[b]Mosaic![/b] 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. [b]Ember![/b] 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. [b]Dolce![/b] "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." [b]Dyssia![/b] 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 [i]anybody's[/i] 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.