[b]Dolce![/b]

"This is the sort of thing that is debated at great lengths internally in the Service," said 20022. "The answer, to a degree, flows down from the top. At the absolute top is the Saoshyant, the monarch-prophet of the Skies. She appoints from her court a series of Ministers, some overseeing particular sectors or geographic areas, some overseeing concepts like military readiness or planetary terraforming. I am a member of the Ministry of Planetary Repair. These Ministers set policy and define glory and hold absolute power over their Ministries, though much of what they do is filtered through the Secretaries of each Ministry, who are like us."

This... the Tides of Poseidon were the same, weren't they? You remember from a dream. The eaters of worlds, the shattering bureaucracy that tried to break the stars of man. Just another extension of the Azura system of government.

"While Ministers come and go, Secretaries are eternal - until retirement - which give them a lot of power and discretion," said 20022. "If the Minister demands results, then the Secretary must produce those results, but it is often up to them to decide how that will be done. The Secretary then further delegates down the line, until they reach me. If a member of the public objects to one of my decisions they can challenge me legally, at which point my manager would assess the decision. If they agree with me, then the citizen can either drop their complaint or escalate it to the next rank. Some complaints do get escalated all the way to the Minister, who can order entire branches decommissioned if they are overstepping or ineffective."

"But, there is still a lot of room for self expression and personalization of results," said 20022. "So, what does glory mean for me? It means reducing the time that this world spends cut off from the Skies as a war-scarred backwater from centuries to decades. To look at a thriving, interconnected planet sitting astride major commercial slipway lanes would be glorious to me, I think."

[b]Dyssia![/b]

If you told the ancients of the distant past that twenty thousand years from their birth wars would be waged with pike and muscle they might have assumed that nothing would have changed. War would be war, they would think, as eternal and unshifting as the seasons. That kinship in weapons would mean a kinship in results.

They would have to be told that every soldier in fifty thousand fought like a God to even begin to understand.

The Pix are an armed and armoured warrior species at the height of their power. Their designers hoped not just to match but surpass the legendary Wolves of Ceron. It is not with perfect teamwork that they fight, like the wolves, but with perfect ambition. Every soldier of the line has trained in secret to for every role in case the opportunity to steal a badge and advance should arrive. This makes each soldier a strategos. It makes the movements of the formation one of unparalleled genius. Armies in ancient days needed to suppress the instincts of their soldiers, slave their collective will to a single commander, rendering the vast masses inert and brainless. Not here. There are no orders here, not even any communication. Everyone just [i]knows [/i]when to turn a flank, when to retreat, when to charge. No mass of people ever moved anything like this.

The drones come in waves.

Drones are not independent life forms. They need to be tended and quickened by the Biomancers. In the distance you can see the Biomancer [i]Wayang[/i] - their shadow-puppets, tall and spindly avatars of bone and flesh, hands thick with chemical dispensers. They walk amongst still-stirring drones, surrounded by their massive sentinel bodyguards, injecting stimulants and balancing unstable growth patterns. They are like artillerymen loading shells, and when they are ready they release a silent mass of flesh and stone like a single shot.

There is cunning in them, too. Their tools are brainless but they are not, and their weapon is crude but they know when to hold it in reserve and when to fire so quickly that poorly grown drones collapse and are trampled by their fellows before they even hit the Pix lines.

Now and then a particularly brilliant maneuver of the Pix will see a fox or a squad strike deep enough to butcher the Wayang; they fall apart in fountains of yoghurt-like nutrient slurry and pheromone gland bursts that send their sentinel protectors clawing at the remains in blind confusion. It's heartening. Every hour feels like a victory. The morning feels like a triumph. No one is tired. The stamina of the gods and perfect force rotation keeps everyone in fighting shape.

But they are millions still.