[b]Dolce![/b]

"I think there is simply no alternative," said 20022. "No species can survive having absolute control over life itself without either descending or ascending above what it once was. The Molechian Empire, and soon the Shogunate, are descending. Unregulated personalist rule leads to madness, and madness killed half the galaxy in the ultimate act of hubris. If civilization does not have a higher ideal than mere pleasure then it will be destroyed by those whose pleasure is the love of war."

He thought. "But you asked me how I feel about it," he said. "Well. I suppose I feel an overwhelming feeling of fortune, gratitude and deep and abiding self-worth whenever I act in accordance with my Function. It's just a little background glow to my life. I've been told it's a similar effect to romantic coitus, but I've never been tempted to experiment in that direction."

[b]Dyssia![/b]

Amidst the wreckage of the ship, light reflecting in broken metal, solidifies a rainbow.

The Crystal Dragons are marvels. Not only is their digital breath capable of communicating reams of data over vast distances, but they can convert their own bodies into that strange light. Their wings are not solid, and should not be functional, being as they are made from that semiethereal projection of concentrated knowledge - and from the wings inwards reforms Brightberry, rising above the destruction like an omen. She soars.

Her hexpattern breath sweeps the army, cataloguing in instants the ranks of soldiers and their armaments. The light flashes over you briefly, a sparkling after-effect bathing the world for a second. The light has condensed down into a steady, constant beam - a communication link, like she might send to another dragon. As the flow maintains she starts to broaden it out into the shape of letters appearing on the ground in front of you; a one-way transmission of data, even as she continues to circle over the wreckage of the Firetree. She intends to stay up there and provide information.

And what she can tell you is that the drones are being activated.

Already some of them scuttle across the exterior of the ship, scouting swarms, moving like ants. They leave pheromone trails in their paths as they map out interior and exterior for trace and trail. Inside the core of the ship you can feel the logic train trundle towards its inevitable conclusion. We don't [i]want [/i]to decommission the Pix but they were borderline to begin with, containment has been breached and if we don't act now then they will become invasive, and besides, a live-fire exercise against a full drone swarm might be just the thing to test their capabilities in full... 

Which means that great valves will be thrown. Enormous tanks full of nutrient slurry will empty into vast pipes. Each drone will have semifused muscle fibre, quadranix-laced fat cells, and adrenal hormones fill its body. Fungal cell cultures from into shapes of hunger and rage given no mouths to feed and no voice to scream. The nightmare will begin to stir. And the biomancers, with all the careful preparation of doctors performing surgery, will martial their forces.

But looking around you, you see no sign that any of the clone infiltrators are involved in any attempt to undermine the Pix. Biomancers need to balance the inclusion of safeguards and reduced battlefield performance, and one of the reformations to boost the Pix towards viability was full formation instinct. With the drums of war starting to sound the infiltrators forget their hidden purposes and lock shields with the rest. There will be no enemy within during this fight. 

The Pix are drawing up battle lines, scouts dashing out to investigate the area for ideal choke points, calculating the flow of the wind and inventorying heavy and esoteric weapons. None of them see the thin laser line reach out from the distance and strike Brightberry. She glows in its light briefly, and then forwards it through to you. 

TO THE CONDEMNED. DO NOT DESPAIR. THE GALAXY STANDS WITH YOU. 

SURVIVE.