Kali - WIP and brief scale check
War in Hypercolour
Specifically, the empires of Kacylis and Arkaedos, home to ten thousand, trillion pan-human personalities, fifty thousand in light years away, in distance and time. This epoch in history known as "K-Dos".
Some say K-Dos are the dregs of human kind, the ones too comfortable or too insensate to transcend into other realities.
Others say that K-Dos is the last Pan-Human anchor, forever destined to spawn new excessions, into realms not yet realised.
However, one thing now known, is that after a thousand years of contact and peace, the existence of either empire, or both, most come to an end.
And for empires to end, for civilizations to wage war, people must once again, learn how to die.
Welcome to the Hypercolour War.
A storm is coming.
The strike squadrons creed
"You'll be wet-wired with 27 implants whilst genetic re-sequencing changes the colour of your blood.
Your bones will no longer break under G's, your flesh will no longer boil in vacuum and your minds will no longer suck in combat. Your personalities will combine with your ship, you will become a machine of war, a Starfighter. And in those moments, those heartbeats in which a world of ocean could be boiled or the entire course of humanity irrevocably altered by the most mundane of your assets; I will teach you how not to lose your shit.
And yes, we will fold the fabric of the universe, breathe the atmosphere of suns and use the echos from possible futures to experience a reality so vast that your prior experiences would be like that of an unborn child.
But understand this, our enemy is formidable, they are intelligent, experienced, highly motivated and have been watching us for a very long time.
I am Topley and I will be your instructor. In a Strike Squadron you will need to know many things, but above all, you will learn one thing so well that in the darkest crevices in your mind, a purpose etched with the clarity of a diamond can chime like a bell, delivering you from a certain, meaningless death.
That purpose is Chaos; You are the harbingers of Chaos. Deliver this onto the enemy and you will control. Repeat! Chaos is their confusion and my control."
The room jarred as the recruits barked back the phase to the instructor.
"That was your introduction, I will see you again in several days, until then, dismissed."
- The strike squadrons creed. - Heartbeat
(BTW It's best if you read that half like a drill instructor, and half like an evangelical preacher. 
)
BTW, feel free to visit my new site, please let me know what you think, still tinkering with the layout as it is.
A passage from 'Look to Windward'
Never forget I am not this silver body, Mahrai. I am not an animal brain, I am not even some attempt to produce an AI through software running on a computer. I am a Culture Mind. We are close to gods, and on the far side. ‘We are quicker; we live faster and more completely than you do, with so many more senses, such a greater store of memories and at such a fine level of detail. We die more slowly, and we die more completely, too. Never forget I have had the chance to compare and contrast the ways of dying.’
It looked away for a moment. The Orbital streamed past above their heads. Nothing stayed in sight for longer than the blink of an eye. The underground car tracks were blurs. The impression of speed was colossal. Ziller looked down. The stars appeared now to be stationary.
He’d done the maths in his head before they entered the module. Their speed relative to the Orbital was now about a hundred and ten kilometres per second. Long-range express car-trains would still be overtaking them; the module would take an entire day to circle the world hovering here, while Hub’s travel-time guarantee was no more than two hours from any express port to any other, and a three-hour journey from any given sub-Plate access point to another.
‘I have watched people die in exhaustive and penetrative detail,’ the avatar continued. ‘I have felt for them. Did you know that true subjective time is measured in the minimum duration of demonstrably separate thoughts? Per second, a human - or a Chelgrian - might have twenty or thirty, even in the heightened state of extreme distress associated with the process of dying in pain.’
The avatar’s eyes seemed to shine. It came forward, closer to his face by the breadth of a hand.
‘Whereas I,’ it whispered, ‘have billions.’
It smiled, and something in its expression made Ziller clench his teeth. ‘I watched those poor wretches die in the slowest of slow motion and I knew even as I watched that it was I who’d killed them, who was at that moment engaged in the process of killing them. For a thing like me to kill one of them or one of you is a very, very easy thing to do, and, as I discovered, absolutely disgusting. Just as I need never wonder what it is like to die, so I need never wonder what it is like to kill, Ziller, because I have done it, and it is a wasteful, graceless, worthless and hateful thing to have to do.
‘And, as you might imagine, I consider that I have an obligation to discharge. I fully intend to spend the rest of my existence here as Masaq’ Hub for as long as I’m needed or until I’m no longer welcome, forever keeping an eye to windward for approaching storms and just generally protecting this quaint circle of fragile little bodies and the vulnerable little brains they house from whatever harm a big dumb mechanical universe or any consciously malevolent force might happen or wish to visit upon them, specifically because I know how appallingly easy they are to destroy.
I will give my life to save theirs, if it should ever come to that. And give it gladly, happily, too, knowing that the trade was entirely worth the debt I incurred eight hundred years ago, back in Arm One-Six.’
Look to Windward - Iain Banks.