There is a level of suffering that I am quite used to, and then there is working with Caiatl's bureaucracy.

Moving this battle rifle platform through Caiatl's latest round of trials has dampened my spirits. Competition against the other foundries typically lifts my spirits, but not this time. I find myself wishing something terrible would happen to me. Maybe I will be struck by a meteor, so I no longer must suffer the signatures they ask of me in duplicate, triplicate, etc., etc.

The Cabal marched into empire not just because of their legions, but also thanks to their armies of quartermasters, logisticians, factory-masters, armorers, and so on; their soldiers brought the stars to heel, yes, but only because of that greater force that kept them fed, fueled, and stocked with ordinance. One would think the soldiers of the Cabal to be arrogant, but in this twilight age of their state, I've found that the haughtiest and most entitled of the Cabal are the bureaucrats!

They stand in the way of progress, clutching their columns, tables, and limits like a border guard and his rifle. When I want to give soldiers what they ask for, some quartermaster lumbers over to tell me that I must not, for it would be too expensive. Small! Small minds who don't dream, but think in terms of cost, capital, and limits. Discard your limits, factory-masters and accountants. Follow your heart!

Father, when I can get him to emerge from his tinkerer's shed, only mutters about how we must cling to Tex Mechanica's "brand" of old-world class and style. Father's a sentimental dope, and I'm sick of having to wait for his nod of approval. In the old world, people killed each other with less. They threw rocks. They fought with sticks. It's time for us to make something new. Until I run Tex Mechanica, I will push the firm into the future, despite him. I will follow the voices of soldiers and those who dare. That is how one keeps reverence for what came before, by responding to the will of the masses, who compose the very institutions these moribund leaders claim to represent!

Father eventually will understand. He must. Until then, I find camaraderie in the field. Bracus Lume, my liaison and the commander of the test unit that fields my weapon, understands and agrees. We have spent long hours together discussing many things. He serves as a muse to me: a rogue in uniform. He respects Caiatl, as a soldier must submit to their commander, but through his words, I can pick out the shape of his true intentions. He paints inspiring images of the Cabal before Calus, when they—as Lume so poetically put it—"made an empire in tribute to the sun." Brave Bracus Lume has dreams, like me. Dreams of liberation, of rousing history and leading it forward. Torobatl, their empire—I am moved by his vision, how similar it is to my own.

What weapon would we need to build to realize the aspirations of dreamers like Lume? That is what I ask of my designers and engineers. Imagine a weapon to be carried into the breach and beyond. A tool as mighty as the ones who wield it. Make Lume a weapon that he is proud to carry and let me be the vessel through which it is delivered. Of course, there is marketing in this thought but I don't think of my ask as something that base. We make weapons, not sugary drinks. We give power a body, milling it from inert metal into an implement that shakes the columns of reality itself. The bark of our beasts makes kings and tyrants just as mortal as the lowest of us. I want "Tex Mechanica" stamped on the side of the liberator's gun. I want us to be the engine of history. So, we begin with Lume.

I will continue to tilt at those bureaucratic windmills, but I think now, at least, I do it with a steadfast squire as company. Together, we'll score a victory over that class of manicured, deskbound elites. They might think they can control the world with the stroke of a pen, a perfected spreadsheet, or the tweak of an allowance, but we'll show them that people with dreams should be the ones to make decisions. People united, individuals of supreme motivation, who wrest the tiller of history away from those who would prefer to crouch on their piles of Glimmer instead.
It is time for dreamers to lead in a direction of their choosing.