and I could always use more help.

"Naturally," he paused and smiled, "you don't have to sign up if you prefer to run your cafe. The private sector is often much more flexible and luxurious. But the Service is where the power is."

Dyssia!

The notes that you're looking for are easy to find. They're everywhere, stacks and stacks of ring binders filled with the bureaucracy of biomancy. A simple workstation with a view of a small and beautiful garden. A secondary door presents an escape route even if you're discovered, which lets you comfortably settle in and read while being sure you'll have plenty of advance warning if anyone starts coming down this corridor. So you can read in comfort about how the Pix are rated as Currently Nonviable and at risk of Decommissioning.

And there are plenty of associated reports on how they have almost stockpiled enough drones to allow for Decommissioning.

See, Drones exist for two purposes. Purpose one is to engage Out of Context problems or primitive civilizations. In the event of encountering some entirely new alien species, biomancers have full authorization to unleash drone swarms to cull its population down to a manageable level at which point it can be integrated into galactic civilization. There are files on doing this, it involves mass application of biomantic upgrades, including compliance upgrades that prevent these species from displacing or threatening Administrator Species. This isn't about making them servitors, oh no, they're an evolved species and worthy of respect, uplifting and access to all the luxuries of modern technology. But they are potentially invasive, or are at risk of being wiped out by artificially evolved invasive servitor breeds, and so the transition needs to be managed for the health of the ecosystem as a whole. In the almost unthinkable event of encountering a superior alien species, drones can be iterated and upgraded on shorter evolutionary cycles than mainline battle servitor species.

This is the better use case for drones.

The worse one is Decommissioning, or, the complete obliteration of an underperforming or rogue servitor species. When all subtle course corrections have failed the biomancers are to activate the drones as the final backstop. It doesn't matter if they'll only live three days and can't think strategically if their entire existence begins and ends in point-blank shipboard fighting in deep void.

And from these notes, the Pix are uncomfortably close to Decommissioning. It's not their fault - it's not anybody's fault, really. But the fact remains that they were originally built to service a primitive human economy, and now all the humans are dead and the economy has evolved beyond their effective use. The ability to manipulate market institutions through digital technology is simply not relevant in the modern age. There are extensive notes of Pix culture dissolving, of high numbers joining the Order of Hermes or the Publica, or otherwise becoming deviant.

And be sure, the biomancers are moving heaven and earth to rehabilitate them - to find a functional, unique ecosystem niche that can provide value to the galaxy as a whole. There are a lot of optimistic reports, lots of small breakthroughs, lots of people trying their absolute best to surpass even in one small area the absolute monolithic wall of the Ceronians. These reports are written by people who believe sincerely that they'll pull it off.

But if they don't, there are the drones.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Their hands touch when the rose passes between them. The gentle force of it traces up her arm like a shiver, crackling into her spine. The barest transfer of motive force but after so much stillness it warms her bones. She hasn't been touched for a million years. An operational hazard of mastery.

< Am I. Like you? >

There's a difference to her signing when she was close. Close enough, bold enough, she could reach across and take Mirror's hand, draw it into the sign. Whispering with hands, making their combined movement form the same words. Almost dance.

< Sometimes I disassemble you. > she said, fingers touching shoulder, collar, ribs. < I think of you as maneuvers. Reaction times. Instincts. > Poetry in gesture involved choosing words where each gesture flowed into the next without need for reset. Do it right and she never had to break contact. < Sometimes you disassemble me. My thoughts are a ruin because of you. Tactics I adore torn apart. Nonviable. Unsolveable. >

There was an invitation here. She had to act on it. It was easy to think that she was bold, but in her mind she thought the reverse. Making the request, even like this, subtle and secret, was a courage she couldn't manage. Responding to a request was easy. She just needed to become, become, become -

< Are you like me? In pieces? Torn apart? Tearing apart? Barely functional, in a way that can't be expressed to anyone sane? > said Solarel. "Because. It's a [change/relief/blessing] to see you. Whole."

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

There exists a new technology called Projection Mining. Beautiful crystal mine equipment that can slice a mountain into cubes and result in more material than the mountain contained. A film of a Projection Miner was shown by the Sector Governor on her last visit to wild cheering and celebration, a sign of the Endless Azure Skies rising to new and greater heights.

But for now the work is done with sweat and muscle and bioacid.

The Stone Tribe is more specialized than most. An insular, eerie community, they work like termites. They break stone into cubes, scratching away at the rock with acid claws until they've cut them razor straight and sharp. Then they haul the stones short distances to surround their village, piling them up into walled rings. They'll keep going until they've disassembled the mountain.

Your task - well, Bari's task - involves stealing from the Stone Tribe. They sometimes fire home-made scrap solid projectile rounds to try and deter workers from taking their stone and occasionally send out a champion to duel for it, but they're not warrior breeds and withdraw quickly. There's a ritual character to these conflicts, and each victory is celebrated by the whole town. But for all the extra material you'll need to build these houses you're definitely going to risk a battle, and the Stone Tribe doesn't need to win but only to make it inconvenient for you to leave while hauling tonnes and tonnes of stone.

Your followers sense it too. There's excitement, anticipation, nerves - everyone knows that today is going to be special, and everyone is looking to you. Your legend definitely has room for stealing a mountain.

Ember!

Fake pack. They fall to squabbling.

The reason, as it has been explained to you while you were pinned to the ground, hands around your neck, lips inches from yours, that the Ceronians play-fight so often is to build trust. To smooth out any disagreements instantly. To create healthy ways for muscles to test each other, for weaknesses to be explored, for physical and emotional vulnerabilities to find safe release. It's important, Ember, that every part of you be put on display so that you can know that you're surrounded by people you can trust~~

The truth of all that long training is illustrated perfectly in the Corvii. Their facelessness is an illusion; their masks do not cover the truths that you pull out of them. It's all tension and battle hormones and dominance displays aimed at each other and their instincts don't allow any of them to roll over and show their necks and that's a weakness deeper than any that your packmates have dragged from you.

You've done such a good job even that you're not even out of their sight when one of them ELF-strikes another.

It's a flash of lightning, a crack of thunder, a weapon discharge visible from the Warsphere. Immediately after there's an exchange of lightning, crack, crack, crack! It won't do more than stun them, but from above it looks like an ambush. The hangar doors of the Warsphere open and shuttles Corvii gliding on wing and rail start to fall out; reinforcements in force.

Dolce!

The mayor starts to fade into listlessness. His judgements become quicker and less considered. He doesn't wait for 20022 much of the time, resulting in several from the hip calls that are almost kind, entirely by chance. It's been a secret since ancient days that criminals judged after lunch receive lighter sentences.

After some time, he calls for a break and leaves to stand on the balcony and look at the sunset. During this interval, 20022 approaches you, politely holding out a chair for you to sit and then sitting opposite.

"Good afternoon," he said. "I am 20022, executive assistant. Am I interfering with some operation of yours?"

Polite, earnest, sincerely willing to believe that this is his fault - but also with the unspoken crystal clarity that he has seen everything you have done and understands the situation perfectly.

Dyssia!

Biomancy is infrastructure. It underpins everything in the galaxy, an entire hidden substrate of politics and theory, disconnected from the wider world. Biomancy is why there is peace, why there is plenty, why the Skies are blue. Biomancy doesn't decide what happens but it ensures that it can happen.

What's shocking is just how many people are clones. One in fifty of the Pix is a mimetic spy whose duties involves making regular reports to the biomancers. They reveal everything, from whispers of dissent, to acts of joy, details on romantic couplings. They observe birthmarks, fur discolorations, weird dreams, small diseases, on and on. To step behind the curtain is to see just how deep this goes. One of your attendants is a mimetic spy - in fact, all Azura have at least one.

It's to look out for your health. It's legitimately to look out for your health - none of the Biomancers can even conceive of wielding their power aggressively against you, an Administrator Species. The first and greatest Biomancers were Azura and the mark that they left on their disciples runs deep.

There are thousands of branches of Biomancy. Biomancers specialized in skeletal structure, in noses, in eyes, in culture - all helpfully named things like Skeleton Specialist. There is a common pool of knowledge that they all draw from but creating and maintaining a species requires an entire scientific department hidden in the mezzanine layers. Complex scent-baffles and built in phobias prevent Pix from wandering into the wrong areas. It's explained that the commitment is unusually large - combat species get the most dedicated oversight to prevent them from running amok. Many of the Biomancers speak admiringly and enviously of their colleagues who work on the Ceronians.

But with knowledge as complex as Biomancy, there are multiple different channels to mastery. The most brilliant and dedicated arise from the Academies - prestigious institutions that manufacture their biomancers in house to astounding specifications. Transportation to and from the Academies is difficult, though, especially when operating on a mobile warrior species, so the Journeymen ranks are mostly filled out with clones - castoffs of the elites, though generally far less capable than an Academic. Even though the Apprentices are at the bottom, and you number among them, it's quietly understood that you outrank even the Academics by dint of your species. That's not that you can countermand them if they're working on behalf of the Azura as a whole, as much of their biomantic work is, but even the most senior biomancer will fetch you drinks with perfect servility if asked.

But still, the task most commonly associated with Apprentices is oversight of the Drones.

And drones are Fucking Horrifying.

A servitor is a person. A complete personality with thoughts, opinions, tactical awareness, strategic depth. Sculpted, directed, focused, but an independent sentient life.

A drone is none of that. A drone is a biomantic robot. Ranks of thousands of armoured shells line the walls, crouching in foetal positions, stacked on top of each other on pallets. Inside them is a mass of pink slime, more fungus than meat. Quickened by the right signal and that slime will condense into muscles, growing into its pre-built exoskeleton. It will not develop a brain, it will not develop an immune system, it will not develop a digestive system. It'll operate on a basic logic of move and kill until it starves to death or dies of bacterial infection a few days later. Incredibly efficient, incredibly lethal, incredibly cheap, incredibly easy to store long term.

But because drones are so simple and so disposable, they're also what's given to Apprentices to experiment on. With the right DNA-overwriting retrovirals you can give a drone wings or horns, make it grow four legs rather than two, alter its colour, change its imprinted instincts - even make one intelligent, though that is not recommended on your first few tries. It's the opportunity to work on a creature from scratch and wipe the slate clean if you accidentally create something unviable. Sufficiently complex custom drones are often seen as bodyguards, lab assistants, or even as templates for species modification. Perhaps unexpectedly, senior biomancers rarely have interesting custom drones - their work is on a complete species so they don't have time to do the kind of tinkering needed to create one-off masterworks.

What no one volunteers is why the Biomancers maintain tens of thousands of these things.

Breathless Dead

Mosaic!

Amidst the brightness of the day, there's trouble. Unfamiliar faces in the crowd - no, not unfamiliar. That glittering crystal scent and taste. Rosedam... the town of Rosedam, it's the next settlement over. Not just a few of them either, there must be more than a score. Normally you'd see some of them on market day, and maybe sometimes one or two will be visiting, but it's not like they can stay. Servitors belong to the land, after all - free migration would cause inefficient pockets of labour.

"There's at least forty of them," Sunflower tells you. She's an old friend from the road and keeps her ear to the ground for things like this. She looks so young in that bright yellow dress it's easy to forget the wrinkles on her face. "They're asking around for accommodation, transport, even hukou," hukou - residency permits. A stamped document matched to a plastic tag generally worn on the ear like an earring. The law does regular sweeps for people violating their hukou - being caught in the wrong village outside a dedicated market day is like getting a parking ticket. "Rumour is that Rosedam's going to be turned over to the Surveyor."

Ember!

It's a slow day in the Skies. They're all slow days. Slow enough for a wing of Covii to pull you over.

The Covii are relics compared to the Ceronians, unsuited for purpose, overbuilt. They were designed for deep void and zero gravity operations - stocky, hairless, covered in pitch-black radiation absorbent feathers - but the changes went too deep. More modern warrior species can adapt between different biomes on the fly but the Covii are locked in to their single area of mastery. Obsolete on a species level, used to patrol backwaters like this, but still numerous enough to bully an unarmed Ceronian.

Half a dozen of them hover above the road - their grav-rails never turn off. Even just seeing how they turn to look at you from behind their faceless, reflective black masks lets you know that they'll grill you for hours just for something to do.

Battle Servitors

Battle Servitors
Various obsolete, poorly maintained, or last-generation servitor designs.
Following Orders: This stat must be damaged twice when the Trooper is in a Group, Gang, or Army.

Dolce!

For all the work put into the food, the Mayor seems to give twice as much attention to the chairs. He circles the entire room, sometimes touching the cushions to check them for softness. In the end he gestures and points and his bodyguards descend on the second-best chair, tearing it into smithereens and piling the stuffing into a heap on top of the best. Only then does the Mayor finally sit. There's a genuine contentment in how he does it, just a moment where he closes his eyes and smiles and is at peace with the world.

Then he gestures and his bodyguards begin clearing the rest of the room.

Tables, chairs, cutlery, everything goes directly out the windows. A space is to be cleared. The Mayor is holding court here today. Already a line of petitioners is forming.

But first enters your double.

All of the servitors of your line look almost identical. Only the red number spray-painted onto the cheek, repeated on the ear tag - 20022 - gives any indication of uniqueness. Where the mayor is grand he is simply dressed, an ill-fitting suit, a plastic folder full of paper, and an atmosphere that is deferential without being cringing or servile. He could be your clone. He bows to the mayor, then takes his place at his left hand.

Your role here is to ensure the mayor's cup is never dry and his plate is never clean while he holds court. 20022 stands by the Mayor's side quietly as they both listen to the petitioners. Each time before the mayor speaks 20022 leans in to whisper into his ear.

"Mayor Kaspar, my daughter wishes to take the trials for uplifting into the glorious ranks of the Covii."
"Your other daughter failed the trials when she made eye contact with the Crystal Knight during inspection. The world of Rosefang will not insult the Skies so a second time. Denied."

"Mayor Kaspar, I represent the Royal Surveyor. We have discovered a vein of titanium crystals under the town of Rosedam but require labour to begin extracting it."
"The town and its population will be offered in perpetuity to the office of the Royal Surveyor."

"Mayor Kaspar, the Princess Redana was overheard arguing with Lady Triden about the aesthetics of the Lyri. The Princess found them charming, the Lady found them annoying."
"Princess Redana is a guest and so her tastes take priority for now. However, arrange for the Lyri to be arrested and shipped to Rosedam as soon as she departs."

On and on it goes, this succession of judgements. Beneath all of them is that same indifferent cruelty that had your furniture tossed aside to make the space more grand for the mayor to sit. The Skies exist for a purpose and Mayor Kaspar, with the perfect memory of 20022 to guide him, never for a moment forgets that purpose.

Dyssia!

"Biomantic ability transfer is profoundly unreliable," said Tidal Specialist. "No, if a Pix steals a job she's unready for then she'll have her badge stripped by her superior once her failures are noticed. In ideal situations this acts as encouragement for everyone to train themselves as hard as possible for the jobs they intend to occupy."

The seafloor is coming up into view quickly as the beach rapidly approaches. Soon afterwards your heads are breaching the water and in the distance the monolithic arrow slab of the Pix Battleship is seen looming in the near horizon above the molten crater where there once was a mountain.

"Which is to say, it's entirely possible to learn enough biomancy to get by," she said with a wink. "And if the topic interests you, how about you give it a study? Maybe it's the path of mastery you've been searching for all this time?"