Matter (Culture, #8)

by Iain M. Banks

“Still,” the drone said, sounding weary, “we should have done more.” “Should we.” “Yes. You ought to have let me do a proper decapitation.” “No,” Anaplian said. “Just the nobles,” the drone said. “The guys right at the front. The ones who came up with their spiffing war plans in the first place.”

A passing fancy, probably. Or art. They confuse such terms. They confuse us, too. It may be deliberate. Possibly too long an association with the Oct, who are most adept at lateral thinking but seemingly incapable of anything but lateral expression, too; were there a prize for least-translatable galactic species, the Oct would win every cycle, though of course their acceptance speeches would be pure gibberish.

A temple was worth a dozen barracks; a militia man carrying a gun could control a small unarmed crowd only for as long as he was present; however, a single priest could put a policeman inside the head of every one of their flock, for ever.