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[NUKE9.13]

My point (if I've failed to get it across) is that we are applying human ideals and methods of thinking to an alien species.  If we reach the points where Drones can obtain enough independence to effectively vote (under the right circumstances), then I feel we've strayed too far from what makes the Hivers an alien species.

I understand where you're coming from. I'll try to explain my point of view, briefly.

I have several reasons for preferring my version. One, unfortunately, is basically that it is indeed a somewhat less alien concept. That is, it's more relatable; easier to get one's head around. Which, in a way, makes it more exotic, I think- if something is completely foreign, it becomes meaningless, but if there are aspects that are recognisable, the bits that are different are more glaring. Plus, for the purposes of interacting with the other factions, I think having there be some common ground is useful, just to make things more interesting.
Also, I find morally ambiguous factions more interesting, and your version of drones has basically no moral ambiguity. 
Also also, it just feels more realistic to me. Having some members of a species be sapient, and other members totally lacking in even the capacity for sapience is just weird. I mean, even in the Hymenoptera family, the workers have (vestigial) reproductive systems- and in most other eusocial animals, the workers are genetically the same as the royalty, but have their reproductive systems suppressed using pheromones. So it makes more sense- especially if we're going by the Precursor lore that states that Hivers are descended from non-eusocial sapient insects- that drones have 'vestigial' sapience, as it were.

[Madman198237]

Weighing in with my two cents here:

I know it's been floated a couple times, and I've already expressed my opinion on the matter, but I am fundamentally opposed to religion (organized or otherwise) in Hiver society.  What's more, I think I've finally figured out why the concept bothers me so much.

Organized Religion has historically been a method in which a small subset of humans can influence the actions of a larger subset of humans, either for good, ill, or otherwise.  It imposes restrictions on how to think, how to believe, and how to behave.  I think the reason I'm very much against religion for [We] is because I think this concept is redundant with regards to how Hiver society works.  There already is a mechanism with which to control large subsections of the population.  The Drones don't need to think of the Queen as God, she already is God.  Furthermore, they shouldn't even have the spare time to consider that possibility, since their brains are tapped for thought cycles.  And even if they did consider the possibility, their society is 100% geared towards this caste system.  They don't have a reason to oppose their place in society because it's wired into their very DNA.  An enlightened Drone would have no way to affect change, nor should he have a reason to oppose his position. He simply is.  He is cog, fundamentally inferior to Princes, who are fundamentally inferior to those above them.

My point (if I've failed to get it across) is that we are applying human ideals and methods of thinking to an alien species.  If we reach the points where Drones can obtain enough independence to effectively vote (under the right circumstances), then I feel we've strayed too far from what makes the Hivers an alien species.

Little late to this discussion but I really do like eS' point of view on this subject.

[NUKE9.13]

We discussed it on Discord. This is basically the result:

A note of clarification regarding drones.
There has been some confusion regarding the status of drones. There has been some debate within our team on the issue. We have reached a consensus, which I will now explain.
The confusion was thus: are drones fully sapient beings that are just brain-washed into serving as slaves for the higher castes, or are they biological robots with not an iota of free will? The answer to this "or" question is no. Drones are neither fully-sapient slaves, nor mindless robots.
The thing is, in order to be able to function as workers for the colony, drones need to be smart enough to function semi-independently. This, by necessity, makes them smart enough to question their lot in life. However, it does not make them smart enough to actually reach a sensible conclusion doing so. Rather, a drone that starts to contemplate the meaning of life will quickly find its small, primitive mind tangled up in concepts beyond its comprehension- thereby crippling the drone, making it a much less effective worker, and causing it unnecessary distress to boot. It is, therefore, necessary for drones to be 'educated' as to their role in life- to have their primitive minds hammered out into a perfect tool, free from the want or need to contemplate matters beyond its scope.

[evictedSaint]

[We]

One of Many.

He was one of many, and he would perform his role.

Beta Combat Drone 22, of Batch 309, of Queen 1, of Queen 3, of Queen 1, of Queen 2, of Queen 1, of Queen 1, was of the [Sky Breaker] Lineage.
 
Although it would be an honor far beyond his station to give him an informal name, we will refer to this particular cog as BC22.
 
BC22 was a pilot. 
 
He was one of many, and he would perform his role.
 
In particular, he was one of the six hundred or so fighters in the Hiver Task Force Fleet 1.  His current Queen was not his [Mother Queen], but instead the [Mother Queen] of his [Mother Queen] – the [Grand Mother Queen].  As ordered, he’d changed the nature of his allegiance to serve the [Grand Mother Queen] and perform his role in the fleet as best he was able.
 
At the moment, his role was to sit in this dark, cramped space and wait.  Machinery kept him alive.  Nutrients, water, and air came through a tube.  Waste left through a different tube.  The space was kept at a survivable temperature, and he had just enough free space to periodically stretch and tone his limbs.  His brain was routinely tapped to perform mundane calculations, keeping his mind active.  Time passed, and he continued to exist. 
 
In this way, BC22 performed his role - as was expected of him.
 
He had no thoughts on the matter.  There was nothing to think about. 
 
He was one of many, and he would perform his role.
 
Today, his role would be something different.  The [Grand Mother Queen] had given commands to the fleet, most of which did not concern him.  Those commands which did concern him were not for him, but instead for the Prince who commanded him. 
 
Regardless of whether or not these commands concerned him, BC22 was not concerned.
 
He was one of many, and he would perform his role.
 
He was aware, of course.  What parts of his brain weren’t occupied with performing parallel calculations for those above were free to consider the implications of what was happening.  He could tap into the psicom network freely and observe, though with limited awareness.  Battle was coming.  His role would become more important, and he would be able serve his [Grand Mother Queen] in a more direct fashion.  This made BC22 happy.
 
As a Drone – a Beta Combat Drone, no less – BC22 didn’t have particularly complex emotions.  He could feel joy, anger, and despair.  They were muted, compared to the rainbow of emotions a human or Prince might feel.  It was a step above basic gray-scale.  Shallow, basic, and just enough to perform the evolutionary reactions that drove an organisms default self-preservation instincts.
 
Regardless of complexity, BC22 was happy.
 
The psionic communications field rippled as commands flowed throughout, and subtle shifts in the gravitation field indicated the ship was maneuvering.  A Prince – his Prince, aboard one of the Deliverance carriers – looped into BC22’s psionic awareness.  It was a brief tap, simply requesting a status report and familiarizing himself with the Drones under his command.  BC22 dutifully returned his status, as requested. 
 
Systems are functional, as per last analysis.
Last analysis performed 0.08 cycles ago.
Biological readings are stable.
Relentless is loaded.
Relentless is fueled.
This Drone will perform his role.
 
The looped connection remained in place as the Prince shifted his focus to the next drone in the Fist.  BC22’s Fist contained twenty-five Relentless fighters, loaded with anti-fighter armaments.  They were managed by their Prince, who was managed by another Prince, who was managed by the Princess commanding the Deliverance, who was managed by the [Grand Mother Queen] commanding the Wrath.  There were many Drones and Princes and Princesses.  Everyone performed their role.
 
The psionic command loop tensed as orders trickled down the line.  BC22 easily brought his Relentless Star Fighter online as ordered – these fighter craft were kept in standby mode in perpetuity and could be launched in a moments notice.  His helmet blinked and chittered softly as the screens lit up and data feeds populated the HUD.  Most of that data would be singular; tuned to his craft and his immediate objectives.  Fuel, status reports, weapon readings, targeting and ballistics data, navigation pipelines – everything he would need to perform his task.  His Prince would handle Fist-scale tactics.  That Prince’s Prince would handle Wing-scale tactics.  That Prince’s Princess would handle Complement-scale tactics.  And that Princess’s Queen would handle Battle Fleet-scale tactics.

Each were one of many, and each would perform their role.

BC22 could feel a dull boom…boom…boom…as the railways launched fighters into the local battlespace.  He could sense the accompanying blip extension on his psicom as other elements of his Fist were launched first.  His turn was coming.  He braced himself.

The umbilical chord, which fed his fightercraft air, power, fuel, nutrients, and everything else BC22 needed to continue living, detached.  From that moment on, BC22 was on a timer.  Until that umbilical chord was reattached, he would be burning down the hours, minutes, and seconds of life he had left.  All of it in service of the [Grand Mother Queen].

He was one of many, and he would perform his role.

The Relentless shifted, dropping down and fitting into the rails the moment they were clear.  He only had a moment to brace himself, then 16 G’s of acceleration slammed him into his gravity couch.  The Deliverance’s railgun had launched him free of the ship, out of the localized gravity well, and hurtling towards the cluster of Relentless Star Fighters which made up his Fist.  His body, tuned and shaped specifically for these types of forces, struggled to keep conscious.  Despite the brutal launch, BC22 felt the order come across the psicom and laid down on the throttle.  Massive chemical engines fired, giving him no relief from the chitin-bending acceleration.  He was one of the last to be launched, and he had to rejoin the Fist.

He regrouped with the other Relentless craft just as the Deliverance’s Bore Genesis bloomed open; effervescent, glowing like a radioactive scar in the fabric of time and space.  He and more than four-hundred other Relentless Star Fighters blasted through the hole in reality, and battle was joined.

The sudden shift from the glowing Bore Genesis to an entirely different location in reality would have been disorienting, but the psionic control dismissed the instinctive confusion immediately.  There was red work to be done, and his Prince had no time for uncertain Drones.  Ahead of him, BC22 could see three glowing Bore Termini illuminated on his HUD.  Ships of various sizes slid through, each glowing on his HUD as potential targets.  The [Enemy].  [Invaders].  [Interlopers].

The [Silent].
 
The rising vitriol he felt was squashed instantly.  His Prince calmly smoothed that distraction flat, and BC22 was focused once more.  Loaded with anti-fighter armaments, he would be engaged with the strange, non-organic drones the [Silent Invaders] used.  The strike fighters with their Tremor torpedoes would be engaging the large ships.  BC22 was ready. 

He was one of many, and he would perform his role.
 
Two glowing streaks of light carved a burning swath down the screen of his HUD.  The Wrath had fired, unleashing its fury on the creatures which so resembled those who had attempted to exterminate them, so long ago.  Elation was again crushed flat by his Prince, but a sense of [Righteous Pride] lingered.  The [Sunbeams] had hit, hurting the [Silent].  They had struck the first blow.  The [Interlopers] had been injured.  [We] would not die so easily.

More streaks crossed his screens, but they were unimportant.  His Fist had been tasked to join with the enemy fighter squadrons.  His Prince had decided that the beams of light bridging the distance between the two fleets was not relevant to his mission, and so BC22 focused on his task at hand. 

Gaian Hornets were small, unarmored, and [Silent].  They were [Prey] in every sense of the word.  Nimble, but BC22 knew how to deal with that.  His Relentless tilted briefly as an LRM detached from his craft and went streaking towards the Hornet his Prince had assigned to him.  As expected, a small cut appeared in the fabric of reality, and the enemy Drone Bored out of the way.  The LRM, deprived of its rightful prey, spiraled aimlessly into the void.  BC22 was not caught off-guard, and calmly fired his second missile.  The Hornets could be beaten.  His Prince had told him how.  All around him, kilometers away, other elements of his Fist fired their weapons too.  Missiles exploded among the enemy Drones, killing anything caught within range.  BC22 hit his target, and with the gentle nudge from his Prince he fired a third time. 

At this point, the fighters had closed the distance to the point where the [Silent] were within effective range of his dual laser cannons.  He fired, swapping between targets as the first erupted into a cloud of debris.  His third missile had struck home, and by the time he’d drawn a bead on his next target BC22 had scored three kills.

As one, his Fist abruptly turned and burned their engines.

Hornet shattergun charges rippled through his Fist.  BC22 and his fellow Drones performed evasive maneuvers, but he could feel a dozen blips vanish off his psicom.  The maneuver was unexpected, and it didn’t make any sense – they were winning!  The [Silent] Hornets were vanishing into clouds of debris, the battle would be over so soon!  Why had his Prince ordered him to abandon the fight?

He was one of many, and he would perform his role.

The strike fighters had missed their target, firing well in advance and wasting their torpedoes.  Caught in the lurch, they were easy targets for Gaian shatterguns.  BC22 launched two more LRM’s, nailing one, then two of the Hornets focused on the decelerating Relentless strike fighters.  This marked his fifth kill.  BC22 had just Aced himself – a meaningless concept for Drones, Gaian and Hiver alike.

He briefly wondered if the battle was going well, but that thought was stricken from his mind.  Red work to be done.  No time for distractions.

BC22 laid down hard on the stick, sending the nose of his fighter down.  Secondary arms manipulated the orientation controls, and his four legs expertly adjusted the lateral positioning jets.  Shrapnel zipped past his craft, mere meters away.  Death was evaded, and his usefulness could yet persist.  Laser cannons thrummed, their capacitors overfull with power siphoned from his engines.  Another Hornet went down, and then he was firing at a frigate.  The lasers took on a deeper whine as they switched to high-power mode, and small specks of fire erupted on the zoomed portion of his HUD. 

Damage was being done to the enemy, but his Prince knew it wasn’t enough.  Nowhere near enough.  Missiles exploded kilometers away, and monowire ripped a bloody swath through what was left of his Fist.  BC22’s HUD beeped with alarm as a few strands cut into his fighter, but the damage was superficial.  A missile destroyed, air supply ruptured.  He lived still, but his Fist was gone.  His usefulness could continue, but it would be without his Brood-mates

Just like that, his Prince was his Prince no longer.  The sudden static only lasted a split second, and during that moment of unfocused thought BC22 realized the Deliverance holding his Prince had vanished in a cloud of nuclear fire.  The moment ended, and that thought was gone.  BC22 found himself folded into a new Fist, formed of other shattered Fists.  Fellow Drones lit up his psicom as he was looped in under a new Prince’s command.  His Fist was at full strength once more.  Scattered and damaged, but at full strength.

He was one of many, and he would perform his role.

Navigation plotted a line towards the Wrath.  Without thinking twice, BC22 pushed his battered Relentless and carved a path towards where he was needed.  The rest of his Fist joined him, entering formation.  Those who still had LRM’s fired them as soon as they entered range, and the twinkle of laser cannons illuminated the enemy specks on his HUD.

Where was the Wrath?  There it was – where was the Deliverance carriers?  Why were they not screening them?  If they were dying, then surely he and his Fist was needed, right?  The [Grand Mother Queen] commanded the Wrath, surely she could protect herself.  If they were being sent to cover the Wrath, just how bad was it?

The uncertainty and growing fear blossomed, and for a moment BC22 ran the serious risk of losing sight of his task at hand.  But his Prince – his Prince smoothed those worries away. His mind sharpened, and his focus was once more in control.

Lines of glowing fire, blooms of venting atmosphere, shrapnel and wire and pale red snow filled the hungry vacuum outside his craft.  The Hornets were no longer the focus; they were gone, more or less.  BC22 and his brethren had driven them to extinction, just like so many other threats on Regalis.  The [Silent] ships were his target, and his last LRM ripped across the expanse.  It exploded harmlessly on the thick forward armor of the enemy corvette, but he followed it with laser blasts regardless.  His entire Fist – the entire Fleet – was firing on these ships.  BC22 didn’t even have the spare brain cycles to contemplate why until a moment later.

The silence was uncanny.  The scale of the collision was massive – far larger than his Heads Up Display could do justice.  Burning atmosphere gushed out of the gaping wounds and the Wrath twisted from the sudden impact.  Then another shining blade stabbed into the [Grand Mother Queen].  And another.  And Another.

A moment passed, and nuclear fire billowed from the gaping wounds with an intensity that made BC22’s screens flicker.   

The [Queen] lived. 

Trembling relief trickled throughout the fleet.  The [Queen] lived.  The [Silent] had won the battle – masterfully, but by an incredible stroke of luck the [Queen] still lived.  The few ships that remained loitered uncertainly, wondering what awaited.  Would they be able to flee? Would the [Silent] demand the fleet as spoils?  The [Grand Mother Queen] would undoubtedly refuse, but other terms could be reached.  The ship was little more than a skeleton adrift in space, but they still had carriers and fighters.  They could still hurt the [Silent].  That was a position of some strength, which could lend leverage to negotiating the nature of the [Queen’s] [Checkmate].

The Prince above BC22 was a novice to allow such thoughts to run unchecked through a Drones head.  He plugged away idly at [Silent] ships loitering nearby, playing out the final moments of his life as those above him contemplated the [Checkmate].  He would die soon, or be ordered to stand down.  His last remaining usefulness existed solely to prick the [Silent] during these last seconds, to draw what blood he could. 

But [Checkmate] never came.

After all, the [Silent] don’t negotiate.

Beams of light arched through the dust-filled vacuum and cut into the crippled Wrath.  One after another, they sliced and cut and dug.  It didn’t take long for them to implement their clumsy execution, but there was no mistaking it when it was finished.  The death of the [Grand Mother Queen] felt like a hole being punched straight through BC22’s thorax.

All throughout the system, every single Hiver had the same reaction.  Loss, powerful and overwhelming.  Disbelief, shocked outrage.  The fumble of psionic orders as the most senior of the surviving Princesses assumed control. 

Feeling very empty, BC22 turned his Relentless and opened the throttle to rendezvous with the remaining carriers for their retreat.  That half-contemplated maneuver was aborted instantly.  Those who could not be recovered would buy time for those who could.

BC22 could not be recovered.

He was one of many, and he would perform his role.

His Relentless turned around and fired, running the capacitors dry.  Condensed light slammed into the enemy frigates, doing little damage.  That didn’t matter – BC22 was doing what they needed him to.  He drew attention, and he made pursuit dangerous.  Without even really noticing it, he was folded into a new Fist, consisting of all those who would be left behind.  For as long as the carriers remained in the system, they fought as one.  Coordinated, focusing fire, slipping and burning and doing everything in their power to draw one more drop of blood from the [Silent].  To hurt them one last time.  To buy time for the others to escape.

His Fist crumbled as monowire and shattergun charges ripped through. 

When the last carrier exited the system, what cohesion the last few members of his Fist had fell apart.  BC22, his mind now free to think, thought of nothing.  He picked his targets at random and fired at the center of mass.  He dodged what he could, but without someone there to feed him the bigger picture there was very little he was capable of.  His death was not a glamorous last stand.  Within seconds of the carriers leaving, a wall of shrapnel caught him by surprise.  BC22 was no more.

He was one of many, and he had performed his role.

[Strider03]

Another attempt at some lore.

Prince 13.2.5.1 moved through the cavernous lab silently and efficiently, attention flicking rapidly between machinery, data readouts, and the faint murmur of Drone minds. He was ever suspicious of the Drones, and for good reason. They would follow his orders relentlessly, even to the death, but they couldn't deal with the unpredictable. And in a lab, the unpredictable was routine. He could control perhaps ten or fifteen Drones at an intimate level, puppeting their every motion around the lab. But beyond those few, he could only direct, a fundamental limitation of Princehood. Every order he gave was at a high level, calling on the Queen's education of a Drone, and any time his expectation of a Drone's training and its reality differed, the complications ensued. 771, carting a transfer arm across the lab, was an able bodied Drone, 13.2.5.1 reflected, and quite tentative in most things. Its movements were cautious, and it made conscious effort to take the most circuitous paths through the lab, to avoid all chance of accident. Fitting for a lab Drone. Regardless of its care though, 771 was subject to the limitations of all Drones. A few days ago the replacement gaskets, delivered in perfect condition, had been ruined by the Drone, simply because they were of a slightly different type and required a slightly more intensive installation

771 had been caught following the old procedure, but only after the majority of the batch was ruined. Some misstep in communication. The Queen expected 13.2.5.1 to supervise the menial task perhaps, and therefore neglected to adjust the Drones programming for the off chance that maybe, just maybe the Prince would be distracted by the twelve other simultaneous tasks and seventy-six further Drones all requiring supervision.

13.2.5.1 had to be moving, always, watchful, always. At the XAS station 112 and 5154 were manipulating a sample, the former showing off to the latter. They were used to the system, and the Prince was ninety percent certain they wouldn't stick their heads in front of the beam, or open things while the system was still under vacuum. Yet, more unusual errors had occurred. There was a chance, and he could not afford to end up short-staffed, or dealing with two new unknown Drones each with their own quirks. Drone losses did not reflect well on a lab.

Skittering back to the other end of the lab, he flung an order at a triplet of Drones who'd just indicated that they'd finished a set of measurements. 13.2.5.1 tossed out mental direction to begin preparing for a new set of measurements. <485 monitor pressure, alert when five by ten to the negative nine. 486 increment the energy in steps size [0.2] up to [16.6]. Alert when finished. 771 bring IS-017 supply, sample plate and two part LH adhesive.> The Prince considered a moment, then appended the thought <Haste>. Otherwise he'd be waiting five minutes for that Drone to finish its winding "safe" path through the carved stone lab.

More orders. He would prepare the sample himself, and he needed all the Drones busy on tasks that wouldn't tax their little brains too much. Drone 771 made its way to a supply cabinet, tentatively stepping over wires, and making the utmost effort to keep from bumping into his fellow Drones. The sample was unnecessarily carried above the timid Drone's head in its effort to keep out of the way of the others. The Prince felt a stab of irritation at even the supposedly hastened pace of the Drone, but it was quickly suppressed.

<Here, set it down, hurry. Now check 515 at XAS, like this?> The Prince pulled up an image on one of the computers built into the wall, and left it up for the Drone to see.

Meanwhile, the Prince himself slid a metal table out from the rough hewn wall, inbuilt nozzles coating the table in volatile decontamination compounds. When the stinging scent of the solution had dispersed and the table was dry, he set the sealed container of the sample on it. First, a generous dousing of preparatory solvent on the tools. Then, with gentle movements, the Prince assembled his sample. Quick and practiced. 13.2.5.1 had done this a thousand times, and he hoped he'd do it a thousand more. He stared at the sample a few moments as solvent obediently evaporated away, before handing it off to a Drone. <Initiate sample transfer, begin prep for standard XPS measurement.>

The Prince jumped up and, dodging between protruding analyzers and ports of various machines, hurried over to one of the data analysis computers. Before he'd crossed half the lab though he noted a Drone motionless near one of the entryways. This Drone exuded an absurdly austere presence, some combination of posture and the faint signals of its mind. It might have been amusing if 13.2.5.1 had not known what this Drone's presence signified.

The Princess, 1.2.5.1. His supervisor. 13.2.5.1 started, and tripped over a set of exposed wires upon noticing the Drone. Keeping a wary eye on the Drone, the Prince picked himself up, and rushed on to the computer. When had the Drone entered? He did not recall. The Prince had at most three minutes till the Princess's arrival, perhaps less. He could not waste a moment.

The spectral data had been preprocessed by the Drones. Basic noise removal, background removal, peak characterization, anything rote. Some of the peaks were wrong, of course. The Prince had foolishly hoped otherwise. The Drones had access to the basic theoretical data, but no real understanding of how that data might shift in anything that wasn't an ideal pure element. The sample was nowhere near that simple, and unavoidably, the Drones had erred. The correction took but a few seconds, but every second counted when efficiency was analyzed. The Prince checked that the binding energy scale was properly calibrated, then tabulated the offset of the peak. Quickly, quickly. Maybe a minute left? Next, the window to analyze integrated intensity differences--

And the Princess entered. The Prince was instantly at attention. Nothing physical, there was no elaborate physical show except his retreat from the computer. The respect was apparent simply through his complete and undivided mental attention. It was only proper. The Drones around the room, in the small capacity that they were able, did the same. Something that always struck the Prince as petty, given that they were likely only be doing so at the direct control of the Princess herself. At least she took care not to pull the Drones from tasks where they were urgently needed.

<Greetings--> The Prince began psionically, admiration and honor flowing through the thought, half formality, half his own ingrained feelings.

He was instantly interrupted.

{Start.}

He was to begin his report. It was stated curtly, the mental conversation unfolding in exactly the same manner as two days ago during his last inspection, and the majority of previous ones.

13.2.5.1 complied immediately.

. . . next performed in house Neutron Activation Analysis (NAA) measurements utilizing k0 standardized nuclear decay data provided by Reactor Kepp-Delta. . . NAA results are compared with corresponding Optical Atomic Spectroscopy (OAS) measurements from Lab L7,5.1.12.2. We determine the presence of the following. . .

Similar to NAA measurements on IS-011, all identified isotopes are in naturally occurring ratios save ⁷⁸Ge. Similar to IS-011, samples remain stable in spite of the presence of ⁷⁸Ge. Presence of decay products was measured with RIC-110 radiation detector, and indicated . . . Our results are consistent with previous measurements (See Lab 2,4.4.3.1; Lab 6,7.2.4), and no further consideration is given to divining sample composition.

...

It is clearly observed that the 3d 5/2 peak positions shift with incident E-field, approaching a global maximum around. . . For E< 20 kV/m the peak positions do not shift and. . .indicating two regions of interest, E~30 kV/m, and E> 36 kV/m. It is uncertain whether E> 40 kV/m exhibits similar trends, as this regime is inaccessible with our in house equipment. It is recommended that this region be examined at other beamlines possessing the necessary field production capacity.

...

Results during past two days support speculation that IS-017 displays tunable phonon amplification under applied electric fields at E~30 kV/m in lattice orientation. . .There is high possibility of application within microelectronic and nanoscale mechanical systems.

The report, compiled from the measurements of the previous two days, continued for some time. Most Princesses had no need for such technical data, of course. But Princes did not have the mental capacity to transfer such copious amounts of data within a manageable timeframe, and so this two step process, extraction from Prince by Princess, and delivery by Princess to the general collective, was necessary.

As the probing reached its conclusion, 13.2.5.1 allowed his mind to wander, now that distractions could no longer contaminate the report. His Princess something of an oddity, in the fact that she routinely visited the lab. For one who supervised perhaps fifteen Princes with many inspections a day, and was revered as Princesses were, the tendency was to summon the Prince away from the lab for reports. The work of a Princess was of so much greater importance, any consideration of efficiency showed that traveling should be done by the Prince. But Princess 1.2.5.1 tended to visit the labs. Some pride, some feeling of superiority to other Princesses? Some enjoyment in the fact that she, unlike the majority, knew the labs, understood how each apparatus worked, and fully understood every detail of what her Princes discovered?

It was an explanation that the Prince had built on over the course of many previous visits, accounting for the Princess's exceptionally evident pride. The question and the answer he favored had long been turned over in his head, but he had never considered it when the Princess was present. In a moment, mild panic flooded through him, as he realized that fact. She would have known he had pondered this question before, but what an embarassment to do so directly in front of her, when every active thought of his being was exposed the second it appeared.

Both his ideas and his fleeting panic were clear to the Princess, the Prince himself was certain. But the only response they garnered was a twinge of amusement. He didn't discover this hint of amusement in the Princess's mind of course. The Prince was merely allowed to witness it, as though he was the butt of some unknowable joke. He'd long been certain that any feelings that came across the link were entirely preplanned; nothing revealed was accidental.

Without warning, the Princess's laughter ceased. In its place appeared a towering wall of disappointment. So sudden was it that the Prince could not discern any transition point, a mark of great skill. This demonstration of skill was not, could not be recognized by the Prince. Every synapse of his brain at that moment was vibrating with this message of immeasurable failure. All planned, over done for effect perhaps, but again that realization did nothing for the Prince. It did not erase the crushing weight of his insuffiency. He was failing his Queen.

{You're behind.}

The experience of him proudly informing her two days ago about his intentions modify the LEEM system for angle resolved measurements, and his expectation of having first measurements at the next meeting. His compliance to a request that he complete a measurement for a different lab which didn't have the equipment. Out of the six items he'd hoped to have results for within two days, two of them were delayed. And this wasn't the first time, he'd fallen behind thrice within the last month.

And then, sensations of other Princes' reports, vague but full of progress. They were succeeding, why not he? Why could he not match them?

And finally, memories from the battlefield, the true cost of every one of his delays and failures.

It hurt of course, but the Prince did not crumble immediately. Each of the failures the Princess had shown had a reason. Tt was not that he was overestimating his own abilities. In large part it was the fault of the Drones, and some very unfortunate luck. He didn't have the ability to control their every move, at most he could guide a few of them at once. Every other one had to be instructed, every one had to be given some command that would trigger training the Queen had prepared. The Drones' "training" was excellent of course, the Queen could not help but create excellence. But there were too many of them, and they seemed, with uncanny frequency, to find themselves in situations where their instructions were outdated, resulting in significant, though not catastrophic, delays. Penitently, the Prince struggled to explain.

<. . .Unexpected delays. UHV seals ruined by 771, regretfully did not catch the misunderstanding in time. Neglected to consider 486's lack of prior experience with electron lens systems. Replacement sample delivery was delayed. 1211 accidentally depowered electron analyzer.>

The Prince addressed each of his failures that the Princess had shown, in order. The Princess slowly, over the course of these statements, allowed more and more disapproval to show.

{Excuses. Can you not take responsibility?} The disappointment that bled through grew more oppressive.

<I'm sorry. I-->. The Princess interrupted.

{Are you not better than a Drone, can you not handle their failings?} Again, those sensations of the other Princes reports. Succeeding where he could not.

<But, it's. . . How can I do--> His thoughts were a confusion, concepts tumbling over and interrupting eachother, all trying to explain that it wasn't his fault. Through them all, the Princess cut again.

{Drones will falter. A competent Prince is expected to succeed in spite of them, not because they've done the work while he merely directed.} A quick link showing himself next to the Princess, and then the Drones next to him.

How could he though? So often these issues seemed to happen, and always in new unexpected ways, he simply couldn't keep up.

<It's. . .>

<It's too much. Far too much.> 13.2.5.1 tried to let his own sensations feed through, attempting to expand his control over the Drones, influence petering out after a few dozen.

<I need lower. . .take some of the Drones away, less. Give me less. Let--I. . .>

It was no use hiding any of this, he was transparent to the Princess in every respect. The fear was mounting, and he had very little dignity left to lose, so in this moment of panic, he begged. He'd never done it before, he'd never been so distraught in front of the Princess.

<Please. . .please don't recycle me.>

The Princess was mentally silent, inscrutable.

<. . .please.> The Prince asked, hating himself for this weakness, this fear, the humiliation of pleading like this. The Drones behind him continued their work, oblivious.

{Relax.}

With a single word, the Prince was flooded with a wave of two emotions the Princess. The pair was contradictory, one announcing his abilities, declaring him useful, the other minimizing him. He was pathetic, inconsequential, useful and exceptional. It didn't make sense, how could he be praised after these failures? But the incongruity didn't matter. He was useful; the Princess's mind could not be wrong. Praise and pity washed over him, and each was so much more powerful than his own feelings. The praise was euphoric, and in a way, so was the pity. He was insignificant next to the Princess, and the Queen, and was given great honor to serve them. How could he help but glory in the fact that he served them?


The rush of emotions was unstoppable, but deep in the recesses of his mind, there simmered resentment. He was not in control, these were not his feelings, and yet he could do nothing but bask in them as the Princess showered them on him. That seed of anger was noticed. The Princess told him it was noticed. Her only response was the faintest mocking laughter.

The Princess took her leave, and the Prince, still overwhelmed, returned dutifully, happily, to work.


{13.2.5.1 is behind again.}

Such was the essence of the information which Princess 1.2.5.1 passed on to her Queen. Contained within that message was a complete instantaneous summary of the whole interaction.

|Good. Signs of anger, but controlled, repressed. This method will work well for a few years yet.|

The Queen's mind resonated with utility predictions about the Prince, and likely damage he could cause.

In that brief exchange and others like it before, much had passed. Each knew that the Prince was competent, exceptionally so. Research required a certain measure of inspiration and independent drive, rarely so strong as in 13.2.5.1. A willingness and more importantly, a desire to try things which he had not explicitly been commanded to try. Yet at the same time, that hint of rejection the Princess always sensed in his mind could not be allowed to grow.

His fear would be nurtured, and in his fear he would work with all his might to make himself too useful to recycle. The threat of recycling was kept ever present in his mind, the Drones were made to cause him issues, and his task load was infeasible. Though purposeful sabotage, continuous delays, and manipulative derision of the Prince might feed his hidden resentment, it would remain useless. Nothing could be done without free time, and the Prince had no time, and would never be allowed any. When every hour of every day was a struggle and a fight for survival, plans for rebellion would never take hold.

The Queen expertly played the scales that balanced his insurrection prone mind, and his exceptional, though limited, scientific output. This was the optimal route. The Prince would be used as long as possible while still keeping his results as high as possible. In two years perhaps, this resentment would grow enough that the Prince might attempt some halfhearted measures. But they would fail, and then he would be recycled.

Rebellion needed a plan, and a brilliant one, and Prince 13.2.5.1 would never be given the time to even think about making a plan.

{It is an effective measure.} Stated the Inquisitor to the Queen respectfully, and the two passed on to other work.

[evictedSaint]

[We]

Sixteen Saga

Sixteen knew she was dead.
 
She’d known that since she’d first conceived the plot to rebel.  Every step of her plan held the potential for failure, and on the harsh and unforgiving world of Regalis “failure” was analogous with “death”.  It was something every rebellious Princess had to come to terms with.  Even after her plan had worked and she’d been given a provisional “Queen” status, that lingering spectre of failure clung to her carapace like spiderthread.  She might fail in battle.  Her ship might fail her.  Her stolen crew might fail.  The [Council] might fail to find her worthy, once all was said and done.  Each and every failure would be death, and the end to her story.
 
She hadn’t expected to die like this, though.  Perhaps instead she would have died locked in battle with a superior [Silent] fleet, or in a sudden coup after the war was won.  Maybe her engines, stressed and fatigued, would cascade into a lethal explosion.  But to die and take the survival of the Hiver civilization with her?  No – somehow, in the back of her mind, she’d always believed they would pull through and end the off-world threat.  It was almost embarrassing, really.  They’d been caught in the same trap that had destroyed the enemy’s fleet in the [Second Invasion].  An ignoble death, signaling the end of not just her Queendom, but the Hivers as a whole.
 
So, regardless of how it happened or who came with her, Sixteen knew she would die here.
 
The four [Silent] Destroyers wasted no time in opening fire on the vulnerable Carrier elements in Sixteen’s task force.  The Carriers, in response, had launched everything they had left.  Relentless strike teams cut erratic patterns through space, burning all the fuel they had just to get a bit closer to launch their ordinance.  Railgun slugs painted yellow streaks against the black backdrop, and another Carrier went down.
 
Sixteen and her fellow Wrath wheeled their ships around instinctively to get their Sunbeams oriented towards the [Silent] threat.  The beams fired piecemeal at the enemy, impacting with an explosive flourish.  One Destroyer broke up after a belabored death rattle, but the bolstered armor on the other three managed to keep them alive a bit longer.  Another hole signature registered on the planet’s surface, and once more a beam of destruction blasted through the thick blanket atmosphere and through another Hiver ship.  Luckily for Sixteen, this beam was targeting the primary task force, not her.
 
Unluckily, this marked the third planetary installation which could annihilate ships in orbit.  There was no deadzone – the [Silent] had 360 coverage.  There was no stable orbit which could protect them the [Silent]’s anti-ship emplacements
 
Sixteen watched the display, counting down the seconds until her Sunbeams were cool enough to fire again.  She took this rare moment of pause to consider the [Silent].  It didn’t make any sense!  The [Silent] had the Hiver fleet trapped.  Neither Sixteen nor the rest of the fleet could get out of range of the [Silent]’s planetary defenses – their effective range was too far, and it would take too long to get into cover.  The fleet would be cut to ribbons the whole time they retreated.  Moreover, with three known installations, the [Silent] had full coverage of all orbital trajectories around their planet.  There was no place to hide.  If the destruction of the Hiver fleet was assured, then why were the enemy Destroyers – with their apparent ability to reposition anywhere within the system – engaging?  Why would they throw away ships and crew when planetary defenses could do the job alone?
 
The obvious answer, of course, was that they were distractions – they were covering for some flaw, some weakness.  Something that could be exploited.  The Hiver fleet must therefor be capable of exploiting that weakness.  And the [Silent] Destroyers were targeting the Carriers…
 
[Task Force 2 <Orders>][Weapons Crew <Tremors>][Orders <Refit (All)(Tremors {Atmo Caps})>][Priority <1>]

Sixteen had no real authority over her Task Force.  Despite the division, the Fleet Commander was still technically in control over every element of the fleet.  Sixteen was overstepping her bounds – dangerously so, in fact.  A soft crackle rippled over the psicoms at her order, and the sudden focus of the Fleet Commander bore down on her.  It was an unsettling focus; the displeasure of a Queen whose attention was centered around one, disobedient Drone.

But the focus passed a moment later.  It was a wordless, passive acknowledgement.  The Fleet Commander had tacitly ceded authority of Task Force 2 to Sixteen, at least for the moment.  That didn’t mean there wouldn’t be a punishment for breaking the chain of command, but the distant future wasn’t the most pressing thing on her mind.  Sixteen had been bold, and that boldness was rewarded with control of the second Task Force…or what was left of it, at least.

Relentless strike-fighters exhausted their ordinance and fuel scratching and pecking the [Silent] Destroyers, but without time to rearm with more torpedoes they were just playing out the clock.  Sixteen and the last other remaining Wrath came off cool-down at around the same time and ended another Destroyer with a brilliant flash of artificial sunlight.  It was too little, too late – the carriers were already torn to ribbons.  Though damaged, the two remaining Destroyers were still capable of tearing holes into the fabric of space and fleeing.  Sixteen watched them disappear off the display with a flash of annoyance, then turned her attention to the reports rolling in on her psicoms.

Damage to her ship was mostly superfiscial, but the carrier elements were either gone or mission-killed.  The remaining Relentless attempted to regroup, but without any place to land the pilots would expire before they could be recollected.  But, most importantly, the Tremor launchers aboard the Wrath Cruisers had been overhauled.  Atmospheric caps had been fitted.  They were ready to commence orbital bombardment.

There was no point in waiting.  Sixteen gave the order and both cruisers dropped their payload – targeting those curious above-ground hive where the [Silent] weapon had fired from.

Seventy-two Tremor-class nuclear torpedoes exited the starships and immediately began their deceleration burns.  It took the torpedoes a few minutes to slow down enough to fall out of orbit.  Too long, as it turned out.  The torpedoes had just grown long red tails in the upper atmosphere when another hole signature lit up on the display.  There was a flash of light – like a laser pointer, swung wildly through fog. 

Seventy-two Tremor-class non-nuclear explosions erupted in the upper atmosphere as the [Silent]’s anti-ship installation targeted each one in turn.  An additional explosion silently glowed on screen as the beam settled finally on the other Wrath in Sixteen’s task force.

Having expended a great deal of energy taking out the orbital bombardment, the weapon wasn’t as devastatingly lethal as it had been the past three times.  This explosion was more subdued and drawn-out as the nuclear reactors onboard failed containment one after another.  The Queen commanding the ship had enough time to compose a final psionic message as she died.  Black, dark, fury.  Frustration.  Regret.  Even fear, as the nuclear fires finally pushed into the bridge.  And then, just a scream.

Sixteen let a moment pass in silence.  It was not out of respect for the fallen Queen, but instead from the absolute failure that had spelled her death.  Even if they could overwhelm the planetary defenses with enough torpedoes, it didn’t matter at this point.  Most of the nuclear ordinance had been onboard the carriers, and the volley from two cruisers hadn't been enough - let alone one.  The [Silent] had already won. 

This…was not how a Queen thinks.  This is not how a Queen should think.  Sixteen’s manipulators gripped the arms of her gravity couch hard enough to make the composite creak.

She was a Queen.  She was not dead.  She would not give in so soon.

<Return fire. Sunbeam, starboard side. Target [Silent] Installation.>

The command went through easily, and the Wrath rolled a few degrees starboard to give the Sunbeam a line of fire.  There was a moment of pause, and then a whining hum as the capacitors discharged.  The golden beam of sunlight cut down through the gulf of space.  It never reached its target; the dense atmosphere of the [Silent] homeworld diffused the Maser beam before it could touch down.  Sixteen’s frustration began to mount as she scanned the data feed.  The atmosphere was dense, and laden with water vapor.  Combined with the oblique angle they were firing at, there was no way they could give the [Silent] below anything more than a sunburn.  Failure.

Of course, that did beg the question – if their beam-based weaponry couldn’t penetrate the atmosphere with any measurable success, how were the [Silent] able to fire out?

<[Silent] Ground-Based Anti-Ship Installations – capable of firing through atmosphere?  Hypothesis: weapon magnitude?>

{Negative - readings indicate atmospheric shifting prior to Firing Events.  Nature appears unclear – perhaps charging ionized elements in the atmosphere? Creating low-pressure pathways for attack vectors?}

The faint tendrils of an idea entered Sixteen’s brain.

<Time Delta: [Silent] Installation 1 – Firing Events 1 and 2?>

{14 minutes, 36 seconds between Firing Events.  Time required for Successful Nuclear Orbital Bombardments exceeds [Silent] Installation 1 Time Delta.}

Her last remaining Prince had clearly been considering the same problem she had, but Sixteen was already a step ahead of him.

<Assuming 14:36 cool-down for all [Silent] Installations.  Projected Time until [Silent] Installation 2 Firing Event 2?>

{5 minutes, 12 seconds.}

<ORDER: Reposition ship between Installation 2 and remaining elements of Task Force 1 prior to [Silent] Installation 2 Firing Event 2.>

{Negative.}

Sixteen froze.  Drones all throughout the ship flinched as a sudden, wordless fury washed over them.  The Prince, already overloaded with handling more Drones than he was really capable of, trembled.  Every single flinch from every single Drone rippled through his psionic senses at once.  Upon realizing that he had perhaps been too curt with his Queen, he immediately bowed his head and elaborated.

{Engine fatigue limiting max acceleration.  Critical systems failure chance exceeding 60% with Overdrive.  Unable to reach requested rendezvous without undue risk.}

This time the fury was not from being dismissed by a subordinate out of hand.  It was not from being told “no”, or even directed outwards at the [Silent] threat, so far below. No – the cold, dark, wordless fury was simply because Sixteen couldn’t believe she had to give the same order twice.  It was the displeasure of a Queen whose attention was centered around one, disobedient Drone.

<Then run  the   engines   until   they    fucking    MELT.>

The full force of her psionic will slammed through the Prince and the rest of the ship at large.  Drones doubled their intensity at their work stations and scurried with the abject panic that could only be brought on by the ire of an angry Queen.  The Wrath – Sixteen’s Wrath – flared her engines.  Pushed to their absolute limit, they accelerated the tortured mass of steel and flesh through the irradiated vacuum above the [Silent] homeworld.  Reports began to roll in immediately as the engines began to slowly crumble from the overdrive.  The entire psionic conversation had taken but a precious second to transpire, but Sixteen was furious they’d wasted even that much time.  If they could get to the rendezvous before the second installation fired again, that could be one more ship saved from destruction.  Maybe even her ship.  Maybe it would tip the tides.  There was no way for her to be sure this gamble would pay off any better than her last one, but that was not how a Queen thinks.  That’s not how a Queen should think.

Sixteen still couldn’t help but consider the possibility of failure.

<Tremor status?>

{Torpedo bays reloaded.  On your command.}

The planet crawled by at an agonizingly slow rate.  The screens fed her data like an IV drip.  Seconds, crew reports, weapon statuses, fuel supplies; everything was just noise, at this point. The reports warning of growing stress fractures consuming the burning engines didn’t even seem real. Even the orbital trajectory plot seemed more like a piece of abstract art than anything significant, slowly growing from a tight circle into an oblong ellipse. 

<Launch Tremors.  Prepare Sunbeam, port side. Target Installation 2.  Let’s get their attention.>

Sixteen knew she was dead.

The only question now was if she could make her death worth something.

{Tremors launched.  Beginning their deceleration burn.  [Silent] Installation 2 Firing Event 2 projected to occur imminently.}

<Open fire as soon as the hole signature appears.  Disable the Installation.>

{Acknowledged.}

The engines continued to burn, crawling the ship closer and closer.  Unlike the [Silent], her beams weren’t tuned for firing through ionized atmosphere.  The shorter the distance they could fire, they better their chances would be.  Sixteen sat in silence.  Her will connected with every Drone aboard her ship in a psionic prayer.  They would succeed.  The [Silent] threat would be eliminated.  The engines would hold out, for just a few more seconds.

Just a few more seconds.

Just a few more.

Just.

One.

More.

The next second was the longest second Sixteen had ever known.  A blip – so small she might have missed it – lit up on her screen.  The capacitors whined as the Sunbeam fired.  Thirty-six nuclear torpedoes blew up somewhere in the upper stratosphere of the [Silent] homeworld.  A particle beam punched through the atmosphere and drilled a hole through her Wrath.  The engines, already held together with nothing more than prayer, failed catastrophically.

Sixteen didn’t find out if she’d managed to destroy the [Silent] Installation with her last-ditch effort.  She simply didn’t have time.  Multiple large-scale explosions rocked her ship and flung her from her chair.  As Sixteen tumbled towards the console on the far side of the bridge she couldn’t help but feel the looming spectre of failure wrap his chitinous arms around her.

She didn’t even have time to scream before the world went dark.

And then...nothing.

[evictedSaint]

WIP

The Drones were moving quickly, but the Queen layered another helping of urgency through the psionic connection. She flickered from the eyes of one Prince to another, her lifeless, ghostly eyes surveying the damage. There was blood - too much blood. Wordlessly, one of the Drones stepped up and a Prince deftly jabbed a needle into the soft, waxy joint between the plates of its armored carapace. Blood filled the connected tube, helped along in part by a small pump. The other end plugged into the shattered, wrecked body of Princess 8, of Queen 1, of Queen 1, of Queen 1, of Queen 1.

Princess 8 was dying. The attack had been brutal, and simply the latest tragedy in a long and bloody clan war. Her bravery had been remarkable - without her, the barricades would have been overrun and the colony sacked. She had held the line and commanded the Drones and Princes with a fury that made the Queen proud to call her 'daughter'.

But now, she was dying. The wounds were grevious, consisting mostly of lacerations and burns, and Hiver medical knowledge had never advaneed as rapidly as the other fields of science. The Drones and Princes she'd pulled for this task were scanning the archives as they worked, literally learning as they went. The Queen had her influence packed into every available neutron. Scores of other Drones poured through available data records in parallel. Equipment was being gathered and space was being cleared.

The Drones deposited Princess 8 on a workbenches right as a Drone finished sanitizing it. The Alpha, who had served as the crash cart, chattered softly and left the room. A dozen more drones and every Prince the Queen could spare filled the room in its absence.

Princess 8 was the last. Her sisters had all perished in one fashion or another - the clan war in particular had claimed a large number of her kin. The Queen was old, and would not be producing any further heirs. Princess 8 was the last of her line.

The Drone serving as the current bloodbag wavered, then teetered, then stumbled. Another Drone stepped forward like clockwork and took over as it crashed to the floor and was dragged off. It was sloppy. The Queen should have replaced him sooner. An order was placed to have a third Drone on standby for a blood transfusion, and selecting the fourth and fifth was delegated to one of the younger Princes. The Queen turned her attention to the Princess in the mean time.

A faint tendril of psionic will trickled up from the Princess like a tendril of smoke. It was weak, delirious, and scared - horribly scared. The Queen quietly wrapped her will around that tendril before it could try to influence one of the Drones and gave a soft, reassuring squeeze.

<Mother?>

The tendril relaxed with a palpable wave of relief, but the fear was still there. Pain was easy enough to soothe away, but fear...fear was always a difficult thing to remove, even from Drones. The Queen simply held on tightly. She would do what she can.

A Prince with recently sterilized manipulators buzzed curiously around the cracked plating covering the Princess's thorax. Attending Drones wiped away blood as it oozed out and probed at the wounds when prompted. The second bloodbag Drone wavered, but was replaced before he could collapse. The wounds were extensive. The Queen drew up analysis as she guided the examination. Chances of survival, of long-term injury, of mental function, weighing the success rate of different proceedures... it was chilling to see just how badly hurt her last, living daughter was.

Surgery lasted for nearly twenty hours. It was the most mentally exhausting feat the Queen had ever performed, and fresh Drones and Princes had to be rotated in. Favors were called in from neighboring clan members to help guard against future attacks while her attention was focused. Drone after Drone after Drone fed their blood into the Princess's arteries before being replaced. Wounds were cleaned, stitched, bandaged. There was even a transplant performed - two Princes surrendered their blood filters to be sewn into the Princess, hoping that two of their smaller organs might provide an adequate replacement for the larger Princess-sized one. Three times the attending Drones had to manually restart the Princess's blood pump using a hastily-converted battery.

And all the while, that faint tendril of psionic will grew weaker and weaker in the Queen's grasp.

<I'm scared.>

The Queen paused, unsure how to respond. She said nothing back, and instead gave another psionic squeeze. The silent reply wasn't nearly as reassuring as she'd hoped it would be, and the Princess's will took on the sharp, metallic tang of newly honed fear.

<I don't want to go.>