One man holds sway over a micronation. He is king and prelate both, elected by his peers, and the latest in an ancient line of elected men. He is bent with age, his knees creak as he walks. His nation is not large, less than half a square kilometer. You can walk about its borders in a few hours, faster if you are from a highly mobile species. Perhaps a thousand sentients of all species live within his borders. He is not a strong man, and his micronation only has enough force to police its few streets and the visitors that come to see his artworks.

And yet this old man is accorded the respect of planet-leaders and faction-masters the world over. It is a puzzling thing, this shadow-power, this “influence” as the humans call it. It is not a thing of plasma bolt or kinetic interdictor, not a thing of ship or soldier. The old man moves unimpeded through most of explored space, guarded closely by a dedicated few, speaking to the mighty and the meek alike.

The true power of the old man is revealed only when you consider how he is regarded and by whom. One sentient in ten follows the ancient creed which he oversees, albeit in a distant sort of way; as a caretaker and tradition-keeper. Three sentients in ten follow similar creeds, and perhaps a further three in ten follow a different creed, or none at all, and yet acord the old man with great respect.

And it is from this respect that the old man’s shadow-power springs. He is a relic of a bygone ages, his creed changed beyond all recognition from its foundations, but his micronation endures protected by others. Because who wants to pick a fight with a micronation that seven-tenths of your population would choose to defend if given the choice?