ã€ŠAshes of Eternityã€‹


 Chapter 1: The Endless Dark [A]

    The monolith tumbled through space. Its path was aimless, and it was hundreds of light years from any star. It was a broken shell, a piece of what was supposed to be a sphere, but was larger than any planet. One edge of the curved monolith was a mess of melted girders, each girder a thousand kilometers wide and ten times as long. The other edges were broken, shattered from the cataclysm that had destroyed it. It had been part of a ringworld once, one that had been expanding into a Dyson Sphere. Now it was a lifeless husk.

    Or it was a lifeless husk if one did not know what to look for. Inside the broken eggshell that was large enough to have its own gravity, ghost cities and towns surrounded by lifeless parks and frozen forests. Vast tracts of land were barren wastelands, and immense factories and industrial fabricators lay silent. Huge reserves of materials, the wealth of a hundred star systems, lay unused. Giant weapons dotted the outer curve, their vast firepower capable of decimating entire fleets now cold and silent.

    Once, this monolith had been the crowning achievement of the Imperium Aeternus, the Eternal Empire. The palace was larger than any city, with hundreds of thousands of people living within it. It stood within a cavernous region so large that its sky hid the hundred-kilometer thick armor, and it was lit by an artificial sun that was dimmed for a simulated night. It had its own weather patterns, its own seasons, dictated on a schedule for the convenience of all. Rain fell onto the palace¡¯s parks and supporting villages in the evenings, and snow was forbidden from falling on the roads. All of this wonder was lost. Now a hole into space replaced the sky, and the palace was in ruins.

    But if one were to dig deep enough, down into the oldest part of the monolith, there was a section that had been part of the ringworld. Here, the huge parks still housed frozen, lifeless trees and dessicated grass. Instead of cities, there was a palace under what had been an endless sky. Deep inside this palace, there was movement.

    Automatons still moved, even after a thousand years of destitution. Drones running on ancient commands and operating with only the tiniest fraction of power than they had been designed for still tried to make repairs, battling back against the ravages of space and time. One automaton endlessly swept clean a throne room that was sealed by happenstance from any external influences, its limited power allowing it to clean one square meter of space per day, despite its already immaculate condition. The only dust it could gather was the minute scrape of marble as its endless sweeping slowly wore down the material, and like water against stone, the floor was flawlessly smooth, almost softened, by the tireless attention over centuries.

    Deeper still, beneath that throne room, was a medical facility. It had been part of the Eternal Emperor¡¯s private suite of rooms. This private suite was far more modest than one would expect of a man who had single-handedly built the Imperium from a single world with an almost unlivable, harsh environment. He had turned that world into the start of an empire that had spanned a hundred thousand planets and a half-million star systems. His pioneering breakthroughs in science and technology had gone unmatched in the centuries since, and yet he had not lived like an interstellar despot. His suite had a handful of bedrooms of modest size, a large library that acted as his private study, a kitchen and live-in suite for his chef and the chef¡¯s family, a research lab, and a modest medical facility. It was modestly appointed, with no public receiving space, and few luxuries.

    In this medical suite were two medical pods. The indicator lights on one indicated that it was in low-power stasis mode, but all other indicators were green and healthy. This pod was wedged into a corner, a mass of cables and cobbled-together devices snarled around the legs that supported it. It had never been intended to be in this room, for this room was dedicated to the health of the Princeps, the First Citizen and Emperor of the Imperium Aeternus.

    The second medical pod was far larger and complex than the first. It had been state-of-the-art even by Old Imperium standards, and in the current markets of the universe, could be sold for enough wealth to enrich anyone. Its indicators, too, showed it to be in low-power stasis mode. Its health indicators were a mass of red and orange, and its electronic supporting units sparked with damage.

    Four drones moved slowly in and out of this room. The drones had far more capability than the simple automatons in the palace above. The automatons had simple instructions, many attempting to fulfill repairs or perform cleaning in buildings that were simply gutted and demolished. In one building that had once served as an embassy, a plumbing automaton had been trying to repair a faucet in a bathroom, unable to understand why its request for water service had gone unanswered for a thousand years. But the drones servicing the medical facility were so far above these simple machines it was like comparing an ant to chimpanzee in complexity.

    The drones worked without ceasing, albeit at a bare snail¡¯s pace. If the automatons moved slow, the drones moved even slower. They needed power for more than movement, after all. They had been given directives, not specific commands, and had the intelligence to determine the best way to carry them out. This planning, these calculations, required energy, and thus slowed their movements. Yet time and patience lent an inevitability to their actions.

    Repairs to the medical pod¡¯s support systems had come first, followed by a constant replenishment of the raw materials and stockpiled supplies that had to be fed to it. But like everything else, now that the shattered palace¡¯s main power supply was gone, the pod operated at the bare minimum of capability. The stasis field kept the patient alive, but barely. The regenerative fields were offline, the surgical reconstruction routines unused. The medical pod maintained palliative care, keeping the patient stable and without pain, locked in an eternal slumber as befitted the once Eternal Emperor.

    This tiny hum of life in the otherwise lifeless husk could have stumbled on for many more millenia. The talents of the Imperium engineers and designers had guaranteed that. Unlike the cheap consumerism that flourished in non-Imperium space back when the Imperium was alive and well, and often ran rampant in modern times, the Imperium had invested heavily in the future. It had plans extending not years or decades, but centuries. But eventually, the tiny emergency power cores would die, and so would the medical pods.

    Call it a stroke a luck, if you¡¯d like. Universalists would call it a second chance granted by the Universe. Fatalists would say this was preordained and must happen. Most would just call it chance. One of the drones ran into an automaton in its search for supplies, and recognized that the automaton¡¯s function was far less vital than the medical supplies. The drone ordered the automaton to stand down and surrender its emergency power core.

    This added boost of power would do nothing for the medical pod. But it did wonders for the drone. Now able to offload its critical functions to a secondary power supply, the drone was able to travel further than before. The drone had learned of a new power source, so began to hunt automatons.

    When the drone had collected enough power cores, it returned to the medical facility. The palace was even more lifeless than before; the surviving automatons were now as lifeless as the monolith they existed inside of. With its now large collection of power cores, the drone handed a few out to its compatriots, then enlisted them in wiring them in to the long-dead main power feed. Once the cores were in place, they re-enabled the feed, and the medical pod drew deeply of energy it had been denied for so long.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    One by one, the indicator lights blinked from red to orange. Surgical arms cut away damaged flesh and removed foreign objects from the body of the medical pod¡¯s occupant. Artificial blood plasma replaced bodily fluids, and torn organs were stitched back together at the cellular level. Once the holes and major damage was repaired, the regenerative fields turned on. These fields accelerated natural healing processes, taking hours what would have taken nature days to do, lifting the stasis field just enough to heal the body, without waking the patient.

    After long hours of surgery, and many days of recovery, the last indicator turned green. This triggered a directive for the drones. One of the drones went to the second medical pod, the one that had been haphazardly added to one corner of the room. With a few typed commands, the stasis field dropped. A male voice screamed in agony at the harsh drop from stasis into reality. This had not been a medically induced stasis field. He¡¯d gone under, wide awake and cognizant of the pain he¡¯d experience when his body jump started and tried to function as if it hadn¡¯t been frozen in place for a thousand years. Indicators showed his blood pressure spiked and his heart rate was through the roof.

    The indicator lights vanished. A seam appeared on the smooth, now featureless pod, and a man laying in the medical cradle sat up. He wore a tight purple tunic and leggings that had been popular in the Imperium Aeternus, missing only the uniform jacket of a high-ranking member of the Imperium to complete the outfit. His hair was white, streaked with black, his expression both gentle and haunted. Like all Imperium patricians, he was a supran, with the golden bronze skin and fit, muscular build.

    The man had been known to the patricians and plebeians of the Imperium Aeternus both as the Saint, or the Emperor¡¯s Soul. One of the Four Consuls, Titus Proximus was one of the Emperor¡¯s closest allies, a friend and confidant who had been trusted above any but the other Consuls. Titus stretched, a thousand years of kinks to work out. He picked a bracer off the floor, and shook the dust off of it, before sliding it on his arm. Titus pecked a few quick commands into it, and blanched. He sat down blindly on the edge of the medical pod, horrified at the data that his bracer revealed.

    Eventually, he dried his eyes and put a stoic expression on his face. With a bracing breath, he shook himself before walking over to the second medical pod. All the indicators were green and healthy. Titus triggered the wake up sequence to end the medical stasis.

    Unlike Titus¡¯ awakening, this was not a rigged-up stasis. The occupant of the pod had gone under while the palace still had power. The newly energized pod smoothly transitioned from stasis to medically induced coma, before gently waking its patient. The pod split and opened.

    Inside was a man who appeared to be in his early thirties, with the same golden bronze skin as Titus, but with pure black hair that lay in wild curls around his head. A ghost of a beard was on his face. Unlike Titus, he lay there unclothed, for the medical pod had cut away the burnt, torn clothing he¡¯d been wearing.

    ¡°Titus,¡± said the man, his hawk-like yellow eyes opening to see his oldest friend.

    ¡°Imperator Artifex, I failed you,¡± said Titus, bowing his head and placing his right fist over his heart. HIs oldest friend and leader, Imperator Regnans, Princeps of the People, Emperor Dominus Valerius Artifex, was finally awake.

    Artifex sat up slowly, shaking off the effects of anesthesia as he tried to orient himself. He looked around, then down at his own bare skin. ¡°I was wounded,¡± he stated.

    ¡°You were,¡± confirmed Titus. ¡°Imperator, I --¡±

    ¡°Titus, please,¡± said Artifex with a sigh.

    ¡°Valerius, then,¡± conceded Titus begrudgingly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to report that we lost.¡±

    Artifex looked around the room, at the lack of power and the sheer disarray. The drones, now with no directives to follow, sat in an unoccupied corner in standby mode. He climbed to his feet.

    ¡°Losing a battle is hardly the end of anything,¡± said Artifex lightly as he walked to the door. The door was jammed open, so he stepped out into the hallway. His thoughts were still slightly muddled from the anesthesia, but were clearing swiftly.

    ¡°We didn¡¯t just lose the battle, Imperator. We lost everything,¡± said Titus.

    Artifex froze midstep.

    ¡°Swiftes is gone, the star went supernova,¡± admitted Titus. ¡°I detected two rogue Nyx in the core just before¡­ the end.¡±

    Artifex closed his eyes in defeat. ¡°Who was it?¡±

    ¡°Imperator, there was only one¡­¡±

    ¡°Marcus,¡± interrupted Artifex. ¡°He was the only other who could have.¡±

    The stab of betrayal from the one who should have been his closest ally jabbed into him. He closed his eyes against the pain, taking slow, deep breaths against the world closing in on him. Artifex did not let the feelings overwhelm him. His was a disciplined and driven mind, able to compartmentalize and keep moving, keep working. Nevertheless, it took some time to get his emotions in check.

    ¡°What of the others?¡± asked Artifex a few minutes later. He wrestled open the unpowered door to his bedroom, forcing it back along its track. He could hear the frozen motor whine in protest before its bearings broke. Inside, he rummaged through a wardrobe. Most of the clothing had gotten brittle and weak from the long ages, but not all. In the back was a uniform sealed and protected from the ravages of time. He dressed himself swiftly.

    ¡°Emilia and Auria were out of the system, so I have no idea of their fate. Sicarius was with¡­ Marcus.¡±

    ¡°So he is either dead or a traitor,¡± said Artifex calmly as his emotions roiled beneath the surface. The agony of betrayal stung deeper still. After two thousand years as a ruler of men, Artifex was no stranger to betrayal, but that did nothing to blunt its pain. This one was by far the worse. This break of trust was personal.

    ¡°My liege, I secured one craft for us. I allowed the survivors to abandon the palace with the rest, with my blessing. It is your personal corvette, with the latest manifold translator installed.¡±

    Artifex nodded, and walked out of the bedroom. ¡°I can see it¡¯s been a long time. How long was I in stasis?¡±

    ¡°We were both in stasis until the drones could make sufficient repairs to heal you. You were on the brink of death when I found you. It¡¯s¡­ It¡¯s been close to a thousand years.¡±

    A thousand years? Artifex was astounded, and at first could not believe it. That was half-again as long as he¡¯d built the Imperium Aeternus. He wouldn¡¯t, no, couldn¡¯t accept it. Except the proof was in front of his eyes, in his own living quarters. Ruined machinery, darkened rooms, rotted clothing. He was adept at many things, but lying to himself and ignoring facts was not a fault he¡¯d ever developed a talent at. He had to accept reality. Only after admitting that did Artifex let the enormity hit him. Tears flowed freely from his eyes for several long minutes. All the many long centuries of building, hundreds of years of forging the largest empire ever known to the Universe, were nothing but ash floating in the endless dark.

    ¡°Then we can do only one thing,¡± said Artifex with iron in his voice.

    ¡°What is that, Imperator?¡± said Titus, trailing after him as they made their way through broken doors into the hangar bay.

    ¡°We must begin again.¡±

 Chapter 2: Dare to Dream [S]

    "So what happened? What caused the Long Fall? Historians all agree that the Battle of Swiftes, culminating with the destruction of the Imperium Aeterunus¡¯ partially-constructed Star Sphere, marks the beginning of a long period of galactic decline. That hardly explains how the Coalition collapsed so completely in the face of the Formican Wars, or how only the rump state of the Regnum Tertius remained of the Imperium. Records of that period are remarkably poor. What documentation still exists points to an organized Imperium, and one need only look at the great Bastions they left behind to see that they were the technological masters of the day. Indeed, their technology is still far beyond the reach of modern man. We yet flounder in the dark, grasping for answers.¡±

    Gerald Grummond, Volume I: The Fall and Rise of Galactic Civilizations

    <hr>

    Safira

    Bela Vista, Planet Seguro

    ¡°Hey! Grab her before she gets away!¡±

    Safira dodged a grasping hand, dove and rolled to avoid another, and was back on her feet and running in a single motion.

    Sarifa had screwed up, and she knew it. She was trapped.

    It probably wasn¡¯t clear to her pursuers, yet, which was the only edge she had. If she could get out of sight, maybe get to a rooftop, she could hide until they gave up. Then she could sneak back to her own hideout, lick her wounds, and try again tomorrow. Maybe then she would find something worth selling. Her empty stomach agreed with that plan.

    Her pursuers were thugs and killers, part of one gang or another. She hadn¡¯t stopped to see their colors, she¡¯d just ran as soon as she spotted them. Sarifa knew the perils of cutting through gang territory. Unfortunately, if she wanted to scavenge in the junk fields so that she could eat, she had no other choice. She had to be sneakier.

    The gangs of Bela Vista were deeply entrenched, and aside from the massive junk fields, were what the city was known for. The name of the city was a misnomer, for there were no ¡®great views¡¯ to see. As a desert city, there was little vegetation and almost no life outside of the artificiality of the city itself. To the north was a massive series of cliffs and canyons, and the gangs had left more than a few bodies to rot undiscovered there. To the east was a ¡®river¡¯ that was actually little more than a polluted stream, crossed by the lone road going in and out of the city. With the state of the city, it had a very wild, frontier feel. The magistrates did little more than protect the wealthy who profited off the finds of the scavengers and gangs, and were usually moonlighting as enforcers for gangs.

    Safira had tried gang life once, when she was little. It was still possible then to get out into the fields without getting attacked on sight, but she¡¯d been young and she¡¯d always been small for her age. Over the course of a few weeks, she¡¯d narrowly avoided being assaulted twice by her own ¡®allies¡¯, had even less to eat than when she¡¯d fended for herself, and was expected to pay ¡®tribute¡¯ to the gang leader for the privelege of sleeping on a ratty, flea-infested cot. When a larger gang moved on her gang, Safira took the opportunity to run. She¡¯d been ten years old.

    Her heart raced as she ducked and twisted through alleys. She had made a wrong turn, and this part of town was moderately better off than the fringes she¡¯d been spotted in. Alleys were fewer, with more fences blocking swift access. The wealthy part of town was on the other side, so she couldn¡¯t go there without risking being shot down by the magistrates. Worse, this part of town was one she didn¡¯t know very well.

    Safira needed to get off the street. As long as she was on the street, they could see her and she¡¯d never escape. She twisted into a wide alley that was conveniently open all the way through. A large trash bin took up most of the alley, at an angle. She ran past it, then ducked down into the narrow niche between the wall and the bin. If they turned around, they¡¯d see her, but in her experience, most gang thugs had tunnel vision when chasing you. She tried to calm her breathing and her wildly beating heart. Two thugs ran by and exited the alley on the other end. She gave them a few seconds to get around the corner, and she ran back the way she¡¯d come.

    Once out on the street, she paused to catch her breath and to get her bearings. She was basically out of the gang territories now, but she didn¡¯t want to accidentally stumble into Rager territory. They were the largest gang, and had consolidated their hold on much of the eastern part of the city. She shuddered to think of how they¡¯d handle her. At least these thugs would just give her a brutal, life-threatening beating that might kill her. Ragers were nasty.

    She turned around to see a thug leaning against the building. He was scrawny, bent over at the waist gasping for air. He¡¯d not been able to keep up with his cronies. He was just steps away, which spoke very poorly of her own observation skills. She¡¯d blasted out of the alley at top speed and stopped right in front of one of her hunters. Just as she froze, he looked up and their eyes locked. For a long second, they just stared at each other in surprise. In any other circumstance, it would have been comical.

    Safira turned to run just as the scrawny thug leapt at her. She avoided his grab at the back of her shirt, but he stumbled forward and managed to tangle up her feet enough that she went down, hard. She rolled away from the boy, but he managed to get a grip on her ankle. Safira kicked him in the face as hard as she could. He screamed in pain, but he released her ankle.

    With adrenaline still coursing through her, Safira leapt to her feet to run, only to run face first into the thugs she¡¯d tricked in the alley. Strong hands grabbed her arms.

    ¡°Look who we have here. It¡¯s the street rat who keeps poking around in our territory,¡± said the larger thug on the left. She mentally dubbed him Thug One as a shiver of fear mixed with resignation ran through her. She was terrified, but at the same time, knew the pain was coming. It wasn¡¯t the first time. It wouldn¡¯t be the last.

    ¡°She should know better,¡± said Thug Two. ¡°Booker Boys don¡¯t like creepin¡¯ little rats.¡±

    Thug One punched her hard in the stomach. A blow to her back showed that Scrawny Thug didn¡¯t appreciate getting kicked in the face, either. Safira thought about using her last resort, but was a one-trick pony. It would take all day for it to be ready again. She¡¯d definitely take out one of them, but the other two would still be after her.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think she¡¯s listening,¡± said Thug Two. He punched her in the left cheek. Safira could feel it start to swell.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t this one the dummy who can¡¯t talk?¡± asked Thug One.

    ¡°I can talk,¡± she mumbled. ¡°Got nothin¡¯ to say.¡±

    Thug Two laughed. ¡°Nothing to say? How cute. She ain¡¯t got nothin¡¯ to say.¡±

    He threw a hard punch that smashed into her ribs. Safira gritted her teeth, willing herself not to make a sound, not to give them the satisfaction of knowing how badly their blows hurt.

    Thug One, or Bones as his friend called him, gripped her by the face with one hand, his other still holding painfully tight to her arm. He twisted her face to one side. ¡°I know you from somewhere. Do I know you?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know no Booker Boys,¡± she lied. He had been in the doomed gang with her, and joined up with the winning side after it was wiped out.

    ¡°I do know you. You¡¯re Tanque¡¯s little friend! You grew up nice. Maybe we could let all this go, if, you know, we had some time in that alley over there.¡±

    Safira couldn¡¯t help herself. She snorted a short laugh. ¡°No, thanks, I¡¯d rather just take the beating.¡±

    Thug Two laughed long and hard. ¡°She just jammed you so hard! That¡¯s hilarious!¡±

    Bones smacked his friend, but it didn¡¯t stop the laughter. His face twisted in an ugly rage. ¡°I was gonna be nice about it, but no street trash bitch like you can talk to me like that!¡±

    He twisted her arm, forcing her to bend over at the waist, and began dragging her towards the alley. She resisted as much as she could, but only managed to slow him slightly. Horror and dread twisted through her mind as she struggled. She clawed at Bones¡¯ grip on her wrist with her free hand, but his grip was iron.

    ¡°When your done, can I have a turn?¡± asked Scrawny Thug.

    ¡°Well hell, I want a turn, too,¡± said Thug Two. ¡°I ain¡¯t taking seconds after Skinny though.¡±

    ¡°Anyone want a turn with me?¡± said a deep voice, and a huge fist smashed into Skinny. Skinny flew a half-dozen feet before slamming into the side of a building and slumping to the ground. Relief coursed through Safira as she turned and saw her only friend standing there.

    Tanque stood over two meters tall and weighed a hundred-fifty kilos of muscle. His genetic heritage was of a heavy-worlder, for he had the thicker, tougher skin that could turn aside all but a direct knife blow, and his dense, heavy bones meant that he was easily one of the strongest men in Bela Vista. Like Safira, he¡¯d shunned the gang system and scraped by as best he could. They¡¯d come to an uneasy alliance years ago, pairing up occasionally to raid the junk fields. Safira¡¯s sharp eyes and light weight meant she could spot potential finds easier, and could traverse treacherous sands that Tanque would get trapped in.

    Bones released Safira and drew a knife. Safira had still been struggling against his grip, so she stumbled backwards and landed painfully on her tailbone. She scooted away quickly to get out of his path. Bones pulled a knife, proving he truly didn¡¯t know who he was up against.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    ¡°Tanque,¡± he spat. ¡°You¡¯re a lot bigger. Actually fit the nickname now.¡±

    Thug Two swung a fist at Tanque, but Tanque snatched his forearm before it could connect. With an easy yank, he pulled the gang member towards him, grabbed his hair and slammed the thug¡¯s face into his knee. With a sickening crunch, Thug Two sank to the ground. Tanque stepped forward towards Bones.

    ¡°Big mistake, meu amigo. The Booker Boys are going to kill you and your little girlfriend for this.¡±

    Bones backed away like he was going to run, but he backed up to where Safira was just standing up. Without hesitation, she kicked him in the side of the knee with all her body weight. While she wasn¡¯t very big, knees were not meant to bend that way. He screamed as he collapsed, unable to bear weight on that leg that was now bent sideways.

    Before he could do anything else, or try to bring that knife into play, Safira pressed the hidden clasp on her right forearm, and a small spring-loaded dagger popped into her hand. It was an ingeniously made blade, only three inches long, that had swirls of black up and down the edge. She slammed the dagger into his neck.

    Before she could even pull the blade back, what could only be described as pure corruption began to radiate out from the wound. In a matter of seconds, the corruption turned his veins black and the skin a sickly white. Bones¡¯ screams turned horrifying for another minute or so, before he passed out from the pain and blood loss. Seconds later, his breathing stopped. Safira wasn¡¯t sure if he bled to death or if the corruption got him.

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have wasted it on him,¡± said Tanque to her by way of greeting.

    Safira shrugged. ¡°Bastard wanted to drag me into the alley.¡±

    ¡°We have to kill them all now, you know,¡± said Tanque. He knelt down to Thug Two, and snapped his neck with a quick twist.

    ¡°I know,¡± said Safira. She walked over to the scrawny thug and cut his throat without remorse. At seventeen years old, she had survived without a gang and without becoming a hooker. This wasn¡¯t the first time she¡¯d killed someone, and it wouldn¡¯t be the last.

    ¡°See? No poison this time,¡± said Tanque, pointing to the now-dead scrawny thug.

    ¡°It works once a day,¡± she said. ¡°I was waiting for a better opportunity. I was going to try in the alley, then run.¡±

    Tanque nodded. It was as good a plan as he could have come up with in her place. ¡°Trying to get to the junk fields?¡±

    Safira began walking, and Tanque followed. They ducked through a few alleys, getting to a more neutral part of town. ¡°Yeah, I ran out of food and money.¡±

    Tanque sighed, and pulled a half-loaf of bread from a pouch on his belt. He held it out to her. She looked at it, then at him.

    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me like that. No strings. I got a real gig.¡±

    ¡°A real gig? Serious?¡± Safira took the bread and took a huge bite out of it. She only partly trusted Tanque. He was still a thug in her mind, a hoodlum who was friendly to her, but still a hoodlum. She didn¡¯t think of herself like that, and he¡¯d been independent just as long as she had, but the harsh streets of Bela Vista had taught her not to trust anyone further than she could see them. Even friends. Maybe even especially friends.

    ¡°Yeah, new outfit on the west side. They¡¯ve cleaned out a few gangs, organized groups for junking, even have a few skimmers working. I¡¯m working security for their main warehouse.¡±

    ¡°So, no more junk field runs for you?¡± Safira was disappointed. They didn¡¯t go out together often, and after today, she feared she couldn¡¯t go out at all.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t mind some extra cash. We could pull some long runs on the weekend if you want. Go further out.¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t. We don¡¯t have enough canteens,¡± she reminded him. She was disappointed, because the idea of a long run was perfect. The best junk left out there was the furthest away. The terrible heat of the desert meant that getting far enough out required resources. Resources they didn¡¯t have. Water, or a water reclaimer, food, and some way of hauling the good stuff back. If you were going out that far, you didn¡¯t want to be limited to what you could carry.

    The question nagged at the back of her mind. If he had a real gig, what did he need the junk fields for? A real gig might not give you the potential of finding something really profitable like a junk field run, but it also wasn¡¯t nearly as grueling. And not all junk runs turned up anything more than scrap metal that was barely worth hauling back. If he kept his head down and worked for even a few months, he¡¯d probably be doing better than junking with her.

    ¡°The outfit I¡¯m working for will sell me the gear cheap,¡± he said. ¡°If I return it, they¡¯ll buy it back at 75% of cost.¡±

    ¡°How much?¡±

    ¡°Three-fifty,¡± he said.

    Safira nearly choked on the last bite of bread. She¡¯d never had that much at one time.

    ¡°I can¡¯t afford to split that with you,¡± she admitted miserably. A good long run could have been just what she needed to get to the better part of town, get cleaned up and presentable enough to land a real gig of her own.

    ¡°Your half comes out of the take,¡± he offered.

    Safira turned and looked at him hard. Tanque kept walking, a calm, emotionless mask on his face. He was trusting her. He was willing to trust her. And it wasn¡¯t the first time. Safira took a minute to re-evaluate him. They¡¯d been friends and allies for years now. What had he ever gained from it, truly? He could have made friends with one of the other solo scavengers out there. There were a few, like her. Maybe, this once, she could trust him back. She could trust that he wasn¡¯t going to stab her in the back, that his intentions were friendly. He was the closest thing she had to a best friend on this hot, cruel planet.

    Suddenly tired of wrestling with her stunted emotions, Safira nodded. ¡°Yeah, that would be great. Have time to hang out for a bit?¡±

    They arrived at the part of town where Safira had her hideaway. The buildings here were shabby. If anything, they were a little shabbier than where she¡¯d had her run-in with Bones and his cronies. Paradoxically, however, this part of town was much safer. A few blocks away, a magistrate station sat with some decent neighborhoods around it. The magistrates tended to live in those neighborhoods, and the gangs shied away. Like most of the buildings in Bela Vista, this one was several stories tall and made of thick sandstone to shield against the oppressive heat.

    ¡°Can¡¯t tonight,¡± said Tanque. ¡°I need to work. That is so awesome, saying that!¡±

    Safira cracked a smile, feeling genuinely happy for her friend. Her paranoia took a back seat.

    ¡°Come on up for a minute, I want to give you something.¡± It was spontaneous, and she almost didn¡¯t offer. But he¡¯d really saved her from a severe beating, or worse, today. On top of that, Tanque was bankrolling a long run into the junk field.

    ¡°Alright, but I can¡¯t be late,¡± he said.

    Safira nodded, and led the way to the back of the building. On the back corner, a trash bin stood. She climbed up on top of it, just able to reach the bottom rungs of a rusty fire escape. Nimbly, she climbed up. The fire escape went past several floors, each floor with barred and shaded windows, and up to the roof. She looked down to see Tanque easily following her, his eyes on her as she climbed. He averted his gaze quickly. Safira frowned, confused as to what he¡¯d been looking at.

    Once on the roof, Safira led him to a narrow gap to the next building. She jumped over, then ducked under an overhang made by a huge, dead air conditioning unit. Once past it, there was a false front, a six-foot tall wall on the front of the building to hide the equipment from view when looking up. In the corner, Safira had arranged several pallets to make a rough floor, and an old plastic tarp made a tent. A makeshift hammock hung under it.

    Safira popped a board in the back corner and rummaged through the tiny amount of possessions she owned. She found what she was looking for, and turned back to see Tanque appraising her space.

    ¡°Not bad. How do you handle sand storms?¡±

    ¡°I take down the tarp and wrap up in it,¡± she said. ¡°Hunker down and wait it out. Afterwards, I hide my stuff and leave, wait for someone to finish shoveling off the roof before I come back.¡±

    Safira looked down at her hands, remembering what she promised him. It was a simple metal necklace, its cheap links worn but mostly still covered in the gold-colored finish. Suddenly embarrassed by how little the trinket was worth, she almost didn¡¯t hand it to him. Before she talked herself out of it, she thrust it at him.

    ¡°Here,¡± she said. ¡°I found it awhile back. I liked it, and was saving it in case I got really desperate. I want you to have it.¡±

    Tanque took the necklace from her, examining it for a minute before looking back. ¡°Hey, if you really need this, I can¡­¡±

    ¡°Just take it,¡± she said brusquely.

    ¡°Okay,¡± he said. He unclasped it and put it on, surprising Safira that he could manage the tiny clasp so easily. ¡°Thanks.¡±

    ¡°No, thank you,¡± she said. ¡°You really saved my butt today.¡±

    Tanque nodded. ¡°I¡¯m off the next three days. Want to try a long run tomorrow? We can leave from my outfit¡¯s area, so no need to dodge gangs.¡±

    A sudden surge of hope and gratitude welled up, forcing Safira to blink a few times against it to prevent tears from leaking. She so badly needed this. She cleared her throat. ¡°Umm, yeah. Yeah, that sounds great. Where do you want to meet?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll come by here, we¡¯ll go over together. Easier that way, so that security doesn¡¯t cause problems for you.¡±

    ¡°Great,¡± she said. ¡°See you tomorrow, then.¡±

    Tanque stepped back, a large grin on his face. ¡°Okay.¡±

    After he left, Safira frowned. She¡¯d revealed her hideaway to someone else. Her paranoia and her desire to trust her friend warred with each other. Paranoia finally won out. With a sigh, she opened up her hiding spot and cleaned out her stuff. She walked to a different edge of the roof, and jumped to a different building. Four rooftops later, she moved a vent cover that looked secured, leaving a gap just large enough for her to fit through.

    She closed the cover behind her and squirmed along until the vent opened onto an attic space. The attic space was abandoned by the building owner, its interior access panel sealed up in a past remodel done when Bela Vista¡¯s citizens had some hope of a better future. Cracks along the roofline let in daylight while ventilating the stuffy attic. Vent fans all along the room kept air circulating, and kept the temperature in the ¡®unbearably hot¡¯ range rather than in the ¡®fatal¡¯ range.

    In the corner behind the vent access was a net hammock, a real one. It was salvaged from the city¡¯s dump rather than the junk fields, and carefully repaired with pieces of twine and strips of cloth. On top of the net was a soft, worn blanket. The blanket was cheaply made and worn out completely before Safira had found it, but it had worn smooth and soft. Folded in half length-ways, it served as a perfect mattress for the hammock.

    Safira first went to a simple cardboard box in the corner that held her dearest treasures. A broken watch that had been her father¡¯s, according to her mother. A scarf that her mother had worn out when she wasn¡¯t turning tricks. A solar-powered holo of her mother, its batteries dead because she hadn¡¯t felt safe enough to bring it outside in awhile. A worn book about electronic devices, its plastic vellum pages still glossy and marked up notes in the margins. Three pennies. A dried flower. A sad, worn teddy bear.

    At first, Safira planned to put her tradable treasures in with her personal ones. But her shrine was her heart. She couldn¡¯t bear to put her scraps of interesting salvage in with her true valuables. Instead, she piled them carefully on the floor next to it.

    The late afternoon heat had made the attic stifling, hotter than normal. Safira stripped off her clothes and hung them on a hook. She kept her knife strapped to her forearm, and picked up the iron rod that she kept in her other hand for when she slept. After creeping over to the vent and verifying that it was shut, Safira finally felt safe enough to crawl into her hammock.

    It was her refuge, her safety. Only now could she relax. Only now was she safe enough to dare to hope. She drifted off to sleep wishing for a future where she could eat every day. Dawn would come too soon, but here, in this moment, Safira could dream.

 Chapter 3: The Long Run [S]

    The stars are too far.

    We fell from the sky,

    To the harsh earth below.

    Too late we learned

    Of the monsters above.

    We lost and we wept,

    But could not surrender.

    Through tears and blood,

    We built hearth anew.

    The price of our hope,

    Is vigil eternal.

    The stars are too far.

    -Anonymous

    <hr>

    Safira

    Bela Vista, Planet Seguro

    Morning brought soreness and pain. The beating from the day before wasn¡¯t as bad as Safira had been prepared for. Despite her more dire expectations, the blow to the face had made it puffy and swollen. The punch to the ribs had left a massive bruise that was a faint yellowish-purple, and would turn fully purple before the day was out. Her back was tight and her stomach was empty.

    Safira woke at first light, and in the dim light of her refuge, she took inventory. She examined her too thin body for any more obvious injuries. She ignored the wide variety of scars that covered her skin. They were proof that she was a survivor, badges of achievement. Her long, golden-blonde hair was greasy and dirty, braided and tied with a string because she could do nothing else with it. Satisfied that she was whole and functional, she dressed swiftly.

    In the desert, clothing was valuable. It kept sweat next to the body, preventing the moisture from evaporating. It protected against the dry, hot winds, and guarded the skin from the sun. Most women of Bela Vista preferred kaftans and scarves to shield themselves. That wasn¡¯t an option for Safira. She needed to be able to move, and scavenging men¡¯s clothing was easier, anyway. She wore cotton pants with multiple patches, and a long-sleeved blouse with faded embroidery that was tight at the neck and loose everywhere else. She topped it off with a shemagh, a huge square scarf that could be wrapped around the head and face.

    Once dressed, Safira got out of her attic as swiftly as she could. Even in the relatively cooler temperatures of early morning, it was hot. It took only a few minutes to get back to her hideaway. She had just settled into her backup hammock when she heard the tell-tale sound of Tanque jumping to her roof. She spotted his familiar form as it came around the old air conditioning unit.

    ¡°Good morning,¡± he said with a smile. Safira smiled back, and climbed out of the hammock.

    ¡°Ready to go?¡± she asked.

    ¡°That¡¯s my line!¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s go then!¡±

    ¡°Here, you need your energy today. Don¡¯t worry, food is included in the cost of this. You¡¯ll pay out of the loot we find,¡± said Tanque quickly to head off objections. He knew how much she clung to her independence. It was the one thing she could claim, that she was her own woman. Pride mattered the most when you had the least.

    Safira nodded, and took the food package from him. She stared at it in wonder. It was a nutrition bar. She¡¯d heard about such things, but didn¡¯t think she¡¯d ever see one. A full day¡¯s calories in a single bar. Everything you needed to survive except water. She reverently tore the thin plastic package, to reveal a lumpy pale-brown bar. Safira sniffed it. It smelled faintly of sweetener.

    The first bite tasted vaguely sweet. The bar was crunchy and soft at the same time, and tasted odd. The texture wasn¡¯t familiar at all, nor was the flavors included. It didn¡¯t matter. She finished the bar in three swift bites. Even before she finished swallowing, Tanque held out a canteen of water.

    ¡°Drink as much as you can,¡± he ordered. ¡°You need to be in top form for this. We won¡¯t make anything if I have to carry you out of the desert.¡±

    Safira was a true survivor. She had to carefully ration her clean water so that she didn¡¯t die of dehydration, one of her biggest survival challenges. Being offered as much water as she could drink was heavenly. Still, she knew better than to guzzle it. She took long, slow drinks of the water. It was warm, but clean. She managed about half of the canteen before her stomach gurgled and warned her to stop.

    Safira marveled at the feeling she was getting from her stomach. She was full.

    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s move. I want to get past the Bone Gulch before we stop for midday,¡± he said, stepping over to the other roof and moving to the ladder. Sarifa followed, a feeling of tremulous excitement growing. It was actually happening!

    The trek across town was swift. The pair stayed to neutral parts of town and to main thoroughfares. These areas were patrolled by magistrates, but did not wind through the exclusive wealthy neighborhoods. Morning was busy in the city, for this was the best time to get things done. Men and women alike shopped in the markets, haggling about price and quality of food, clothing and anything else that could be bought or sold. Children ran around, playing in the relative cool of the dawn. People who had jobs walked back and forth. Delivery skimmers occasionally zoomed down out of the sky to hover over their destination, boxes and crates dropping down and lifting up their sundries.

    Safira had once thrived at this time of day. When she was a child, she was small enough and fast enough to steal bits of food or the occasional coin from the vendors, and cute enough to beg for both at the street corners. Together with what her mother earned, she¡¯d stayed well fed. It wasn¡¯t until she hit her teenage years that the vendors became wary of her, and the more pathetic or feeble beggars earned all the coins that she had once gotten. After her mother disappeared, she¡¯d quickly run out of options. She¡¯d been forced to scavenge the junk fields to maintain her freedom.

    Tanque plowed through the crowds, with Safira in his wake. At his size, people move aside for him without even thinking twice. It was instinctive, and made traveling far faster than if she¡¯d gone on her own. They moved further and further away from the growing Rager gang territory and into a part of town that had once belonged to the Seven Laser Lords. Safira had avoided that part of town because they had thrived off of selling children, and word got around fast. Fortunately for pretty much everyone, a few rival gangs had worked together to wipe them out. Ever since, this area had been disputed.

    That is, until now. Safira hadn¡¯t been here in a few years, but the streets were clean and buildings were repaired. Groups of men and women in uniform patrolled, expensive slug-throwers displayed prominently on their belts. A few of them traded nods with Tanque. There were no gates or walls, but there was a clear delineation between this part of town and the rest. Occasional skimmers flew overhead, lending a sense of progress to the air.

    ¡°Welcome to the Tutelum Comitatus,¡± said Tanque.

    ¡°What is that? The outfit that gave you the real gig?¡± Safira couldn¡¯t stop staring. This was what a healthy city was supposed to look like. There were still bars on the windows, but doors stood propped open and neighbors chatted casually in the street. There was no suspicion, no fear.

    ¡°Yeah, they¡¯ve taken over this part of town. I think they want to take over the whole thing, but I haven¡¯t been there long enough to learn anything,¡± said Tanque.

    They walked on until they got to a large warehouse. People bustled in and out, and two skimmers sat in a loading dock. Tanque led her through a side door and over to a desk that was off to the side of the large, open bay. Crawlers moved back and forth, their six wheels squealing on the cement floor as they moved their heavy loads.

    The desk was empty, but Tanque pointed at a smaller cargo crawler next to the desk. It was piled with empty crates, neatly strapped down and covered with a sand-colored tarp. Tanque popped open the small front cargo area, to reveal two large water canisters, easily three or four days worth of nutrition bars, and a slug-thrower on a belt. He pulled out the belt and strapped it on.

    ¡°I¡¯m just borrowing the slug-thrower,¡± he said apologetically. ¡°Perk of the gig.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± said Safira. ¡°Otherwise, it was coming out of your half, not mine.¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t be too safe. Let¡¯s move.¡±

    For the first time in months, if not longer, Safira left the city without looking over her shoulder. Well, not anymore than her paranoia demanded of her, anyway. The Tutelum Comitatus controlled territory included the area around one of the city exits out of the sand wall, making leaving a breeze.

    Tanque and Safira marched ahead of the crawler, eyes sharp for anyone who might try to approach. The gangs let ¡®their¡¯ scavengers out into the junk fields, in return for a piece of the profit. Sometimes they even sent along protection. These affiliated scavengers rarely made it out of the city this early, however. They would be long gone before the bigger crews were working.

    Their brisk pace ate up the kilometers. Safira looked back at Bela Vista. The city was just as ugly from far away. The dull, sand-colored buildings were squat and plain, blocky chunks of squat construction that rarely went above three or four floors in height. There was no architectural style, no beauty or grace to it. It was built to withstand the desert; no more, no less.

    The junk fields technically started at the edge of the city. Bela Vista had been founded not long after the vast wasteland of debris was located, two centuries ago. An ancient battle, an epic fight that had somehow come down to the surface between a small Old Imperial force and a much larger Coalition fleet of warships had come to its conclusion here. Time and the Long Fall had happened between then and now, and the ever-shifting sands of the desert buried and uncovered parts of the field constantly. The planet Seguro had only been reinhabited three centuries ago, and Bela Vista was scarcely half that old.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    The endless erosion of wind, sand and heat destroyed anything left out for long, making Bela Vista look far older than its founding. The fact that it was a jumped up scavenging camp did little to help it. The corpists who had resettled Seguro cared little for what happened there. They just wanted the ancient treasures from the sands, hoping to glean some lost bit of knowledge from the ruins.

    By mid-morning, the sun blasted down and the temperature had risen dramatically. Tanque and Safira made sure to keep sipping at the canteens full of water, but the water gave no refreshment. It was every bit as hot as the air around them. The heat reflected off of the sand and stone, the city no longer visible from where they were. Safira kept checking their position against the Spike, a tall, thin mesa in the distance that was tall enough to use for bearings.

    By late morning, both Tanque and Safira had ground down to a slow walk. The wind had picked up, adding to the discomfort. Every inch of skin that could be covered was covered; they wore their shemagh¡¯s over their mouth and nose, hands were tucked into the billowing sleeves of their shirts, and sand blew into every crevice it could enter.

    ¡°There! A quarter-kilometer ahead! The Bone Gulch!¡± said Safira energetically. This was their rest point, and they¡¯d made excellent time. The Bone Gulch was named because the rock walls of the deep gulch were bone white. Rumor had it that some of the gangs would dump their enemies here, but Safira didn¡¯t believe it. Too many bodies were found just outside the city walls for that to be true. It was also rumored to have a lot of good junk at the bottom, but it was far too dangerous for them to check it out. The only safe way to do it would be to journey several days along the edge of the gulch to get to its end, and walk back in the long way. All told it would be two or three weeks of surviving the desert, which she and Tanque were not equipped to do.

    Fortunately for them, and for anyone who wanted to do a long run into the junk fields, there was a wide, natural stone bridge over the Bone Gulch. Safira and Tanque pressed on, crossing the Bone Gulch before moving a considerable distance to one side. If someone else crossed, they didn¡¯t want to be spotted.

    Tanque stopped the crawler and popped open a side panel. He pulled out a wide solar panel, and propped it up with the built in leg. He repeated the action on the other side. While he did that, Safira pulled a large tarp from the back panel, and two collapsible posts. She tied one side of the tarp to the crawler, then used the posts to create a lean-to that was open on two sides. She kicked sand over the hanging edge of the tarp to secure it against the wind. She gratefully crawled into the shelter, which was already a few degrees cooler from the shade.

    Tanque came in a few seconds later, carrying two collapsible chairs. Safira looked at him strangely. ¡°You brought chairs?¡±

    He shrugged. ¡°Came with the crawler. They fold out with a headrest.¡±

    Safira wasn¡¯t going to complain. This trip was already more than she¡¯d hoped for. The good part of the junk field was ahead of them. Now, during the hottest part of the day, was time to rest. She wasted no time in taking off her shemagh and sipping some water, before dropping down into one of the chairs. She let her head lean back into the headrest, and dozed off.

    <hr>

    Several hours later, Safira woke with a start. A bad dream haunted the back of her mind, but she couldn¡¯t remember the details. Tanque was already awake, sipping at his canteen. When he saw she was awake, he gave her a soft smile. Still dazed from her dream, Safira felt comforted by his presence. She smiled back.

    The afternoon went by as swiftly as the morning. The worst heat of the day was behind them, and scarcely an hour into the trek, Safira spotted a piece of metal. They walked over to it, and with a few kicks revealed a wing panel. It was nothing but metal, with no electronics or mechanisms, so they left it where they found it. But it was a promising start.

    By late afternoon, the Bone Gulch was far behind them. They¡¯d gone at a thirty degree angle from the Gulch, hoping that this bearing would be different enough that, with a bit of distance, they¡¯d hit a good find. Their strategy seemed to be a good one. They began to find random small bits of exotic materials, broken components, and interesting pieces.

    Something caught Safira¡¯s eye, but she couldn¡¯t quite say what it was. She studied the spot for a few minutes as they trudged along, but whatever she noticed was no longer visible. It nagged at her. Finally, she patted Tanque on the arm and pointed.

    ¡°I want to look over there,¡± she said.

    ¡°Why? There isn¡¯t anything there.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Weird feeling.¡± She felt embarrassed for suggesting it, and knew she¡¯d feel even worse if they wasted their time. But it wasn¡¯t as if they¡¯d found anything great on their current heading.

    Tanque dutifully altered course, and the crawler followed him. Safira lead the way to the spot that bothered her. It turned out to be a shallow ravine, no more than four or five feet deep. At the bottom was a window. The wind had blown the sand off just enough for it to be visible. Safira must have seen light reflecting off of it for a mere second.

    ¡°Wow, now that is something,¡± said Tanque. ¡°Let me get a rope.¡±

    Safira nodded, transfixed by the object in the ravine. When Tanque returned, he quickly looped the rope around her waist. She grasped it with one hand, then nimbly climbed down the steep slope to the bottom.

    ¡°It¡¯s safe!¡± she called. ¡°Come on down!¡±

    By the time Tanque joined her, Safira was already peering through the glass. Through it, she could see a shattered cockpit of some type of fighter craft. It didn¡¯t have any of the symbols that indicated a Coalition ship. Her heart began to beat faster. This could really be something.

    ¡°How are we going to get in?¡± she asked.

    ¡°I think we need to pry out the glass. I don¡¯t think we can break it.¡±

    Working together, they brushed away the sand until they found an edge. It didn¡¯t take long to find the other edges from there. The glass was part of a canopy, but half of the cockpit below the canopy was sheared away. Working together, the pair managed to lift the canopy just as the sun began to set.

    Too excited to sleep, Tanque brought the crawler closer, and aimed one of its headlamps down to illuminate their dig, while Safira crawled down and began to inventory the find. Her excitement continued to climb, the longer she was in there. There was most of a console panel, a bunch of random broken bits with wires and gears, and what looked to be the top of a helmet poking out.

    Working together, Safira and Tanque carefully pried out the console panel. Behind it was a wealth of electronics. Safira doubted any of them would ever function again, but a mostly complete piece like this was one of the richest prizes one could find. When it was finally free, they used the canopy as a jury-rigged pallet, then used the crawler to pull it out of the ravine.

    Finally, they laid it carefully to rest at the bottom of the crawler¡¯s cargo bed. Tanque knocked two sides out of a few crates, then flipped them over on top of it to make a shelter and to hide it from view. Meanwhile, Safira poked away at the helmet buried next to them. After a few brushes of sand, she realized it was not a helmet. It was an armor pauldron, meant to protect the shoulder.

    It took only a few minutes of digging before she had enough revealed to get a good grip. She grabbed on and pulled. At first, the pauldron didn¡¯t want to move. It took a few minutes of tugging before it gave way suddenly. She pulled up the chestplate and one arm as she fell backwards. Safira caught herself before she hit her head on the frame that had held the canopy glass.

    When she looked down, she realized that it wasn¡¯t just a piece of armor. The pilot was still in that armor. The head was missing, and the chest plate was broken open. The arm she freed had a fancy bracer hanging loosely from the bones of the forearm. She gave a short shriek of surprise, before catching herself. It was just old bones.

    ¡°Safira? Are you okay?¡± came the worried call from Tanque.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine! Just surprised!¡± she shouted back.

    She could hear him scrambling down the ravine slope, but her eyes were on the broken chest plate. A gleaming gem was on the ribcage, just sitting there. It was blood red and shaped in a long hexagon, tapered to a point on the top and bottom.

    ¡°Wow, that is beautiful!¡± said Tanque. ¡°You should keep it.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± said Safira even as she grabbed it. ¡°We should sell it. I bet it¡¯s worth something.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s just an empty energy core,¡± said Tanque dismissively. ¡°They aren¡¯t worth a thing. No one can figure out how they worked, or how they charged. It¡¯s Old Imperium tech, though, which means the console panel alone will pay for this trip and give us a nice profit.¡±

    Safira looked at the gem once more, then stuffed it in a small pouch on her belt. He was right, it was pretty. Maybe she¡¯d keep it as a memento of this trip. Tanque picked up the bracer, shaking the pilot¡¯s bones out of it.

    ¡°Amazing that this stuff survived,¡± he said, before tossing the bracer to her.

    She looked it over. It appeared to be made of leather, and its workmanship was remarkable, but it was otherwise unremarkable. Safira slid it on her arm. It fit overtop her concealed Corruption Blade nicely, without interfering with it. But she didn¡¯t really need armor. She took it off and tossed it back to Tanque.

    ¡°Maybe someone will want some Old Imperium armor.¡±

    Tanque shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s not like we don¡¯t have the room. If we find something better, we can throw it out.¡±

    With the two of them working, it didn¡¯t take long to unearth the rest of the armor. Two pauldrons, the shattered breastplate, a backplate, and neckguard. There was nothing else, and the head was still missing. Safira figured it was with the other half of the cockpit, wherever that wound up.

    ¡°I¡¯m ready to call it for tonight,¡± said Safira. ¡°I¡¯m a bit hungry.¡±

    ¡°I could eat,¡± said Tanque.

    After making camp and eating, Tanque leaned back in his chair and regarded Safira in the light of the safety lamp hanging on the back of the crawler. All other lights had been turned off, leaving only the dim amber glow of the lamp. Safira noticed his gaze.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Nothing, it¡¯s just, I wanted to talk to you.¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡± said Safira slowly.

    ¡°I talked to my boss at the Tetelum Comitas last night. About you. He¡¯s willing to talk to you, maybe hire you for a real gig,¡± he said. Tanque held up his hands to forestall an argument. ¡°I know you like your freedom, but this isn¡¯t a gang. There¡¯s a thin line between freedom and starvation.¡±

    Safira sighed heavily, unwilling to argue. He wasn¡¯t wrong. ¡°I¡¯ve been riding that line for a long time.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to, you know. I¡¯m saving to rent a place in Tutelum territory. It¡¯s expensive. But if there were two of us to share the cost, it wouldn¡¯t be to bad, would it?¡±

    Safira¡¯s heart lurched. She¡¯d known, probably for awhile, that Tanque was interested in her. A strong part of her railed against this perceived encroachment on her freedom. She¡¯d fought to remain above the gangs and to avoid prostituting herself for so long, she couldn¡¯t even fathom not needing to do that anymore. But she was tired of being hungry, tired of being alone. Tanque had never done anything against her.

    She felt the hidden knife against her wrist, remembering a past scavenging trip where the two of them had gone to the junk fields. Tanque had found two of them, but offered them both to her. He had insisted she have something to protect herself with. Safira had refused, taking only one as her due. She¡¯d almost sold it once, but had managed to earn some coin and buy food in time. Since then, she never even considered selling it. Now it was a reminder of yet another time that Tanque had proven himself. How many times did she really need?

    ¡°I think¡­ that might be a really good idea,¡± she said slowly. She waited for the panic to set in, the worry that she¡¯d made the wrong call, but it never came.

    ¡°You do?¡± said Tanque in disbelief, followed by, ¡°you do! Great! Well, when we get back, we¡¯ll get it all squared away. It¡¯ll be great, you¡¯ll see. I¡¯m glad. Wow, I¡¯m rambling. So many words. Shit.¡±

    Safira leaned over and put a finger on his lips, the most intimate contact they¡¯d ever had. She kissed his cheek. ¡°You¡¯re always so good to me, Tanque. Come on, let¡¯s get some sleep. I want to start heading back in the morning.¡±

    That night Tanque settled onto the ground next to her, a respectful distance away. Safira closed the distance, snuggling up to him. Nights in the desert were cold.

    ¡°I¡¯m chilly,¡± she said by way of excuse.

    ¡°No excuses needed, you¡¯re welcome to snuggle any time.¡±

 Chapter 4: Dust in the Wind [S]

    ¡°Why did they do this?¡± cried the little girl, ash from her burning home on her tear-stained cheeks.

    ¡°They¡¯re humans, little bug. That¡¯s what they do,¡± said her mother as she hugged her child with all four of her arms.

    The Evil Species: An Unbiased Documentary About Humans

    <hr>

    Safira

    Bela Vista, Planet Seguro

    The next morning came far too soon. Safira woke still feeling tired and sore from sleeping half on top of Tanque. She missed her hammock and had sand creeping into places where sand really shouldn¡¯t be. The morning was cooler than usual, with a slight breeze, which would have been a blessing if it wasn¡¯t a warning sign of an impending sand storm. It would hit some time in the next three days or so. The more it delayed, the more mornings of cooler air, the worse it would be.

    ¡°We need to get back,¡± said Safira, shaking Tanque to wake him. He jerked awake, his eyes roving for danger. Then he noticed the temperature.

    ¡°Let¡¯s pack it up, we¡¯ll eat while we walk,¡± he said. ¡°We don¡¯t want to get caught outside the walls.¡±

    Twenty minutes later, the pair were power walking back towards the city, eyes watching the horizon for any sign of haze. If they spotted haze, they would need to hunker down under the crawler while wrapped in a tarp and pray that the winds wouldn¡¯t be strong enough to tip the crawler over.

    By late morning, they were most of the way back to Bela Vista. Distracted by watching the sky, Safira almost didn¡¯t notice the three grinning men walking towards them. Two of them had knives in hand, while the third had a rifle slug-thrower pointed vaguely at the ground.

    ¡°Tanque!¡± she called urgently. He¡¯d been watching the horizon behind them. He turned around to see who was coming.

    ¡°Ragers!¡± he said. He pulled his dagger and tossed it to her. ¡°Safira, get down!¡±

    In a single motion, he pulled his own slug-thrower from his belt and fired it at the man carrying the rifle. Even as he did so, the rifle bearer raised his gun and fired at Tanque. Safira dove to one side just before the slug-throwers started throwing rounds. But she didn¡¯t sit still, she crawled into a shallow ditch and began to do a half crawl, half crouch through it towards the other two men.

    ¡°Ooh, I do get to play today! And I thought Bula would get all the fun!¡± crowed one of the knife wielders.

    Safira readied Tanque¡¯s dagger, staying low. The man swaggered over to her, while the other stood there and smirked. Neither were ready when she darted in far swifter than they¡¯d anticipated. Her dagger was already in the man¡¯s thigh and ripping its way out when he stabbed down at her.

    She had anticipated the attack, and dove to the side. The sand beneath her feet, however, betrayed her. Safira slipped slightly as she moved. The bleeding man¡¯s blade missed her, but his follow-up punch from his other arm turned her dive into an uncontrolled tumble.

    Safira rolled to her feet in time to see the knife wielding Rager fall face-first into the dirt. She smirked at the last gangster, who had lost his own smug smile.

    ¡°Bitch, you¡¯re gonna pay -¡± The thug fell to the sand with a bullet between the eyes. Safira turned to see that all three Ragers were down.

    ¡°Ha!¡± shouted Safira. ¡°Tanque! We got ¡®em all!¡±

    She looked at Tanque who was grinning back at her. Together they began to loot the bodies for anything valuable. A few knives and the rifle were the best loot, along with a few copper denars. Safira took one of their shemaghs, as it was in much better condition than hers. It was a dark red color, a little unusual but not enough to stand out.

    As they stood up from the last corpse, Safira turned to Tanque to crack a little joke with a grin on her face. A single crack rang out, so she whipped around to see a fourth Rager already running away. Safira heard Tanque fire back, and saw the Rager grab his leg and collapse.

    ¡°Let him go, I¡¯m worried about the sand storm,¡± said Safira. ¡°The storm will kill him, if the desert doesn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°I¡­¡± groaned Tanque. ¡°He got me.¡±

    Safira turned to look at him. He was holding the left side of his stomach. He staggered for a moment, then she saw a bloodstain start to spread in the fabric of his shirt.

    ¡°Shit, shit, shit,¡± she cried out as she ran towards him. ¡°Let¡¯s get you to the crawler.¡±

    She quickly got under his good side just as he started to sag. He was heavy, so heavy. ¡°Come on, stay with me. We¡¯ll get you to a doctor. Your boss has a doctor, right?¡±

    Tanque managed to nod. Together, they staggered over to the crawler. Tanque leaned against it while Safira frantically cut a strip of fabric off of the tarp covering the crates. By the time she got back to him, he was noticeably paler.

    ¡°Move your hands, let me bandage it,¡± she said.

    Roughly, she shoved his shirt out of the way and shoved a wad of the tarp into the wound. She then took the long strip she¡¯d cut and tied it around his waist, making it as tight as she dared.

    ¡°Hold that in place.¡± Then she raced back around the crawler, frantically untying one corner and tossing empty crates haphazardly into the sand. When she¡¯d made a space large enough for Tanque, she came back to him. He was slumping a little more.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    Safira slid his arm on his good side around her shoulders. ¡°Come on, let¡¯s get on the crawler.¡±

    Tanque groaned in pain as they got to the side of the crawler. The crawler¡¯s cargo bed was a full meter off the ground, with six large heavy tread tires. It took far too long, in Safira¡¯s frantic opinion, to get Tanque over them and seated on the crawler.

    ¡°Give me the control ring,¡± she said, holding out her hand.

    Tanque fumbled with a pocket, so Safira pushed his hand away. She reached in and grabbed a ring out of it. It was a bracelet-sized ring, with three buttons - forward, reverse, and stop. The crawler would follow the ring as long as it was able, detecting for itself the best path to follow. Seconds later, she was jogging in front of the crawler. Not designed for quick movement, the crawler barely kept up.

    As she ran, Safira kept a careful eye on the horizon. She didn¡¯t detect any haze yet, which was good. But the temperature still hadn¡¯t climbed as high as it should, which was very bad. What was she going to do if Tanque died? He was her only friend, possibly more than friend. She hadn¡¯t even had a chance to explore that with him yet!

    A haze on the horizon caught her eye just as the city walls came into view. The sand storm was here. It came on quick, so it wouldn¡¯t be a terrible storm, but they had to get to shelter. Even smaller storms were deadly. But if they sheltered, Tanque would probably bleed to death.

    Safira pressed on, and hoped against hope that they could beat the storm. The winds were picking up. Sand was starting to pepper the small amount of exposed skin on her face. She stopped and ran back to Tanque, who was holding his side grimly, but was still conscious. His pallour was far too pale, and most of his shirt was a dark red now.

    ¡°We need to cover your face,¡± she said. ¡°The storm is almost here. I¡¯m running for it.¡±

    ¡°No, don¡¯t,¡± he said weakly. ¡°You need to get to shelter.¡±

    ¡°I am getting to shelter. The city walls are just over the rise. We don¡¯t have time to argue.¡± Safira adjusted Tanque¡¯s shemagh until it was over his eyes. He wouldn¡¯t really be able to see, but at least the sand wouldn¡¯t blind him.

    Safira re-adjusted her own shemagh as she returned to her position in front of the crawler. She ran faster now, not as fast as she could, but fast enough that she knew she¡¯d be unable to breathe well underneath the shemagh. She wasn¡¯t in the right condition for this. She was undernourished and not in the right condition for an endurance run. But she also had no alternative. Safira could only hope that fear and adrenaline could keep her and Tanque alive.

    The speed of the wind began to accelerate, and the sand was blasting her now. Safira¡¯s shemagh was pulled as low as it could be, and the fabric that covered her mouth and nose was lifted up so that only a tiny slit was left for her to look through. She prayed that she didn¡¯t trip.

    Ahead the city gate came into view. It wasn¡¯t closed yet, and the two gate guards in Tutelum Comitatus were watching carefully, keeping an eye out for any stragglers coming in from the junk fields. Safira waved her arms frantically over her head. One of the guards spotted her and ran over.

    ¡°We have wounded!¡± shouted Safira.

    The guard shouted back, but it was lost in the wind. Safira ran faster, leaving the crawler to follow behind her at a slower pace. If it didn¡¯t catch up with her soon, it would stop, but Safira needed to get help.

    The guard realized something was wrong, and ran over toward her.

    ¡°We have wounded,¡± gasped Safira as she stumbled to a stop in front of the guard. ¡°Need¡­ doctor¡­.¡±

    ¡°Get inside the gate, there¡¯s a warehouse to your right. I¡¯ll radio for a doctor to meet you there,¡± said the guard.

    The crawler had caught back up again, the sand storm blasting it from behind. Safira ran on, straight through the gate, and into the warehouse. She stumbled to a stop and turned off the crawler as she walked back towards Tanque.

    When she got to his side, she peeled his shemagh away from his face. His face was a rictus of pain. Safira couldn¡¯t tell if he was alive.

    ¡°Tanque?¡± she asked tentatively. ¡°You¡¯d blasted better be alive!¡±

    Tanque¡¯s eyes opened and looked into hers. He began to fumble at his waist with his good hand, before finding the pouch he wanted.

    ¡°Take¡­ take this¡­¡± he said, his words slow and hard to make out.

    ¡°What is it?¡± she asked as his massive hand reached out towards hers. His hand dropped heavily into both of hers, and she was suddenly supporting the weight of his arm. She eased it back down, careful to avoid his wound. When he opened his hand, two objects fell into her palms.

    ¡°Wish¡­ I had¡­ courage¡­ to ask¡­ sooner,¡± he mumbled.

    Safira looked down to see a solid bracelet with a single hinge, its open side a clasp, and a key. Both were covered in blood. She recognized the bracelet as a wedding band. She knew that Tanque cared for her as more than a friend, something she¡¯d only truly begun to acknowledge a few days before. His affections were not unwelcome; in fact, they made her feel really good. Her heart flooded with warmth and sorrow at the same time.

    With jerky, fast motions, she pulled Tanque¡¯s dagger from her belt and nicked her pinky finger. With Tanque watching her, she dripped her own blood onto his on the bracelet. She turned his good hand over, put the bracelet around her right wrist, and rested her wrist in his hand. Then using her free hand, Safira made him close his fingers around the bracelet to close it. The clasp snapped together.

    ¡°Now listen here, asshole, you had damn well better live after all of that,¡± she said. A single tear ran down her face. Safira scrubbed it away furiously. ¡°I¡¯m not about to lose you because of some stupid bullet.¡±

    ¡°Okay¡­¡± he said with a pained smile. ¡°Key¡­ is to¡­ my place¡­ ¡®member¡­ where¡­¡±

    ¡°Yes, I know where it is. I¡¯ll be taking you there once you¡¯re better,¡± she said firmly.

    ¡°Just¡­ in case¡­¡±

    ¡°No, not just in case. You concentrate on living, I¡¯ll worry about the rest,¡± she countered. ¡°You hear me?¡±

    Just then, two men ran in from the storm carrying a stretcher, wearing goggles and with every inch of their body covered in cloth. The stretcher had a blanket zipped onto it, which they quickly unzipped. It took them only a moment to transfer Tanque to the stretcher and zip the blanket back into place.

    ¡°Your his,¡± one of the men started, but paused for a moment when he saw the bracelet, ¡°wife? Follow us, if you can run. Otherwise, ask for the -¡±

    ¡°I can run,¡± she said.

    When the man said ¡®run¡¯, he meant it. The two stretcher carriers bolted out of the warehouse and into the storm. Safira ran after them, barely able to keep them in sight through the tiny slit in her shemagh. They ran a few blocks to a side street, and into a building with a sign in front of it that Safira couldn¡¯t read. Safira ran in after them.

    Tanque was being carried into another room, the blanket protecting him already gone. A middle-aged woman waited by the door, and stopped Safira when she went to follow.

    ¡°It¡¯s okay, dear heart, he¡¯s in good hands,¡± she said. ¡°The doctor is in with him. He¡¯ll do everything he can. Would you like a glass of water?¡±

    Safira managed a jerky nod, then realized the woman had guided her to a comfortable chair. She sat, because she didn¡¯t know what else to do. Moments later, the woman returned with a glass of water. She hadn¡¯t even noticed the woman leave.

 Chapter 5: Hollow Fortune [S]

    ¡°Supran genetics are a tricky subject. From a research perspective, there is very little difference between homo sapien and homo supera. Both species can and have cross-bred countless times. But what does it mean to be considered supran?

    As best as can be determined, few true Suprans survived the fall of the Imperium. They were created and constantly modified by the Eternal Emperor, an endless refining for some goal that we may never know. Most were slain in the Battle of Swiftes, but not all. We do know that the few pockets of Suprans that still survived the Coalition War and the Formican War that followed, are still alive today. We also know that the improvements to the human genome are sufficient enough that in many places, a supran bloodline is considered royalty.

    Despite there being many living examples, there is remarkably little research. Suprans are devoutly loyal to an Imperium and an emperor that no longer exists. I could not find a single one who would even talk to me about my research, much less give a blood sample. The Solarian Federation of Republics, as the empire that rose from the ashes of the Coalition, have no Suprans at all. The Regnum Tertius declared me persona non grata and deported me simply for asking.

    But despite all these setbacks, my meager findings are presented in this book, with the hopes that others may join me in taking up the research into this secretive species.¡±

    Stanley Witherspoon, Unpublished Manuscript

    Found in his personal effects after his suicide

    <hr>

    Safira

    Bela Vista, Planet Seguro

    Hours later, a man came out of the room that Tanque had been carried into. Safira stopped her pacing and turned to face him. The man was wearing a blue smock that was smeared with bloodstains, but his hands were clean and well groomed. But what truly drew her attention was the dark, tired eyes and tight expression.

    ¡°He¡­ did he¡­¡± Safira¡¯s throat tightened, and the words couldn¡¯t form.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, miss. We did all we could, but he lost too much blood,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s quite amazing he lasted as long as he did, considering the nature of the wound.¡±

    ¡°Amazing,¡± she said flatly. ¡°Tanque is dead, and you tell me his last hours, in pain and being dragged through a sand storm so that he could die on your table, were ¡®amazing¡¯.¡±

    ¡°Many apologies,¡± said the doctor. ¡°I -¡±

    ¡°May I see him?¡± she interrupted, suddenly too tired to keep talking.

    ¡°Of course. Through that door.¡±

    Safira walked into the room. It was much like the front room, with walls of sandstone but without a window. Instead, gleaming metal tables lined one wall, with a sink in the corner. Two people in blue smocks were tidying up a pile of bloody scalpels and implements on the table. When they saw her, they stepped out of the room to give her privacy.

    But Safira didn¡¯t notice either person, or the table. What she noticed was the operating table in the middle of the room. On it lay Tanque, with a blue sheet covering him from head to toe. She stepped over and pulled back the sheet so she could look at his face. It was pale, but relaxed. The horrible look of pain was gone, probably because of painkillers. Really, he looked asleep. She caressed his face.

    The dream of a future together had been short-lived. Hope granted then snatched away. She hadn¡¯t been in love with him, but she had trusted him. In Safira¡¯s world, that was more valuable than love. She thought it could have been more, someday. Now it left her alone.

    The middle aged woman walked in and patted her on the back.

    ¡°What happens now?¡± Safira asked.

    ¡°We take care of our own,¡± said the woman. ¡°The Tutelum Comitatus will see to his cremation. Do you want his ashes?¡±

    ¡°What for?¡± she asked in confusion.

    ¡°Some faiths revere the deceased,¡± said the woman.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have a faith,¡± said Safira, ¡°and I don¡¯t need ashes to grieve.¡±

    <hr>

    Safira left the hospital stone-faced. She refused to show weakness, to allow tears to fall in front of strangers. She saw the nice clothes they wore, and how clean they were. She was a dirty, bloody, poor street rat. All she had was her dignity.

    By the time she made it back to the warehouse, it was well after dark. Safira hoped the crawler hadn¡¯t been stolen. She was sure that everything on it would be gone, picked clean by thieves and opportunists. But Safira still had the control ring for the crawler, so it probably didn¡¯t go anywhere. At least she could sell that back to the Tutelum Comitatus. It wouldn¡¯t be as much as the loot, but she wouldn¡¯t starve. Depending on how much Tanque spent, she might even be able to get some clothes that weren¡¯t covered in his blood. She fingered the bracelet on her wrist, wondering if she should take it off and add it to her tiny collection of memories.

    Safira turned the corner and entered the warehouse. To absolutely no surprise at all, the crawler was no longer just inside the entrance. She poked her head in on the off chance she had parked it further than she remembered it. Then she spotted it, and was absolutely stunned. The crawler was parked much further down the wall, and all of the crates were neatly stacked next to it in an orderly pile. A woman in a Tutelum Comitatus uniform was sitting on a folding chair next to it, flipping through a clipboard holding a pile of plastic vellum sheets. Their loot was still there. This place really is too good to be true, thought Safira.

    The woman looked up as Safira approached, and eyed the bracelet. ¡°You are Safira? Tanque¡¯s wife? How is he?¡±If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    ¡°He didn¡¯t make it,¡± she replied stiffly, her face a mask of ice.

    ¡°You have my sincerest condolences,¡± said the guard. ¡°I¡¯ve lost someone before. There are no words.¡±

    ¡°Thanks,¡± said Safira. ¡°Umm, who are you, and what¡¯s going on over here?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m Gracilia Amaral, the quartermaster for the Tutelum,¡± said the woman. ¡°I went ahead and took the liberty of inventorying your finds and writing up an offer to buy. Are you selling the crawler back?¡±

    Safira nodded. The woman went back to the clipboard, her stylus scratching across the plastic vellum. She then showed Safira a number on the page.

    ¡°That can¡¯t be right,¡± said Safira finally. It was far too high. She¡¯d never had that much money. She could live for¡­ she couldn¡¯t even think how long on that much money. For a street rat, this was a lot of money.

    ¡°Oh, I forgot to add in Tanque¡¯s pay for the last few days he worked for us,¡± apologized Gracilia. ¡°You¡¯ll need to take this to the Depository. I¡¯m sure Tanque kept his money there. I¡¯ll write out an order to put his account in your name.¡±

    True to her word, Gracilia stood there and wrote out a long, detailed order including the amount of money to buy everything on the crawler. Safira kept the knife and Tanque¡¯s slug thrower, but sold the rifle. She would have to learn how to shoot it, and where to buy ammunition.

    ¡°Might I make a suggestion?¡± asked Gracilia when she wrapped up.

    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±

    ¡°Stop by the commissary next to the Depository after your done there. They have good quality clothes, and prices are kept low for Tutelum members. We take care of our own. And come back by when you¡¯re ready. I¡¯m sure we can find a job for you.¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡± said Safira, and she practically ran for the door. It was too much. It was all too much. Too much kindness, too much inclusion. The woman at the doctor¡¯s office had been helpful and nice, then Gracilia had been sweet and comforting. Too many good people, and it made her hackles rise.

    Safira asked someone for directions and found herself at the Depository. After a process that took way too long, she had an account flush with cash and a bag full of denars, because she couldn¡¯t not take cash but knew it was too dangerous to carry a lot. She¡¯d have to risk trusting the Depository. Afterwards, she went into the commissary, and wound up in a spending spree.

    A box full of nutrition bars. New clothes that actually fit. A canteen. A sheath for Tanque¡¯s knife, and a new belt to hold it. A nice smelling bar of soap and shampoo. A satchel to hold it all. And she still had money left over.

    <hr>

    It took a few tries to find the street that Tanque¡¯s apartment was on. It was in neutral territory, and was in a reasonably safe, albeit very poor, part of Bela Vista. The building was rundown but not decrepit. The apartment shared the third floor with six other apartments, making this one of the largest buildings Safira had been in before.

    Tanque¡¯s apartment had an iron door, and the key he had given her opened the three locks without a problem. Safira carefully locked the door behind her, then spotted an iron bar that dropped into two metal braces on either side. She dropped the lock bar into place.

    Safira flipped the light switch next to the door, and the room lit with a low glow. This was Tanque¡¯s space. The apartment was a single room, with a cramped kitchen on one wall and an actual bed against the other. Two other doors in the apartment revealed a closet with a few clothes, and a tiny bathroom that housed only a toilet and a showerhead on the ceiling. A drain on the floor with a bit of sand around it let the water back out again.

    Tired and sore, Safira stripped off her old clothes and took a fast shower. Like all water in the city, it was carefully metered and charged. Safira rinsed off swiftly before turning off the water. Her new soap smelled of sandalwood, the shampoo vaguely like cinnamon. She couldn¡¯t ever recall smelling something so pleasant. After rinsing the soap and shampoo, she used the ragged towel in the bathroom to dry off.

    On her way out of the bathroom, she tripped over the satchel and nearly face planted in the apartment¡¯s only room. The leather bracer and the empty power core spilled out of the open bag. Safira picked up the power core, and snagged a nutrition bar while she stuffed the bracer back where it belonged. Safira briefly considered putting on clothes and going back to her refuge, but it made little sense. She had things to figure out, and she had shelter now. Trekking across the city late at night was an added danger she didn¡¯t need. Instead, she compromised by pulling out fresh clothes and setting them next to the bed.

    Safira settled into Tanque¡¯s bed after turning out the light. It smelled vaguely of heat and musk, reminding her of how she¡¯d slept the night before. The pain of the loss was fresh and sharp. She had been a survivor for so long. A scavenger, an outcast, unwanted and unloved. Tanque had offered her something she hadn¡¯t ever planned on receiving, and fate had snatched it away just as she had tried to accept it. It was cruel, but she was used to cruelty.

    A pain hit her side as she rolled over onto her back. Safira reached under and fished out the empty power core. Tanque was right, it was pretty to look at. It caught the dim glow of the street lights from the window. Safira rolled it back and forth in her fingers as she thought.

    What would she do? What could she do? Safira wasn¡¯t sure she wanted to take up the Tutelum Comitatus offer. It seemed like too much, too soon. Perhaps she would wait a few days. She could rest and relax, hide away from the world without worrying about food or scavenging. It might be nice to...

    As she fell asleep, the hand holding up the power core slipped and fell to her chest, bringing the core to rest above almost the exact spot in the sternum that she¡¯d found it on the pilot. This core, however, was not a power core, despite Tanque¡¯s limited ability to recognize an Old Imperium power core. It began to glow slightly, drawing energy in from a source that almost no living soul would fathom, and it began to scan.

    The DNA of the woman it scanned had drifted pretty far from the core¡¯s requirements, but it was close. There was sufficient amounts of homo supera DNA for her to be considered supran instead of human. She was badly malnourished, but had plenty of nutrients from recent meals to be a decent start. After concluding its analysis, the core melted into the woman¡¯s skin. Still asleep, the woman didn¡¯t even notice as the core replaced a piece of her sternum with itself and got to work.

    <hr>

    Across the city, deep in Rager territory, a man who stood over two and a half meters tall sat in a room full of Rager thugs. All of them were drinking and smoking, a nightly party that only the most favored Ragers were allowed to attend. The man was larger than Tanque had been, and far more muscular. He worked out regularly, and despite appearances at the party, actually did not drink nearly as much as his men thought.

    As the party really started to hit its groove, the door to the room slammed open. A man with a belt cinched around his thigh and the gritty, cut up look of someone who had roughed it in the desert staggered in.

    ¡°Jonatas?¡± said the man. ¡°What happened to you? Where is my brother?¡±

    ¡°Celio is dead, Severino,¡± said the man. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Boss.¡±

    Severino, the leader of the Ragers, the most feared gang in Bela Vista, grabbed the injured man by the shoulder. ¡°You will tell me who did this, Jonatas.¡±

    ¡°There was the independent guy, the big one, Tanque,¡± he said. ¡°He shot the others, and shot me.¡±

    ¡°So he killed Celio?¡±

    ¡°No, what I mean is, he was there. But it was his little bitch who stabbed Celio.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s her name?¡± said Severino, his voice dangerously low.

    ¡°Sera, Serena, no. No, it was Safira. I heard Tanque shout it,¡± said Jonatas.

    ¡°You certain?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, man, I¡¯m sure.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± said Severino. He turned to look at the room full of thugs. All of them were quiet, the music stopped and drinks unfinished. ¡°You heard the man. Find them. Find them both.¡±

 Chapter 6: Requiem for the Lost [EN]

    ¡°The Coalition is a collection of short-sighted fools. Their minds never stray from their quarterly profits, their hands incapable of holding more than their wallets. I would sooner embrace the Formicans than try to convince the Coalition of the dangers inherent to the fabric ofour galaxy. It would be easier to teach physics to a donkey.¡±

    Dominus Valerius Artifex Primus

    19 Novem, Annum 2870 EIA

    <hr>

    Lady Elinor North, House Montclair

    Rings of Nulma, Dotalian Sovereignty

    Elinor was not a patient woman. She was a woman of action, a woman who got things done. It was Elinor who convinced her parents to hire elite commandos to train the family dragoons. It was Elinor who brought in customers to hire the North Dragoons out for profit and further experience. It was Elinor that convinced her father to invest in exploration to expand the family¡¯s slowly failing mining operations.

    But now all Elinor could do was wait. She paced the floor of the opulent room, in the equally opulent space station. This space station was the private domain of the House Montclair, of which the North family was a cadet branch. A very minor cadet branch. Elinor¡¯s great-grandfather was the youngest son by the third wife of Archduke Edmund Montclair. His offspring remained loyal to the House, even when the politics of the House favored other branches of the family. The Norths paid their dues, generation after generation, dutifully accepting their minority status and chipping into the House as it grew wealthier, more influential, and more entitled, while the North cadet branch was pushed further and further away.

    Elinor forced herself to sit down on one of the soft, white couches in the room. That lasted all of sixty seconds before she was on her feet again, staring at the paintings on the wall but not seeing them as she walked by. The space station she was in was massive, home to much of the Montclair family, their servitors, and their servitors¡¯ families. The space station orbited the planet Nulma, in the planet¡¯s rings. It had been built using ore from the North mining operations, factories owned by the Montclairs, and constructed using labor paid for by Lady Ursula Montclair herself. The House¡¯s wealth furnished it and their personal armsmen and fleet protected it, for it was the hub for it was the hub of the Montclair¡¯s interstellar trading.

    The Dotalia System was lucky. It was far enough from the Solarian Federation of Republics to avoid corpist influence, close enough to Regnum Tertius space to benefit from trade, and had been developed enough to come out of the Long Fall without reverting to pre-space levels of technology. The Royal House of Newgate had pulled together after the disastrous Formic Wars and pulled both planets in the system together, and the other Noble Houses had helped expand until the Dotalian Sovereignty controlled two dozen star systems.

    The door to the room burst open, and a tall, pale-skinned woman with bright blue hair walked in. Lady Dorcas Wynter, Elinor¡¯s best friend, bustled over. Dorcas was bubbly and friendly on most days, and balanced out Elinor¡¯s endless drive nicely. But today, that bubbly personality was noticeably subdued.

    ¡°The messenger arrived,¡± she said, holding out a flimsy plastic sheet of vellum.

    Elinor strode over in long, swift strides. She held out her hands, the golden-bronze of her skin marking her as having supran ancestors and as high nobility, despite her low status in her own House. Her own blue hair, of course, was a reminder that she had human blood as well, like most Dotalians.

    With shaky hands, Elinor read through the report that Dorcas had brought her. She sank slowly to the nearest couch, one hand going up to cover her mouth. Her eyes blurred. It took a moment for her to realize that she was crying. It was only the feel of Dorcas¡¯ arm around her shoulder and the comforting words that she couldn¡¯t comprehend that made her realize it.

    ¡°Oh, Universe be damned,¡± Elinor finally said.

    Dorcas removed her arm and sat back, her arms in her lap, as she lapsed back into proper behavior. Casual physical contact was not proper noble behavior, no matter the reason.

    ¡°I¡¯ll help arrange the memorial service,¡± said Dorcas finally.

    ¡°How could this happen? Their ship was inspected before they left. Oh, what will I tell Rafe and Miles? They will be crushed.¡±

    ¡°Tell them the truth. Tell them that your parents died when their cutter exploded,¡± said Dorcas. ¡°We don¡¯t know anything else.¡±

    ¡°Yet,¡± said Elinor firmly. ¡°Please inform Mister Mason that a thorough investigation is his top priority.¡±

    ¡°You want Mason on this?¡± asked Dorcas doubtfully. ¡°Surely he¡­¡±

    ¡°As head of the family fleets, this is his failure, if it such. He will want to have an answer as much as anyone.¡±

    ¡°How quickly do you want the memorial?¡± asked Dorcas.

    ¡°Tomorrow, if you please. I want to be off this station as soon as possible.¡±

    ¡°Heading to Emanyo?¡±

    ¡°You saw the survey results. We need to properly claim the system before a claim jumper can find it. The survey may be private, but destinations are logged with the Sovereignty Defenses. The manifold waypoint won¡¯t remain a secret for long, especially once money starts changing hands,¡± said Elinor, pushing her sorrow into a tight ball. She could cry later. The North clan needed a win, or be pushed out of the House altogether. Too much was riding on her.

    <hr>

    The memorial was a badly scripted joke. Rafe North had made it, but Miles was in training with the North Dragoons. It was impossible for him to make it up from the remote region of Nulma that was the North Estates in time. Elinor considered having the memorial there, where the family¡¯s true friends and few allies could attend, but that would have been the weak move.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    She needed to establish herself as the head of her branch of the family. Elinor needed to project strength and continuity, to head off any of the wolves in House clothing from trying to steal away assets as if the rest of the North family didn¡¯t exist. She couldn¡¯t do that if she hosted the memorial at the estates. Instead, she donned her most elaborate doublet and trousers with imported cavalier boots. She topped it off with an atifet in her hair, black to show her mourning. Appearances had to be maintained.

    When the memorial started, Montclair cousins started trickling in. Elinor stood with her younger brother, Rafe, politely accepting the fake condolences of the spoiled scions as they arrived. Elinor had a shockingly low opinion of the competence of most of the House Montclair family members. Much of the power, wealth and influence the House enjoyed came from a very small number of people. None of those people showed up.

    When the appropriate time came, Elinor sat with Rafe and Dorcas in the front row, while a Universalist Speaker went to the podium. Elinor was technically a Universalist, as was most of the House Montclair, but she wasn¡¯t a big believer. She put faith in herself. She didn¡¯t need the Universe acting on her behalf. But it wasn¡¯t relevant anyway. Her parents were strong believers, and the Speaker¡¯s presence was appropriate.

    After the Speaker finished the eulogy, Elinor began her rounds. To her great surprise, she spotted Lady Ursula at the back of the room. She was rumored to be over a century old, tall and regal with bone-white hair perfectly done up in a curvy style that was cut off at the shoulders. As opposed to the modern style of doublets and boots, Lady Ursula wore perfectly cut dresses that were beautifully crafted and utterly inappropriate for space. If the gravity should fail, her clothing would hinder any attempt to move or maintain dignity. Wearing such a dress made much more of a statement than any new fashion could, in Elinor¡¯s opinion.

    As the head of House Montclair, Lady Ursula wielded incredible power and influence, both within the House and throughout the Sovereignty. Her political battles were done at the King¡¯s Court and in deals spanning star systems. To make an appearance at such a minor event was surprising. But Elinor wasn¡¯t about to let such an opportunity pass her by. Elinor moved straight over to her, having to excuse herself several times, and even pretend not to hear someone greet her once.

    ¡°Archduchess Montclair, it is a great honor to see you once again,¡± said Lady Elinor as she curtsied deeply before Lady Ursula. Ursula nodded graciously.

    ¡°I¡¯m deeply saddened to hear of the loss of Baron and Baroness North,¡± said the lady. Her tone was sorrowful and her words almost lyrical. If Elinor hadn¡¯t known better, she¡¯d have thought that she did actually care. From the corner of her eye, Elinor could see that the entire room was waiting and listening to this conversation.

    ¡°Thank you for your kind words,¡± replied Elinor, her own tone revealing nothing but her sincere gratitude. ¡°Your support in such a time has meant the world to me and my brothers.¡±

    Elinor¡¯s choice of words was bold, and potentially dangerous. They could be interpreted as either supporting the North family in a passive way, such as attending a memorial, or as a more substantive support. Her implication in the statement risked alienating the head of the House.

    Lady Ursula, much to Elinor¡¯s relief, seemed almost bemused. Her eyes twinkled slightly, but her face remained distantly concerned. ¡°Of course, Lady Elinor. After all, who wouldn¡¯t wish for support in times such as this?¡±

    Elinor could have jumped for joy. It wasn¡¯t a direct endorsement or statement of support. In fact, it was every bit as ambiguous as her own statement. But Lady Ursula hadn¡¯t outright rejected or repudiated her. She could use the vague implications that everyone overheard to undermine any argument that the North family assets should be absorbed into the House proper.

    After making the appropriate noises of gratitude and farewell to Lady Ursula, the quiet conversations in the room continued, and Elinor moved from person to person. She deftly avoided promises to cousins, confirmed her own place as head of the cadet branch, and worked her way around the room.

    Someone she did not recognize, a young man wearing fine clothes that were ill-tailored, stopped her as she was moving to find her brother. Elinor realized his clothes fit fine, he was just so awkward in the finery that he looked about to squirm right out of them.

    ¡°Lady Elinor, many apologies for the loss of your parents,¡± said the young man. ¡°I am Leonard Vinter, of Vinter Family Trading.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, Mr. Vinter. I must apologize, but I must say I do not know of your family or its business interests,¡± lied Elinor smoothly. The Vinter Family was a ruthless, grasping middle class family that had made no secret of its noble ambitions.

    Leonard¡¯s face flushed slightly, either in anger or embarrassment, Elinor couldn¡¯t quite tell which. ¡°We are interstellar shipping magnates, and carry all manner of goods.¡±

    ¡°Hmm, stevedores. I hope business goes well for you,¡± needled Elinor. She had little time for pushy social climbers who snuck into memorials for business. It was tactless and crude. She started to move away.

    ¡°I was hoping to make you an offer,¡± he said, jumping forward awkwardly to stay next to her as she walked. ¡°For the manifold waypoint data.¡±

    Elinor¡¯s blood froze as she heard him, but her face revealed nothing. She did not even break stride. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I have no idea what you¡¯re talking about.¡±

    ¡°You do, I know you do. Your exploration team came back just a week ago. We¡¯d like to buy their survey data and the manifold waypoint coordinates,¡± said Leonard. ¡°We¡¯re prepared to pay quite handsomely.¡±

    Leonard stuck a scrap of vellum forward, and the number Elinor saw scribbled there was very large. She almost laughed out loud. If she had been one of her spoiled Montclair cousins, she would have snapped up that figure in a heartbeat. It would be easy money for no effort. But she knew for a fact that this was not even the barest sliver of the value of a star system.

    ¡°Mr. Vinter, I find your insistence on trying to do business at a memorial service to be ill-timed and of low character. Please leave me to mourn the passing of my parents in peace,¡± said Elinor, her words pitched just loud enough to elicit gasps from the so-called mourners around her, but not loud enough to be considered rude.

    Leonard¡¯s face flushed, this time definitely in anger. He hissed at her, ¡°Be careful, Lady Elinor. It would be a terrible shame if an accident befell you, too.¡±

    With an abrupt about face, Leonard Vinter stormed out of the memorial. Elinor turned and spotted Rafe. A subtle hand signal brought him over. She leaned in and whispered to him, ¡°Find out everything you can about the Vinter Family, and see if there are ties to our parents. We have an enemy already, it seems.¡±

    Rafe leaned back and lifted a glass of water to his lips, speaking into the cup to hide his lip movements. ¡°I¡¯ll start right away. Courier the information to you where?¡±

    ¡°You know where. I leave tonight,¡± she mumbled softly, her lips barely moving.

    Elinor turned away and came almost face to face with Lady Ursula. She bowed and stepped to the side so that the matriarch could walk past. She wondered how much of that the old woman had heard, and for what inscrutable reason she would even be at this memorial.

    It didn¡¯t matter. As soon as this was over, she would have strengthened her position enough to leave for the Emanyo. She had a star system to claim.

 Chapter 7: The Great Game [EN]

    ¡°They are honorless. One side fights for money. The other side fights for ideas. Many choose to cower in their clutches rather than pick a side. None fight for honor and prestige. I hope they wipe themselves out.¡±

    N¡¯tok¡¯a Th¡¯a, Sauran Ambassador to the Great Host

    <hr>

    Lady Elinor North, House Montclair

    Rings of Nulma, Dotalian Sovereignty

    Free at last, thought Elinor to herself. She¡¯d escaped the interminably long memorial, reasonably confident that she¡¯d staked out a strong enough position to head off the backstabbing money grubbing ¡®cousins¡¯ of the House Montclair. What was hardest about having to protect her family¡¯s inheritance was that not one of those cousins had ever worked at anything in their lives. None of her ¡®aunts¡¯ and ¡®uncles¡¯ had worked, either. They were professional dilettantes, grasping for whatever source of funds they could find that didn¡¯t rely on the goodwill of Lady Ursula.

    She knew she wasn¡¯t being charitable. A lot of the older Montclair family members served as diplomats, courtiers, and agents on behalf of the family. But none of them were scrambling like the North family, or any of the other cadet branches, for that matter.

    Elinor shoved those thoughts aside as she stripped out of the ridiculously expensive outfit she¡¯d worn, and into a proper North uniform. Her parents had scoffed at the pseudo-military style uniform, but had not stopped her from requiring the Dragoons wear it, along with proper rank insignia. When Walter Mason came onboard to help reorganize the North trading fleets, he too adopted the uniform. Before long, all servitors to the Norths wore a variation of it. With white trousers and maroon coat with gold buttons up both sides of the chest, the uniform was both regal and functional. The trousers were actually part of a full-body space suit, while the coat was armored against slug throwers and low-powered laser weapons. This was especially important considering the preparations she¡¯d made to leave the station.

    Elinor¡¯s version had no rank except for a single gold ringed planet on the collar, from the Montclair coat of arms. Once she slipped on her white ship¡¯s boots and checked all her seals, she left her room to be packed by a servant and headed straight towards the station docks. The docks were the busiest part of the whole station, and were a hub of activity as ships entered and left regularly. This part of the station was not limited to House Montclair, but was one of the major ports of entry for goods entering Dotalian markets. The King¡¯s Custom had an office, where tariffs and duties were collected, and the King¡¯s Exchequer maintained a space for its tax agents as well. The few service shops and food vendors were owned by the House Montclair, of course.

    Excited to finally get off the station, Elinor walked at such a brisk pace that she occasionally skipped a step to avoid falling flat on her face. She ducked through narrow corridors and maintenance hallways, trying to avoid the slower traffic of the main roads. She had done this countless times before, preferring the faster pace she could set, even if the route was technically longer.

    When she reached the end of the last hallway, Elinor was surprised to find a woman leaning against the wall. She was right before the last bend that would lead out onto the dock where Elinor¡¯s cutter was docked. The woman was casually flipping a dagger in one hand. She looked up at Elinor and gave a rakish grin.

    ¡°You really shouldn¡¯t make yourself so predictable,¡± said the woman. ¡°This is almost too easy.¡±

    ¡°You really should have taken my brother¡¯s offer,¡± said a man right behind her. Elinor nearly jumped out of her skin, turning to see someone who looked remarkably similar to Leonard Vinter stepping out of a door, closing it tightly behind him. ¡°It would have been a lot less painful.¡±

    Elinor nodded, wasting no time on words. She pressed a button inside her jacket sleeve. Instantly, an armored helmet snapped over her head. A slim laser pistol slid into her right hand, out of sight of the Vinter brother. She spun swiftly, just as the woman yelled a warning.Stolen novel; please report.

    ¡°She¡¯s got a pistol!¡±

    ¡°Shit!¡± cursed the Vinter brother, but he had no cover to hide behind. Three blasts took him in the middle of the chest. Unfortunately for Elinor, his suit was armored like hers was. Elinor wasted no time, charging straight towards the woman.

    The woman had dropped the smile, her face a look of a predator. She held her knife in a way that told Elinor that she had the skills to take down an armored opponent. Elinor wasn¡¯t ready to test it, she only had to buy a little more time.

    Elinor jumped suddenly, a few meters away from the woman. A low-hanging pipe was above her head, which she grasped one-handed. The momentum of her run set her swinging, and she activated the emergency magnetic grips on her boots, which caught on another pipe. Swiftly, she climbed up and started firing the laser down at the woman.

    Cursing, the woman dove around the bend in the corridor, so Elinor shifted her fire to the charging Vinter brother. She didn¡¯t aim for his torso this time, but for his legs and head. This, however, was a much harder shot.

    ¡°Universe damn you, woman!¡± shouted the man. He held an armored arm over his head to protect it, and was fumbling at his waist for a slug thrower. ¡°I was going to catch you alive, but I¡¯ll kill you if I have to!¡±

    ¡°Hah, you¡¯re far too stupid to catch me, alive or dead,¡± taunted Elinor. Her laser pistol gave a warning beep. Elinor frowned and stopped firing. She only had a few shots left.

    ¡°Is that right? Who is cornered in the ceiling of a corridor all alone?¡± he called back.

    A welcome ding came over her helmet comm, and Elinor breathed a sigh of relief. ¡°Who says I¡¯m alone?¡±

    Right on time, a half-dozen North Dragoons came out of a door a little further down from where the Vinter brother had entered the hallway. Another half-dozen came around the corner from where the woman had sought cover. Elinor frowned when she saw that the second group of Dragoons did not have the woman with them. The slippery assassin must have slipped the net.

    It took less than a minute for the dozen Dragoons to surround and disarm the Vinter brother, and manacle his wrists. Elinor dropped gracefully to the ground as her younger brother walked into the hallway with yet another half-dozen Dragoons at his back. He nodded to Elinor, then looked at the Vinter brother.

    ¡°Nathanial Vinter, the thug,¡± he said distastefully. ¡°You¡¯re reputation for brutality precedes you.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re dead! All you Norths are dead! Once I get free, I¡¯m going to tear you limb from limb!¡± raved Nathanial. ¡°You will give us what is ours -¡±

    One of the Dragoons clubbed him in the back of the head with the butt of her laser rifle. She looked up at Rafe and said, ¡°Oops, my apologies, sir. My weapon appears to have slipped my grasp. I do hope he recovers swiftly.¡±

    ¡°No apologies necessary, soldier,¡± said Elinor as Rafe frowned. She turned to Rafe. ¡°Get whatever information you can from him. Find out if they actually killed our parents. If they did, you know what to do.¡±

    ¡°And the other brother? Leonard?¡± asked Rafe.

    ¡°Him, too.¡±

    Rafe nodded in approval. He had become the North family¡¯s spymaster because he did not have any issues with morally questionable actions. Elinor had worked hard to make sure those actions stayed hidden from their kind-hearted parents and from their younger brother, Miles. It took a certain kind of ruthlessness to thrive in House politics, and they would need every ounce of it in order to survive. It would get even more dangerous if they succeeded in Emanyo.

    ¡°You know the Vinters have a lot more brothers, and the father, Uric Vinter, is especially dangerous,¡± warned Rafe as the Dragoons dragged Nathaniel through the doorway into the warehouse they¡¯d used for the reverse ambush.

    ¡°I know,¡± said Elinor, with a brisk nod of the head. ¡°But they are the ones who are trying to get into the Great Game. We may be a minor cadet branch, but we are still nobility. Mr. Vinter and his sons will soon learn that he is a jackal amongst lions.¡±

    ¡°This is the last time you will ever go without a squad of Dragoons,¡± said Rafe. ¡°You are no dramatist hero who can charge recklessly into danger time and again. The next ambush will be better.¡±

    ¡°What happened to the woman?¡± asked Elinor.

    ¡°She spotted us coming in, and ran before we could corner her. She¡¯s not a Vinter, so I¡¯m guessing she¡¯s a freelancer. I¡¯ll get her picture from House Security, see if we can learn more.¡±

    ¡°No doubt she¡¯ll report to the Vinters then,¡± said Elinor, dissatisfied with the loose end. ¡°Alright, if the Vinters played a role in our parents¡¯ death, don¡¯t dump his body in space. I want you to send a clear message to the father.¡±

 Chapter 8: Opportunity Knocks [EN]

    All is forgotten.

    An empty mind is better

    Than no mind at all.

    - Anonymous, Poems of the Long Fall

    <hr>

    Lady Elinor North, House Montclair

    Aboard the Arctic Wind, Dotalian Sovereignty

    Elinor had barely stepped out of the airlock of her cutter, the Arctic Wind, when she was subjected to another ambush. This time, her new Dragoon bodyguards were of no help. It was her cousin Alice.

    ¡°Oh Great Stars, you¡¯re not going to believe this report!¡± said Lady Alice Porter as soon as Elinor made it onto her cutter. Despite her obvious excitement, the young woman did an excellent job of keeping a proper demeanor. She wore the standard white space suit, but instead of the North uniform jacket on top, Lady Alice wore a proper velvet vest with a stylish, patterned cravat around her neck.

    Alice was her actual cousin, her father¡¯s niece, and was considered part of the North branch of the Montclairs. She was also new to the family business, learning from Lady Dorcas how to manage the operations for an interstellar mining and trade outfit. Much like Elinor¡¯s youngest brother, Miles, Alice was a late-in-life surprise for Elinor¡¯s aunt and uncle. While Miles had opted to go the military route and join the Dragoons, Alice had opted to join up with the business end. She had been taken under the wing of Dorcas, who was Elinor¡¯s de facto right hand and most trusted confidante.

    ¡°Please tell me your husband has already left with the cargo cog,¡± said Elinor, trying to tamp down Alice¡¯s enthusiasm.

    ¡°Jeremy left days ago,¡± said Alice. ¡°He¡¯s running dark, and I filed his official flight plan with Sovereignty Defenses twenty minutes ago, along with ours. We should be hitting the manifold waypoint within a few hours of each other.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± said Elinor. ¡°Is everyone onboard and ready to leave?¡±

    ¡°They are,¡± confirmed Alice. ¡°Lady Dorcas is on the bridge handling astrogration. Why don¡¯t we have a pilot on this run?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re trying to keep the exact translation coordinates a secret for as long as possible. We need to consolidate our claim against claim jumpers. That¡¯s why we only used our most trusted scouts for the exploration team. Once we¡¯ve established a defensible claim, we can start shipping goods to market and it doesn¡¯t need to stay secret any longer.¡±

    ¡°Oh, that makes sense,¡± said Alice. She held up the thick folder stuffed with sheets of vellum. ¡°So did you read this?¡±

    ¡°No, not yet,¡± said Elinor, holding out her hand. Alice handed it over. ¡°Did we receive the latest numbers from the orbital mines?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Alice made a sour face. ¡°They aren¡¯t pretty. Rare earth metals are down this quarter and platinum group metals are sinking. Transuranics are steady, thankfully. No super-periodic materials, as expected.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, they¡¯re keeping the doors open,¡± said Elinor. Transuranics had immense value, but were the hardest and most expensive to mine.

    ¡°We¡¯re doing well in volatiles and base metals, but¡­¡± Alice didn¡¯t need to finish that statement. Volatiles and base metals were commoditized. They were cheap to mine, but they sold cheap, too. No fortunes could be made there. They were mostly useful as a way to pay the Tithe, since the Formicans cared mostly about contribution, not quality.

    ¡°We really need this exploration investment to really pan out,¡± Elinor said, and began to read the report. She had invested heavily in expedition after expedition, and her parents had finally cut off the money tap. Elinor had argued tirelessly that the expeditions had to continue, but her father had simply pointed at their dwindling funds in their Exchequer accounts, and falling revenues from mining and trade operations.

    A new manifold waypoint had been calculated on one of the earliest expeditions, but the scouts had not found the first Way through the waypoint, and come up empty handed. Expedition after expedition failed in their exploration of the manifold. But they had struck gold on the last scouting trip. The scout had found the exit point to another star system, and the Way was clear. The first of six theoretically possible destinations had been uncovered.

    Now, Elinor was reading the top-secret scout report of the star system itself. Once in the other star system, the scout had been able to cross-reference its galactic location against old Imperium star charts, and determine that it was the Emanyo System, eighty-nine light years from Dotalian space. But this was all learned from early reports. The scout had gone back for a more thorough examination.

    ¡°We¡¯re ready to leave,¡± came the tinny sound of Dorcas¡¯ voice over the analog, mechanical speaker system.

    Elinor sighed in frustration. She put the report in a drawer in the tiny cubicle that was her stateroom, and secured the chair and desk. Then she went up the cramped hallway, ducking under pipes and careful to avoid hitting any of the large busses and relays on the walls. She passed the ready room where her Dragoons had already secured themselves into launch seats. The blast door that was a last resort against explosive decompression from a hull breach was closed, per safety protocols. She entered the bridge and took the seat behind Dorcas and Alice. The last Dragoon that had been guarding her secured the bridge door, spinning the massive wheel to drive steel pins into all four sides of the bulkhead, before taking the last seat in the room.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    Despite all the precautions, the exit from the station was very routine. Dorcas expertly manipulated the pilot controls, which were not unlike an atmospheric flyer¡¯s controls. Pushing or pulling against the control wheel controlled pitch and yaw, a separate lever handled throttle, and a panel full of mechanical navigation controls, gauges, and systems information readouts provided a world of information only a trained pilot could understand. Despite all the wealth of information and technology that even an advanced society such as the Dotalian Sovereignty had on hand, there was not a single piece of semiconductor technology onboard. Computers and delicate electronics simply could not survive manifold translation.

    After radioing for and receiving clearance to leave the Montclair station, Dorcas carefully navigated the small cutter around dozens of massive cargo cogs that were either waiting to dock or just leaving as well. The cutter¡¯s engine to cargo ratio was far more favorable, so it could dart in and out far faster than the behemoth cogs. Added to that was the need to navigate the Rings of Nulma themselves.

    Nulma was a light gravity planet, slightly under the Galactic Constant of 1G. It¡¯s sister planet, Klutea, was the home of the Royal House and the King¡¯s Court. Klutea was far harsher compared to Nulma, with a slightly lower oxygen content, higher gravity, and a tidally locked moon. There were theories that the Rings of Nulma had once been a moon that the Imperium Aeternus had broken up for materials, but there was no real evidence. Like many old tales, the Old Imperium made for a convenient boogeyman.

    Once past the Rings, Dorcas was able to really accelerate. Elinor could hear the high-pitched whine of the gravitational generators fighting against the inertia to maintain a survivable 2G¡¯s in the living areas, while the rumble of the Huntington-Wesley engines pumped enormous energy through massive nozzles to accelerate the cutter.

    For nearly five hours, Elinor sat in the launch seat with her teeth gritted. The constant pressure made her feel nauseous and hot. Sweat dripped off her brow, and her hands clenched the arms of the chair in a white-knuckled death grip. At long last, the rumble of the engines ceased, and the high-pitched whine could be heard winding down. Gravity slowly returned to normal.

    ¡°Acceleration burn nominal, no further burns needed at this time. All crew may return to their duties,¡± said Dorcas over the intercom. Dorcas turned and gave Elinor a wild grin. ¡°That was soooo much fun!! Why did I ever let you talk me into leaving behind piloting?¡±

    ¡°Because you love me,¡± said Elinor, ¡°and I needed your help.¡±

    ¡°Right, right, save the family business, blah, blah, blah,¡± said Dorcas with a fake pout. ¡°Deceleration burn will be in two weeks. Plenty of time to figure out our next steps.¡±

    ¡°Great,¡± muttered Elinor. ¡°Barely enough time to recover from this burn.¡±

    ¡°Hey, a win by only one point is still a win,¡± smirked Dorcas.

    ¡°And an asskicking by any other name still hurts,¡± countered Elinor.

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t hurt little ole¡¯ me, would you?¡± Dorcas fluttered her eyes.

    ¡°Can and will. I¡¯m going to take a nap, I¡¯m drained. I¡¯ll finish reading the report and we can talk at dinner.¡±

    Alice had been completely right. The report was astounding. The star system had never been settled, and it was easy to understand why. Emanyo had a A-type main sequence star, or dwarf star, that was relatively young. The system itself had formed from the remnants of a supernova, so the system was swimming with gases even now. The blue-white star had only five planets, but boasted a robust asteroid belt with ten proto-planets and nearly fifty notable asteroids. And while it had relatively few planets, the ones they had were notable.

    The Old Imperium star charts had indicated names for the planets. While technically, once Elinor claimed the system, she would be able to name them, she doubted she would bother. Everyone used Old Imperium star charts. Because of the density of the star and its high radiation, the habitable zone of the star was fairly far back. The planets were even farther out.

    The closest planet to the star was Murkaph, a terrestrial planet with a thin atmosphere and robust magnetic field. This made the planet a candidate for terraforming, theoretically, if Elinor had the money and a few centuries to work. The second planet had extremely high temperatures, making it mostly useless. The greenhouse effect had run amuck, driving daily average temperatures up over 100 degrees centigrade on the cooler days, and above 200 degrees on the hot ones.

    The gas giants were what were truly spectacular. Skudim and Tealick were massive specimens for their type. Tealick was twenty times the size of your average single-g of gravity terrestrial planet, while Skudim was far closer to a three hundred times the size. In fact, the size and density of the planet indicated that it was a failed star that had lost the race to gobble up mass to its larger brother, the dwarf star. If the mass had distributed even a little bit more equitably, this would have been a binary system.

    Hidden behind Skudim, almost as an afterthought, was Bloodira, a frozen chunk of planet with a misshapen moon and tiny, almost nonexistent ring. It was distant and cold, and its slow orbit meant thousands of years to fully transit around the star.

    But as fascinating as the stellar oddities that made up this star system were, what truly drew Elinor¡¯s attention was the spectrographic readings. Optical spectrometry was the most ancient of scouting techniques, and had been refined by countless centuries of mankind¡¯s exploration of space. And these readings were beautiful. There were untouched riches of transuranics and plantinum group metals on three different major asteroids, ripe for the plucking. The smaller gas giant, Tealick, had a wealth of deuterium in its atmosphere. But the most interesting part was the anomalous data from the semi-habitable planet, Murkaph.

    Somewhere on the planet, a hint of a reading indicated something rare was there. It could be ventricite crystals, once in high demand by the Imperium Aeternus, now mostly used for scanners and sensors. It could be adamium shards, which was a key ingredient in temperature-controllable smart materials, particularly popular for medical devices for spacefarers, since they remained unaffected by manifold translation. And, if they were particularly lucky, it could be aurum ore.

    The gold colored ore was named after its baser cousin, gold, because of its color. But that was truly the only similarity between the two. Aurum, once forged properly, formed one of the strongest materials in the universe. The Old Imperium had used vast amounts of it, and so had the Formican fleets in the Formican Wars that followed the collapse of the Imperium. Ever since, however, this had proven to be the rarest and most valuable resource in the galaxy. Or at least, in human space.

    None of these rare materials showed up properly on a spectrograph, so the anomalous readings were a sign that one of them was there - if the equipment was functioning correctly at the time of the scan. Or it could mean that none of them were.

    This anomalous reading was what sent the scout rushing back to report to Elinor immediately, before going back for a more thorough report. It had been worth the extra weeks of travel time, to allow Elinor to prepare her trip sooner.

    Lady Elinor North had a slim chance to reverse her family¡¯s fortunes, and in a big way. But she had to get there. Now, she could only prepare, and wait, as the manifold waypoint approached.

 Chapter 9: A New Frontier [EN]

    Of all the technologies that were lost, the loss of the secrets of transdimensional science hurt the most. This science was the foundation of the Imperium Aeternus¡¯ power. Without it, I fear we may never climb out from under the Formican Peace Settlement. The Coalition may have had the ideological high ground, but their success has cost humanity trillions of lives and set us back a thousand years.¡±

    Professor Victoria Basset

    King¡¯s College of Klutea

    <hr>

    Lady Elinor North, House Montclair

    Planet Murkaph, Emanyo System

    Manifold translation is remarkable only in how unremarkable it is. A ship flies through space and goes to a certain location. Often, pilots will slow down dramatically, usually to a relatively dead stop. This is because the translation will only happen in that one exact location, and it is far easier for a pilot to hit that spot if they aren¡¯t going too fast.

    Once the waypoint is hit, the manifold translator onboard takes a bubble of space and twists and sets it in a transdimensional space that can¡¯t be found any other way. There is no turbulence, no obvious change, and no way back without a reverse translation. In fact, traveling through a fold of manifold space is essentially no different from traveling in deep space. There are occasional pieces of matter that does not fall on the periodic table that are collected as curios for the rich, but have no real value otherwise. The properties of translation matter are usually mundane, sometimes odd, and never useful. In fact, some of the larger, asteroid-sized pieces of matter could both hinder exploration and aide in navigation, for once in manifold space, you still had to find your way back out again.

    As far as Elinor knew, no one had ever fully determined if manifold space was a single dimension, a fold of normal space-time, or an infinite series of pocket dimensions. What she did know, however, was that when you access a fold, that fold would connect a maximum of six star systems. That meant an exploration team had to find, usually by trial and error, five additional exit points to make a manifold waypoint useful. So called ¡®dead end¡¯ waypoints were common, with populated systems routinely having a dozen or more. The Dotalian System had twenty-three documented waypoints, but only three that were fully mapped out. This was nowhere near the largest number that Elinor had heard of, and if she knew anything at all about the Universe, it was that there were always extremes somewhere.

    So the simple fact that Elinor¡¯s explorers had located a new Way connecting the Dotalian Sovereignty¡¯s home system to another star system was big news. For a moderately sized interstellar kingdom of just under forty claimed star systems, being able to add another would be a great accomplishment. But making a claim and keeping it were two completely different things.

    Elinor didn¡¯t notice the translation at all. In fact, she missed the rendezvous with Lord Jeremy Porter, Alice¡¯s husband, and the cargo cog full of gear and family servitors. These servitors were mostly mining operations employees and another handful of Dragoons for security. She did not, however, miss the translation back into normal space. The entry into the Emanyo System marked the start of making her claim.

    ¡°Oh stars, this is so exciting!¡± said Dorcas with a bright, wide smile.

    Elinor stared at the viewscreen, which projected a view of the virgin star system they had just entered. Another viewscreen on the side of the bridge showed the cargo cog. The cog was a huge, lumbering vessel, able to carry massive amounts of cargo or passengers, depending on the configuration. Cogs were the largest class of cargo carriers, and the Wayward Goose was one of three owned by the North family. Like all cogs, the Wayward Goose had a large crew quarters and command bridge at the bow, connected by a half-kilometer long, narrow spine to the three massive engine pods at the stern. Connected on all four sides of this narrow spine were standardized intergalactic shipping containers. These shipping containers were twenty meters in height and width, and eighty meters in length, and two could fit side-by-side, allowing for fifty containers per side. A fully loaded cog could haul two hundred containers total, or 6.4 million cubic meters of raw cargo space.

    This space was eaten into, of course, by such things as shielding against radiation and refrigeration or heating systems, and when passenger containers were attached, life support, walls and supplies. A cog fully configured for passenger transport could haul two thousand passengers, and all the hydroponics, supplies and redundant systems for many months.

    ¡°I can hardly believe we are actually here,¡± admitted Elinor. ¡°I wish my parents were here to see this.¡±

    Dorcas nodded, her smile dimming. ¡°They would have been so proud of you.¡±

    Elinor barked a laugh, a tear in one eye that she refused to let fall. ¡°They would have told me that my ambitions were going to be the death of me.¡±

    This elicited a laugh from her friend. ¡°Your mother would have asked if you would deign to find a suitor now. ¡®Rafe can¡¯t be expected to produce children on his own, you know¡¯.¡±

    ¡°Poor Rafe,¡± said Elinor with a chuckle. ¡°She could never forgive him for his womanizing, but she did love to dote on his son, bastard or not.¡±

    ¡°I think she was more upset that Mathilde was a maid, and not a noble, so she couldn¡¯t force a wedding on him.¡±

    Elinor laughed at the thought of her brother being forced to tie himself down, especially as he was only nineteen at the time. ¡°I¡¯m not sure we expected from Rafe, considering how he took after Father. He was known for running wild before Mother settled him down.¡±

    ¡°Miles, on the other hand¡­¡± said Dorcas leadingly.

    A soft grin spread on Elinor¡¯s face. There was a sixteen year age gap between her and Miles, and he had always been the baby of the family. Despite having every opportunity to grow up as spoiled as any Montclair cousin, Miles worshipped his older siblings and wanted more than anything to prove his worth. While Elinor wasn¡¯t excited to see him choose the Dragoons upon reaching his majority, it was really the only path he could take to distinguish himself from his ambitious siblings.

    Elinor shook her head, unwilling to speak of her hopes for her youngest brother, for fear that the Universe would will it otherwise. She changed the subject. ¡°Are we ready to launch the beacon?¡±

    ¡°We are,¡± confirmed Dorcas. ¡°And the secondary package, as well.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s launch the beacon at a thirty degree angle from the planetary ecliptic. Send the secondary on a ninety degree angle.¡±

    The two walked to the cargo bay together, and out the airlock. Their helmets automatically deployed when the airlock began to cycle, and gloves slid out to cover their hands. Once in the cargo bay, they walked over to two very large, boxy shapes.

    ¡°This one first?¡± said Dorcas over a private channel.

    ¡°No, the other,¡± said Elinor. She opened a panel on the box she¡¯d pointed at, and typed in a few commands. Doracs, meanwhile, opened the bay door that lead out of the small cargo space. The bay was cramped with the two large packages inside it.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    After a few minutes, the first box lifted out of the cargo bay, obeying the commands that Elinor had entered. The package fired its engines in a gentle burst once past the threshold, pushing it into an orbit that would carry it on a ninety degree angle from the ecliptic. It would take months for it to reach the appropriate point for its orbit, where it would initiate a secondary burn to stabilize its orbit.

    ¡°Beacon launched,¡± announced Elinor over the ship-wide channel that covered both the Arctic Wind and the Wayward Goose. Someone opened a channel on the Wayward Goose so that she could hear the cheering of the crew. Elinor grinned in satisfaction.

    Elinor then went over to the second package, and typed in a series of commands. Dorcas looked over her shoulder, and gave her a strange look when Elinor typed in sixty degrees instead of thirty. Elinor gave her a nod, and motioned for her to not say anything. The package then lifted itself out of the cargo bay and drifted off. It wouldn¡¯t fire its engines for three days.

    The claim beacons were commonly used as a way of planting a flag by interstellar empires. They would continuously broadcast what empire claimed ownership, and whatever other information the claimants wanted to share. For the Dotalian Sovereignty, claim beacons also contained the name of the noble house or family that laid the claim. For new systems, that gave license to harvest resources, found colonies, and generally lay the infrastructure for the Sovereignty to expand. Once a suitable level of industry or population was achieved, the Sovereignty would then start extending its Defenses accordingly.

    <hr>

    The planet Murkaph was a lifeless, dull place, thought Elinor. They had been on-planet for only a few weeks, and already she was tiring of the reddish-brown rocks and dusty surface. The reddish dirt clung to her boots as she walked around the rudimentary mining camp. Dozens of passenger containers were lined up in neat rows on either side of a newly constructed hallway. Airlocks were on either side, and massive solar panels were set up on the roof.

    Despite its drabness, Elinor couldn¡¯t contain her excitement. Comprehensive scans of the surface had led them to the rough location of the anomaly, and the mining equipment was already being assembled. Massive equipment rigs would soon start boring into the crust of Murkaph, while core samples were being drilled to pinpoint the final locations of mine shafts and tunnels.

    Meanwhile, out in the system¡¯s asteroid belt, a second mining operation was starting up. Elinor¡¯s cousin, Alice, was with her husband as they set up shop overtop a promising transuranics deposit. The asteroid they were on held decent amounts of platinum group metals, as well, and Elinor fully expected the operation to be one of their most profitable. Murkaph, right now, was experimental.

    ¡°Milady! Milady!¡± shouted one of the miners, as he ran towards her. He was holding in his hands a core sample, but it was far too small. The sample should have been nearly a meter in length, a cross-section of the material in the ground that would allow for easy analysis. This one was not even half that length. ¡°We broke a drill during coring. Look at the bottom!¡±

    Elinor lifted the core sample. It was mostly igneous rock, shifting to metamorphic at the bottom strata. She didn¡¯t see the cause for excitement until the miner reached over and turned the sample so that she was looking at the bottom. Flakes of broken, diamond-tipped drill bit were stuck to the sample, but right in the middle was a bit of flaky gold.

    ¡°Is that what I think it is?¡± she asked.

    ¡°It is,¡± confirmed the miner with a wide grin visible through his helmet. ¡°It¡¯s aurum ore.¡±

    <hr>

    It was late in the night cycle when a brand new cargo cog docked at Montclair Station. This was not unusual. In fact, the docks were busy day and night, as Montclair Station bustled with the loading and unloading of the massive cargo containers carried by the cogs. What was unusual was for two of the crew to slip away into the crowds, unnoticed by the dockmaster and customs official as they stood by the primary dockway that tied the crew quarters to the station.

    The pair of cargo crew made their way to a servants entrance. This airlock was for Montclair servitors, who handled the daily needs required to operate the opulent lifestyle of the House Montclair. Heavily guarded, this door was every bit as difficult to infiltrate as the main entrance used by the noble family. The two crewmen presented a sheet of vellum to the guards. After careful examination, and thorough scanning by numerous security systems, the guards stepped aside and allowed the crewmen to enter.

    Just inside the door, a butler stood waiting to escort the two men through a maze of corridors. They were led into a lush private study on the very top floor of the Station. The walls were lined with books and records, and the desk that dominated the center of the room was clearly used, with neat stacks of vellum and binders full of reports in perfect piles. To one side was a nook, where a computer stood, its screen powered down. On the far side of the room was a fireplace, crackling with very authentic-looking holographic fire. Tall velvet drapes hung on either side, giving the appearance of windows being covered against the night. A single comfortable chair sat beside the fire, the chair canted so that the sole occupant could watch the two men as they entered the room.

    ¡°Mr. Vinter. You requested this meeting. What can I do for you?¡± asked Duchess Ursula Montclair, head of the House Montclair, and one of the most powerful and influential nobles in the entire Dotalian Sovereignty. Her spare frame was slender and graceful, her silver hair flawlessly styled despite the late hour. Lady Ursula¡¯s eyes were sharp and unforgiving, not missing a thing as the butler stepped out of the room and closed the door.

    ¡°Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,¡± said Uric Vinter. He was a hard man, his own eyes probing the room and its occupant, searching for any sign of weakness. Uric had built Vinter Family Trading from the ground up, from a single cargo galley to the dozens of cogs it used today. ¡°I appreciate your willingness to-¡±

    ¡°Oh, do cut the flowery language. It¡¯s late. Get on with it,¡± said Lady Ursula sharply.

    ¡°Fine,¡± said Uric abruptly. He was unaccustomed to being interrupted, but he kept his irritation to himself. ¡°I have a dispute with a cadet branch of your family. I came to ask you to stand aside while I deal with them.¡±

    ¡°I assume this has to do with the body of Nathaniel Vinter being dumped in front of your local office?¡± asked Lady Ursula. ¡°And your son Leonard going missing?¡±

    ¡°Indeed,¡± said Uric. ¡°But that is not my main concern. I intend to claim the new star system that the North family has located. They are too underfunded and weak to exploit it properly. I believe the Crown will support my bid, once they see the results of my exploratory mining.¡±

    Lady Ursula cocked her head to the side. ¡°You seek to buy yourself a noble title.¡±

    ¡°I think the Crown will reward a loyal family that has long worked for the betterment of the Sovereignty,¡± countered Uric.

    ¡°Very well,¡± said Lady Ursula. ¡°I will not stand in opposition. In return, I expect fifteen percent of the gross profits for the star system, and your loyal support as an ally in Court upon your ascension, as recompense for not receiving revenues from the North family.¡±

    Uric nearly choked on his tongue at the price tag. That would eat a major part of the profits, funneling the money directly into a competing family that invested no money at all in the venture. But at the same time, the Vinters would still make billions, and get the Patent of Nobility that would boost their family right into the heart of the Sovereignty¡¯s power dynamics. He really didn¡¯t need to think about it. ¡°I agree.¡±

    The butler reappeared like magic, with no visible signal for him to show. He escorted the two men out of the room, closing the door behind him as they left. No sooner had the door closed, than another man stepped out from behind the velvet curtains covering the faux windows.

    ¡°Hedging our bets, madam?¡± said the man.

    ¡°Of course, Gerald,¡± said Lady Ursula. ¡°When have I ever done otherwise?¡±

    ¡°What would you have me do?¡± he asked. She wouldn¡¯t have asked him to listen in if she didn¡¯t have something for him to accomplish. Lady Ursula was a model of efficiency.

    ¡°Begin outbidding every buyer for Vinter Family trade goods. Use our unaffiliated companies and brokers with no ties to the Montclair name. Send word to our allies and vassal Houses, that the Vinters are blackballed for offenses against the nobility.¡±

    ¡°So I take it you want me to deny Lady Elinor¡¯s request?¡± asked Gerald.

    ¡°What would make you think I wanted that?¡± asked Lady Ursula. ¡°No, she has much promise. Far more than my idiot grandchildren. Grant her request.¡±

    ¡°This is a test,¡± said Gerald. ¡°If she succeeds, then House Montclair gains an entire star system. If she fails¡­¡±

    ¡°Then she proves no better than my grandchildren,¡± said Lady Ursula. ¡°And I will still get that star system once I crush the Vinter Family.¡±

 Chapter 10: The Crowns Vigor [A]

    ¡°Government assistance? What kind of socialist nonsense is that?  If you work hard, you can earn a good, honest paycheck. Then you can pay for what you need.  Have to go to a doctor? Pay the man. Need to educate your children? Pay the tuition. Solarians take pride in personal responsibility, in taking care of themselves and their families without socialist pipe dreams and government interference.

    ¡°I tell you what; capitalism makes the SFR great.  We are the wealthiest planets in the galaxy, with the best education system and best immigration system.  I¡¯m an immigrant who raised myself up from nothing, and look where capitalism has taken me. I love the Solarian Federation.  We¡¯re the best.¡±

    Senator Paullus ¡°Paul¡± Brutius

    Former CEO of Brutius Heavy Industries

    <hr>

    Dominus Valerius Artifex, Eternal Emperor

    Somewhere deep in Unknown Space

    The private corvette was an aberration.  Unlike the ruins it sat in, the corvette Crown¡¯s Vigor was in pristine condition.  The hangar was empty, with the exception of several shuttles that were in various states of repair.  This hangar was an active, working facility back when the Sphere had been under construction. Artifex had not tolerated waste, certainly not within his own palace.  Full teams of mechanics worked on craft, performing maintenance and upgrades. When the calamity had struck, Titus had allowed them to flee with whatever could fly. What was left behind was too broken to fly, except for the private corvette.

    The Crown¡¯s Vigor was a beauty, to Artifex¡¯ eyes.  He had spent centuries actively contributing to the extensive technological lead the Imperium had enjoyed, and no small part of that was in the design and engineering of its superior spacecraft.  His personal craft was no exception to that superiority.

    At over two hundred meters in length, and weighing in at forty-three megatons, the corvette was only technically a warship.  Its long, sleek lines formed the typical v-shape of the Imperium Navy. A large, dark blue sphere hovered between the two spikes at the end of the vee, with no obvious means of connection to the craft itself.  The black ship had no visible weapons, and its armor was so smoothly integrated into the design that none of the standard tell-tales of armor were apparent.

    The rear of the ship was where most of the living quarters were housed, and as Artifex approached, an invisible seam appeared.  The seam widened and expanded, forming a ramp down to the cold hangar floor. A dull golden glow came from inside the craft as Artifex walked up the ramp.  Artifex heard Titus join him on the ramp, but said nothing.

    The flawless exterior belied the true state of the corvette.  It was immediately evident that the centuries had not helped Artifex¡¯ private ship, either.  The ship was divided into two wings, naturally, with the bulk of the living space in the back.  With no rear-mounted engines or exhaust ports, the joint between the two arms was the natural place to have a heavily armored bubble of environmentally protected space.

    The ramp led up into an airlock that stood open on both sides.  With safe atmosphere on both sides, the ship had allowed the interior to open even before the ramp closed and the exterior door sealed itself.  Beyond the airlock was a hallway that branched off in two directions, one down each arm of the vee. Directly ahead was the cockpit, with staterooms lining the inner side of both hallways.  The outer side housed storage spaces, mechanical rooms, water reservoirs, and the necessary facilities such as washrooms, a kitchen, and a comfortable lounge.

    Yet age was apparent even as Artifex entered the craft.  The carpets disintegrated beneath his feet as he walked, far too brittle from time.  Half the hallway light fixtures were nonfunctional, and Artifex had to bang on the cockpit door to break it loose on its track so that it could slide to the side.  Once in the cockpit, the cushions of the pilot¡¯s seat crunched like cheap plastic, no doubt falling apart as he sat.

    The pilot¡¯s seat was central to the room, against the far wall furthest from the door.  The seat was surrounded by dozens of displays and buttons. A control wheel sat before it, with rudder paddles on the backside of the control wheel.  To the right side was a throttle lever, and to the right of that was an identical setup for the co-pilot.

    ¡°Well, this isn¡¯t what I¡¯d hoped to find,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°I think we may be in worse shape than I¡¯d hoped. Can you check the navigation?¡±

    Titus moved over and sat in another seat.  The cockpit was designed for a crew of six per shift, and for the ship, up to a thirty-person crew capacity.  Cockpit crews, maintenance, and logistics were required to run the ship non-stop, day and night, for months on end.  In a pinch, however, Artifex had demanded emergency controls allow for minimal crew configurations. For a corvette as small as this, he could fly it alone.  For some of the larger battlecruisers, a crew of four or five could fly it, although fighting with it was a different story.

    ¡°Navigation is offline, but it¡¯s likely a calibration issue.  If we can get some sensors up once we¡¯re off the Sphere, we should be able to triangulate against the nearest pulsars,¡± reported Titus.

    ¡°Excellent,¡± said Artifex, but then he frowned.  ¡°Hmm, the control wheel is damaged, and the PNP is completely offline.  I¡¯m getting good readouts from the manifold reactor, at least.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s why this thing isn¡¯t a useless relic,¡± replied Titus as he pecked away at the console in front of him.  ¡°With enough power, automatic maintenance routines must have been enough to keep it from falling apart, even with the PNP down.¡±

    ¡°That gives me hope,¡± said Artifex.  He manipulated the throttle lever, to find it stiff and unresponsive.  ¡°If a tiny corvette such as this could maintain itself so well¡­¡±

    ¡°Perhaps more can be salvaged?¡± finished Titus.  ¡°Are you thinking the Deep Reserve?¡±

    ¡°Yes, and the Bastions.  Is the transcom functional at all?¡±

    ¡°I doubt it,¡± said Titus.  He moved over to a different workstation.  ¡°It was primarily managed from the Sphere. If you¡¯ll recall, we lost contact with the First Ring right before¡­¡±

    ¡°If those were offline, then the entire Transcom network would have been effectively destroyed.  I never thought our enemies would cut their own throats to kill us.¡±

    ¡°I cannot get anything.  There are no Transcom nodes reachable at all, aside from local net.  It does confirm that you and I are the only suprans in range, however.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going to need to do a complete teardown of the cockpit, and run a full maintenance cycle and deep inspection.  Do we have anything in the way of food?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll check the pantries.  As long as the stasis fields remained, we should have enough to get by.¡±

    ¡°Start making this thing livable, and I¡¯ll get to work on a list of parts.  I¡¯m hopeful that the mechanics shop will have what I need. I may have to fabricate a few pieces, but we should be able to at least limp to civilization.  I doubt that I can do much more than get this thing flying.¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    ¡°So, no weapons?¡±

    ¡°No weapons, and probably little in the way of creature comforts.  I will probably seal off the extra staterooms and the hydroponics bay.  It¡¯s not like we can get that back in working order now, anyway, even if we had a technician.¡±

    ¡°That makes sense,¡± said Titus with a thoughtful look on his face.  ¡°If we keep the strain on the environmentals to a minimum, we can hit a port for a proper refit.¡±

    ¡°Hmm, we¡¯ll need trade goods of some sort,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°I doubt we¡¯re anywhere close to Nepan space, after all.¡±

    ¡°You think the Nepans will still have your accounts after all these centuries?¡±  asked Titus.

    ¡°Of course,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°You know how they are about money and business.  They take it seriously. The Nepans have a saying - ¡®money is truth¡¯ and ¡®honesty is bought¡¯.  If they are paid, they follow through. Always. My accounts have been sitting untouched, I would bet on it.¡±

    With a nod, Titus stood.  ¡°I¡¯ll see what I can find to make this heap livable and to get some food in our bellies.¡±

    <hr>

    Artifex found the mechanics shop to be in passable condition, and found a good set of tools that looked little worse for the wear.  Steel was unharmed by time, after all, and the hangar was deep enough inside the fragment of the Sphere that it was untouched by the ravages of deep space.  After arming himself with a toolbox filled with essentials, Artifex found himself elbows deep into the cockpit of the Crown¡¯s Vigor.  The delicate polaritronic pathways were in good shape, for which Artifex was very grateful.  It would take him weeks, if not months, to build the necessary equipment to fabricate new pathways.  Without them, he would have to rig up a far cruder system to let them limp to a station.

    Most of the problems Artifex was finding was simple mechanical issues.  Delicate pieces of equipment that were meant to only last a century or so had fallen apart.  More robust components had seized, some of them irreparable. Hours passed while Artifex worked, never allowing his thoughts to stray to the personal.  He shut down the emotional part of his brain that wanted to cry and rage at his losses. His closest advisors and allies had been killed or become refugees after the destruction of the Sphere.  Who knows how many had suffered afterwards. His Consuls were missing, except for Titus, and may well be dead. He had been betrayed, and was tumbling through deep space with nothing but decaying equipment to work with.

    But none of that mattered right now.  He had a ship to fix.

    Titus returned with some bland ship¡¯s food - generic, flavorless and easily forgotten.  It was exactly the sort of basic foodstuff that was eternally the domain of human militaries, and one of the things kept by suprans even after evolving themselves.  Food is fuel, to a soldier. There is no time or need for anything more. Artifex returned to work.

    Hours blurred, and Artifex forced himself to keep working despite growing exhaustion.  He was half a day out of stasis and major surgeries. The medical pod had worked miracles in keeping him alive and repairing him, but he still needed sleep.  Yet the shattered Sphere was no place for rest. It was barely habitable, with none of the tools needed for long-term life support. The fact that any of it survived in any way was nothing short of miraculous.  And if Artifex would stop for a moment to be honest with himself, he was not willing to face his dreams just yet.

    ¡°Any luck with the polaritronics?¡± asked Titus.

    Artifex jumped at the unexpected voice cutting into his concentration, banging his head on the mechanical cabinet he was laying inside of.

    ¡°Ow,¡± he grumbled as he slid out from the cramped cabinet.  ¡°The pathways are good, so the problem must be in the processor itself.¡±

    ¡°I hope you aren¡¯t planning on getting to that before you rest, Imperator,¡± said Titus reprovingly.

    ¡°Titus,¡± said Artifex with a sigh.  ¡°Just use my name.¡±

    ¡°Fine. Valerius. You need sleep.  I¡¯ve prepared food, and got one of the washrooms functional.  I found some vacuum sealed linens, and a pleasant surprise.¡±

    ¡°Which is?¡± asked Artifex, curiosity winning out over the endless debate over work versus rest.  He¡¯d heard it for centuries, after all. He stood, absently wiping grease on his black uniform pants.

    ¡°Come look,¡± said Titus, gesturing towards the door.

    Artifex followed his Consul out and down the ramp to a giant crate.  It had been hauled by way of a manual pallet jack, and left at the base of the ramp.  Titus gestured for him to come around, and on the other side where it couldn¡¯t be seen from the ship, the crate had been broken open.

    ¡°Acceleration couches¡­ Are these the ones used in last year¡¯s Racer¡¯s Cup?  Well, the last Racer¡¯s Cup?¡± asked Artifex. ¡°I was really impressed with those.¡±

    ¡°Indeed, sir.  They are retrofitted pilot chairs from an Avisli Warbird-class destroyer.  They will fit a standard Imperium mount, and they will lay back into a full-length couch.  Emilia ordered them for you, and was going to install them on your Name Day. As best as I can find, they are the only soft cushioned item left within easy reach of the Palace that isn¡¯t a crumbling ruin.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll install them now,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°Then we¡¯ll eat and get some sleep.¡±

    Artifex reached out automatically to use his Potential, only to have nothing happen.  Instead of the chairs lifting off the ground and following him, they sat stubbornly in their crate.  It didn¡¯t even register for a moment - he sat there staring at the chairs gifted to him by his¡­ by¡­ and they weren¡¯t moving.  In frustration, he tried to use his Potential again. Once again, nothing happened.

    ¡°I¡­ can¡¯t Push or Pull,¡± said Artifex in disbelief.  For the first time since he awoke hours all those long hours ago, he looked inward as he queried his Core.

    ¡°Status: Sub-optimal¡±, said the Core.  ¡°Meridians are closed and must be reopened. Manifold power levels at zero.  Physical well-being is poor. Detecting elevated emotions and unstable brain chemistry.  Rest and food is recommended.¡±

    Indeed, in following his own internal pathways, Artifex could see that the dozens of meridians that should have been there were gone.  It wasn¡¯t so much like they were erased, but like they¡¯d grown closed. Much like an ear piercing that went unused for too long, the meridians were still there, just sealed away.  He would need to figure out how to fix it.

    It was the last straw.  It was one more thing he¡¯d had before that he¡¯d lost.  Nearly unlimited Potential drawn from the Manifold, giving him nearly godlike abilities that seemed to defy the very fabric of the universe, stripped away.

    ¡°Cursed fortuna,¡± muttered Artifex, leaning heavily against the partially broken crate.  His empire was shattered, and he had no idea if the Unity had run rampant over every defense he¡¯d built.  Any dream of bringing humanity under the supran banner was sundered beyond recognition. The people he had nurtured and loved were destroyed, the survivors scattered and lost to time.  His closest friends¡­ he could barely stand to think of his friends. Titus was with him, of course. But his other Consuls were gone. Auria had been off on a mission, and Emilia had been with the Fleet.  Sicarius was likely dead.

    It hurt just to think of them.  Auria had been his ¡°Eye¡±, a long running joke that she¡¯d taken as her formal title.  She¡¯d run his intelligence services and handled his personal security. Sicario, his ¡°Hound¡±, who had sought out his enemies.  And then there was Emilia. Oh, she was so beautiful, his ¡°Sage¡±. His fierce scholar, his bookworm warrior. His wife, his eternal companion.  Was she, too, dead and gone?

    Artifex groaned as his self-control lapsed.  He was tired and hurt, betrayed and broken. His own talents were failing him, and the grand dream of a star-encompassing fortress were now the nightmare ruins he was trapped in.  Frustration and anger replaced the cold, emotionless box he¡¯d kept his mind locked in since waking to this hellscape. Artifex¡¯s fist smashed into the crate, again and again. The plastic shell splintered under his assault, cutting into his fingers even as he vented his rage even as his eyesight blurred from tears.

    It was the betrayal that stung Artifex the worst of all.  Marcus, who he could have been the best of the Imperium. Marcus, who had more talent than any Consul, maybe even as much as Artifex himself.  Marcus, who should have been at the forefront of the Imperium as it defeated the Unity. Marcus, who should have spurned the Coalition that sought to attack the Imperium from behind.  Marcus, who should have stood shoulder to shoulder with Artifex, as a good son stands with his father.

    With a growl of frustration, Artifex hit the crate one last time before his rage spent but not sated.  Slowly, he packed it away, allowing it to simmer in the background, to color his plans without controlling him.  He sank down onto one of the acceleration couches. It rocked against the packing materials, but did not threaten to fall, despite not being secured to the floor.  Vaguely, he noticed Titus wordlessly cleanse his bruised and lacerated hand.

    The release had given a momentary catharsis, but the wounds were too new to be washed away.  He would sleep and eat, and finish getting the Crown¡¯s Vigor flight capable.  Then he and Titus would begin.  What his exact plans would be, Artifex couldn¡¯t yet articulate.  But there was one thing he was certain he would include - vengeance.

 Chapter 11: The Virtue of Ruthless [A]

    ¡°29. For that which the Universe provides, thus can the Universe take away.  Yet know this; the Universal constant is such that any planet, deemed worthy and fit in the eyes of the Universe, thence shall evolve Man.

    <ol start="31">

    <li> It is Man who is pleasing to the Universe, for how else should Man come to live on countless worlds?  I tell you now, no species is so loved by the Universe as is Man, and Man is repaid threefold above all others by the bounty of the Universe.  But those who tamper with Man, know that you tamper with the mold made of the stars themselves.  </li>

    <li> The Universe shall suffer no change to perfection, and has no sufferance for those who dare trespass on its will.  I say to you, to change the mold of Man is to revile the Universe in all its many glories, and you shall be denied the gracious bounties of the Universe for your sins.¡±  </li>

    </ol>

    Bible of the Pure Universe,  Hamilton 6:29-35

    <hr>

    Dominus Valerius Artifex, Eternal Emperor

    Somewhere deep in Unknown Space

    With an exhausted grunt, Artifex sank down into the plush acceleration couch he had installed in the cockpit.  It was configured as a chaise lounge form right now, allowing him to stretch his sore muscles. He looked over to see a similarly worn out Titus in the co-pilot¡¯s seat.

    Six days.  They had been working nonstop for six days to get the Crown¡¯s Vigor online.  By and large, their initial assessment had been correct.  The warship was largely intact and in relatively good condition.  But the difference between ¡®good condition¡¯ and ¡®safe to fly¡¯ was significant.

    ¡°I¡¯m worried about the environmentals,¡± said Titus.  ¡°The food stasis fields are in great shape, and we¡¯ve enough food to feed a full crew for a long flight.  But the damn recyclers are in terrible condition, and one of them is downright dangerous. Don¡¯t even get me started on the primary filtration unit.¡±

    ¡°Dammit,¡± said Artifex with a laugh.  ¡°I¡¯m tired. I¡¯ve been elbows deep in the PNP for days.  Are you sure we need it? We could run manual like the Coalition does.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not too keen on figuring out how to navigate manually.  My navigation days are, sad to say, way too many years ago. Not to mention, I don¡¯t quite recall how to properly triangulate the pulsars and tie that in to the star maps we have.¡±

    ¡°Stellar cartography was never a strong suit of mine, either,¡± acknowledged Artifex.  ¡°The Collies sure do have us beat there. I guess I¡¯ll have to finish getting the nav online.¡±

    Titus snorted.  The Coalition ships¡¯ manpower requirements was four to five times as many as the Imperium.  That was hardly a strength in his opinion.

    ¡°Getting the neural network functional will help with more than just navigation,¡± said Titus.  ¡°Without it, we cannot even fire the guns, and the memetic armor is completely offline.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t forget cloaking, manifold mapping, and the graviphotonic grapnels,¡± added in Artifex cheerfully.  He was so tired that he was almost giddy. ¡°Hey, I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve been this tired¡­ hmm.. since Oldumes. Remember?¡±

    ¡°Oldumes¡­ I don¡¯t re¡­. Wait, was this before the Grand Concord?  In the Goldar System?¡± Titus frowned in concentration, trying to remember.

    ¡°Yeah, when we found Sicarius,¡± confirmed Artifex.

    ¡°That was before Emilia joined us.  Where was Auria then?¡± asked Titus.

    ¡°Still a recruit, I think.  Just took the first round of gene mods.  I don¡¯t think we were fully evolved from baseline human yet.  Shit, was that before or after the Concord?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t ask me, I can barely remember what I looked like back then.  I remember you fixed my bald spot. So what about Oldumes?¡± Titus gave a yawn as he stretched out to full length, before settling back into the couch.

    ¡°What?  Oh, right, Oldumes.  So we were outside the planetary capital.  Sieging it, you know. Artillery going, orbital drops, the whole works.  I¡¯m dead tired, we¡¯ve been running a blitz invasion for three weeks.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, we plowed right over them.  The proto-dems, I think? Relying on fixed defenses, thinking heavily armed forts would protect their little democratic quagmire.¡±  Titus sneered, more out of habit than with any actual malice. In truth, Titus had left malice behind decades before going into stasis.  Some men mellowed with age, and Titus¡¯ temperament had mellowed so much over the centuries that he truly embodied the zen of a saint. In fact, Artifex suspected that it was the only thing that was holding him together in the face of so much loss.  Titus had mastered acceptance, while Artifex lived in denial.

    ¡°No, the proto-dems were¡­ that system post Concord.  The one with the nebula. I can¡¯t remember the name. Doesn¡¯t matter, they fell fast.  No, Oldumes was the kritarchy. We looked at their system when we were tinkering with our own judiciary, but it didn¡¯t mesh.  You were right about the idiotic fixed defenses strategy though. Anyway, three weeks of non-stop victories. We blow through their outer forts, seize some strategic positions, mop up some half-assed army they cobbled together, and haven¡¯t hit a single roadblock.  Then suddenly we hit the capital, and full stop. Fortifications are top of the line, staffed with large numbers of well trained soldiers. Endless amounts of ammunition stockpiled, and a brilliant general running the whole show,¡± reminisced Artifex.

    ¡°I remember him!  He was the lynchpin of the whole thing, wasn¡¯t he?¡±  Titus pulled a small bag of baby carrots out of somewhere, and offered a few to Artifex.

    ¡°You do remember!  So I offered a bounty for the general.  It was just throwing something out to see what would work.  I offered the bounty and forgot about it - I didn¡¯t think anyone would take it seriously.  I mean, a general in the middle of a war, guarded on his home turf by incredible defenses and a loyal army?  Forget about it. I was resolved to just wear them down. Sieges always work, if you can keep them penned in long enough.¡±  Artifex crunched on a carrot before continuing. ¡°So two days later, some kid gets escorted in to see me. His uniform is torn up, his face is grimy and bloody, and he was wearing a shit-eating grin.  Even the escorts seemed amused.¡±Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°Sicarius?¡± guessed Titus.

    ¡°Sicarius,¡± came the confirmation.  ¡°He dropped a duffel bag in front of me, and opened it up.  The general¡¯s head was in the bag, along with his dog tags. Without the general, the kritarchs started bickering and commandeering soldiers and parts of the wall.  It took less than a week for them to screw up and leave a section understaffed. Two weeks later we executed the kritarchs and had full control of the planet.¡±

    ¡°Sicarius was always an able hound,¡± said Titus.  ¡°So what brought that particular fight to mind? The Goldar System was the first of thousands of such conquests.  It was hardly unique.¡±

    Artifex sat up, all giddiness and exhaustion-fueled good humor drained away in a moment of absolute seriousness.  ¡°Sicarius taught me a valuable lesson. He taught me the virtue of the ruthless, and without it, I would have never been able to build the Imperium.¡±

    ¡°The virtue of the ruthless?¡±

    Artifex gave a solemn nod.  ¡°Think about it. If the general had lived, he would have held his forces together.  How many more weeks or months would we have held that city in siege? I¡¯ve no doubt of our eventual victory.  We held the orbitals, we controlled all the approaches, had superior weaponry and bigger armies. They had no allies to call, and no way to call them.  We would have suffered more losses from attrition, they would have lost countless to bombardment and starvation. I have one man killed, and the war ended in a few weeks.¡±

    ¡°How is that ruthless?¡± asked Titus.

    ¡°You¡¯ve seen me do that countless times since, my friend,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°I think your memories are skewed. Do you not remember the old Conventions, that decried assassinations as a so-called ¡®war crime¡¯ or ¡®violation of international laws¡¯?  Some ancient holdover of honor, where the people in charge were somehow supposed to be magically immune to the wars they were responsible for? I ended our invasion of the planet with far less loss of life, by taking out the leader.  I ignored the convention of the time, and slew my enemies. No protracted negotiations as the siege dragged on, no long propaganda campaigns to demoralize the civilians. Bam. Done. Just like that.¡±

    ¡°Just like that?¡± asked Titus.  ¡°So by your logic, what your enemies did was the right move.  They cut off the head and let the wyrm die.¡±

    Artifex glowered, but couldn¡¯t refute his statement.  ¡°Except for one thing. They failed to kill me. They destroyed that which I loved most in all this galaxy.  The Coalition bastards liked to call me the Destroyer. They will soon learn what destruction truly is.¡±

    <hr>

    It took two more days before Titus was happy with the environmentals, even after sealing off two-thirds of the living spaces and the small shuttle bay on the aft wing.  It was another three before Artifex was able to bring the polaritonic neural processor, or PNP, fully online. This was the central logic unit of the ship¡¯s neural network, and relied completely on manifold pathways and fold circuitry.  There was not a single piece of electronics inside, making the neural network completely immune to the problems faced with manifold translation. While ships that relied on electricity could only use manifold translation by way of huge, bulking capacitors and heavy-duty busses, Imperium ships could do the same with small, powerful manifold translators that had considerably deeper (and faster) translations.  Non-Imperium craft couldn¡¯t rely on computers, for they would invariably be fried once in manifold space. The Imperium avoided the problem by adapting the warships to use the manifold, rather than forcing the application of standard physics on a different ruleset. Of course, none of this was new to Artifex, for he had helped develop the technology at the onset of the Imperium. Now he was simply repairing it sufficient to get to a real space station.

    ¡°Good news,¡± said Titus as he barged into the neural data closet on the Crown¡¯s Vigor.  ¡°The onboard shuttle still works.¡±

    ¡°I should hope so,¡± said Artifex, not looking up from his work.  To the uninformed, the room looked to be filled with long, thin crystals and sheets of glass that fit into glowing racks that tended towards reds and purples.  What wasn¡¯t readily visible were the thousands of glass fiber cables that attached each interface and that each crystal contained millions of microscopic pathways organized into logic gates, and those gates forming circuits and microprocessors.  He slid the last rack back into place, and locked down the cabinet doors. The system was far more robust than it looked, but better safe than sorry. ¡°Those shuttles were designed to fly in conditions that would kill its pilot.¡±

    ¡°That wasn¡¯t really the good news, Valerius,¡± said Titus wryly.  ¡°No, I found some warehouses containing base materials. Several crates of ventricite crystals, a few pallets of osmium and iridium, cases of adamium shards, and even a single box of aurum ore.  Dozens of pallets of sealed transuranics. No platinum-group metals, and far too many base metals. We have more than enough to get started.¡±

    ¡°Excellent,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°Load up the ventricite crystals, but not for sale.  I need them. Take the osmium, iridium, and adamium. Hide the aurum ore under the floor of the washroom, and make sure it¡¯s secured.  That will be our insurance policy, but it¡¯s too dangerous to sell except in an emergency. If we have room left, fill up on titanium and steel ingots.  I can use them, if nothing else.¡±

    ¡°Sire,¡± said Titus with a formal nod.  He hesitated, then asked, ¡°What is our next step?¡±

    ¡°Two things, at least to start,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°We need supplies and repair time, which we should be able to find if we can locate a space station.  You know as well as I how much we need to fix. We¡¯re going to be sleeping in the cockpit for Universe-knows how long, and if we don¡¯t get the plumbing in the washroom sorted before we leave, we¡¯re going to smell like rotted skark meat by the time we get to civilization.

    ¡°Secondly, we are flying so completely blind that school children are better informed than we are.  I don¡¯t know about you, but I have a host of questions. First and foremost is, what happened? Obviously, the star in Swiftes was destroyed which broke up the Sphere.  But what happened with the transcom? How much of the Imperium has survived? Are the supran survivors still around? What happened to the Coalition? And that¡¯s just the big picture, not even taking into account the personal part of the whole thing.¡±

    ¡°Are Emilia and Auria still alive?  What happened to Sicarius?¡± offered Titus.

    ¡°Where is Marcus?¡± said Artifex darkly.  ¡°And the biggest question - why?¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Yes, why did my own son betray me to my worst enemies?¡±  Artifex growled.

    ¡°Can we find answers with the Great Host?¡± asked Titus.  ¡°They¡¯ve always had top-notch spies.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps, but I¡¯d rather not owe them.  Their help comes at a price that is always far too personal a cost.  I think I¡¯d rather try the Mother of Thousands.¡±

    ¡°You think she might still live?¡±

    Artifex laughed.  ¡°She was at least three thousand years old when I was fresh out of the colonist vats.  I would be more surprised if she wasn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Well, if that¡¯s your first ally, then we¡¯ve got a long road ahead of us.  She will eat us alive if we show up as weak as we are.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll need to deal with the Nyx as well, but that¡¯s even further down the road.  First, we get the Crown¡¯s Vigor fully operational,¡± said Artifex decisively.

    ¡°And then?¡±

    ¡°It will take time to find all the answers.  I will not work from a position of weakness for long.  We will marshall our strength while we hunt. And we will remember the lessons of Sicarius.  There is a virtue in ruthlessness, and all who stand against me shall feel it.¡±

 Chapter 12: Escaping the Ruins [A]

    ¡°And the Breakers came, and gave their Oath,

    But they chose not the way of the People.

    Their words were naught but wind in the hills,

    As hollow and empty as their Souls.

    Thus the Breakers cheated and lied,

    slew and scattered, maimed and murdered.

    And from their actions were the Mangi born.¡±

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">The Curse of the Breakers</li>

    </ul>

    <hr>

    Dominus Valerius Artifex, Eternal Emperor

    Somewhere deep in Unknown Space

    Loading cargo into the Crown¡¯s Vigor was more of an operation than Artifex had bargained for.  The corvette was more warship than cargo ship, so its actual capacity was relatively small.  The shuttle bay was barely large enough to house the shuttle, and the corresponding cargo bay on the opposite arm of the warship was equally tight.  Ultimately, Artifex and Titus had to load the shuttle by hand since the warehouse the materials were stored was completely offline and powerless. Then, they had to dock the shuttle to the cargo bay of the warship.  Mostly this was so that there was a connecting walkway between the two ships for convenience. From there, the photogravitic grapnels could be used to lift and carry the heavy ingots and crates into the cargo bay.

    ¡°I miss having people for this,¡± said Artifex when they finally finished.  ¡°Was that the last of it?¡±

    ¡°We are done,¡± confirmed Titus.  ¡°I¡¯ll go load the shuttle and do a final system check.¡±

    Artifex nodded.  ¡°I¡¯ll button up the cargo bay, and start doing my pre-flight checklist.  If all goes well, we¡¯ll be off the Sphere and re-calibrating our astrogation system in thirty minutes.¡±

    The Crown¡¯s Vigor looked unchanged from the outside after two weeks of work, but the inside was much improved.  Rotted carpets, disintegrated chairs and bedding, and ruined equipment had all been unceremoniously dumped in a corner of the hangar.  Most of the staterooms were completely sealed off, and the few that were still unsealed were being used to store every bit of usable tools and equipment that could be salvaged from the hangar and his personal lab.  Another stateroom had both medical pods and all four drones Artifex made a mental note to come back for a more thorough salvage operation in the future. The massive fragment of the Sphere had trillions of tons of materials in its construction, with enough finished goods and salvage-ready equipment that he could easily rebuild entire fleets from this shell alone.

    ¡°Manpower,¡± mumbled Artifex as he walked into the cockpit.  ¡°It always comes down to manpower. I need people to gather resources, but need gear to equip people.  To get gear I need money, and to get money I need resources.¡±

    After strapping himself in with a five point safety harness, and double-checking the emergency tell-tales, Artifex began flipping switches.  The dashboard indicator lights began to light up, and a worrying number of them were amber and red. The crucial, life-or-death ones were all green, however, and that was what mattered.  They didn¡¯t even have space suits, as the seals on the ones in storage had all gone bad. A massive heads up display was projected up on the front wall above the dashboard, a display from the front of the warship from the driver¡¯s perspective on the wall behind the holograph.  The display was useful only when docking and undocking, after which it could be swapped to a variety of views of the solar system from the ship¡¯s sensors. Most of those were offline, too, since the sensors were damaged.

    In the front of the ship, the massive blue and black orb that hovered between the two arms of the ship began to glow a deep, ominous blue.  It throbbed even as it sucked power in from dimensions that couldn¡¯t be located without intense amounts of math and some mind-bending physics.  The ship began to hover, and the four legs that had held the ancient craft for centuries pulled up into its bottom, before the skin hid any trace that the legs had ever existed.

    Titus came into the cockpit and strapped himself into the co-pilot chair.  ¡°All buttoned up, and we¡¯re all good¡­ no, we¡¯re as good as we¡¯re going to get.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re taking off in three, two, one,¡± said Artifex.

    The Crown¡¯s Vigor exited the hangar through a wide bay door into the massive cavernous space above the ruined palace.  They flew past the cold, dark artificial sun and into a wide access tunnel large enough for a frigate-class warship and small cargo cogs.  The massive blast doors that had once protected this tunnel were open and unpowered, the protective fields that had once prevented atmospheric bleed off were no longer operational.  The slow bleed of atmosphere from the relatively small hole, and probably dozens of other smaller penetrations, meant that the shard of the Sphere would eventually become an airless hulk.  Only its own gravity and the fact that most of the ¡®sky¡¯ of the shard was metal prevented the continent-sized fragment from having already lost all of its gasses.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    Once cleared of the fragment, the corvette¡¯s sensors were finally able to fully expand and take in the information about their location to give them a clue as to where they were.  Titus remotely operated the navigation computer from the co-pilot¡¯s chair so that he wouldn¡¯t need to unstrap and move. Except for the pilot and co-pilot acceleration couches, none of the remaining workstations in the cockpit had usable seats.  While the shell remained, the rotted cushions and safety straps had been discarded in the hangar.

    ¡°Cen X-3¡­ GX 301-2¡­ and¡­ Vela X-1.  Oh, there¡¯s Hercules X-1. Calibrating now,¡± narrated Titus as the astrogation sensors located and identified pulsars.

    Meanwhile, Artifex worked his own set of sensors, looking far more locally.  His sensors looked for signs of local stars, planets, and stellar objects, as well as sweeping known communication mediums for any signs of civilization.  Artifex¡¯ face deepened into a frown as more and more readouts came back.

    ¡°Ah, there we are,¡± said Titus.  ¡°We¡¯re in -¡±

    ¡°Swiftes System.  Or what¡¯s left of it.  We didn¡¯t go very far,¡± interrupted Artifex.

    ¡°Right.  How¡¯d you¡­?  Nevermind, I see the outer system planets, Mares and Cibus.  Anyway, we¡¯re much further out than Cibus now.¡±

    Artifex said nothing, only pulling up a rendering of the system on the large screen above the dashboard.  Where a star had once been was now an expanding ball of hot gasses. Most of the inner planets had been been core mined to make the first ring around the Swiftes star, but those hollowed out husks were destroyed, as were the two gas giants beyond them.  Despite the lack of a star, the heat from the shattered star was still enough to provide a dim illumination, and the myriad of colors left a beautiful, if not spooky, display.

    ¡°So we have a problem, Imperator,¡± said Titus.

    ¡°Valerius,¡± corrected Artifex.

    ¡°Not onboard your warship, sir,¡± said Titus.

    Artifex nodded, conceeding the point.  ¡°So the problem?¡±

    ¡°Obviously, the Hypercube was destroyed with the Sphere.  But the secondary and tertiary Manifold Waypoints in the system are somewhere¡­¡± Titus waved his hands at the display of the destroyed star system, ¡°...in there.  We can probably find them, but with so many defensive systems offline, we wouldn¡¯t survive getting to them.¡±

    ¡°Much less through them,¡± said Artifex in agreement.  ¡°That still leaves, what, two or three useful outer system Waypoints?¡±

    ¡°There were three beyond the tertiary Waypoint.  Two were fully explored, while the third only found a single Way.  At the time, the system was unsettled, and using an outer system Waypoint was too inconvenient.  Unfortunately, one of the three is inside the edge of the danger zone for those hot gasses. The second is on the far side of the star system, and we don¡¯t have enough supplies to get there before we run out of food and / or air.  That leaves only the third, leading to the empty system.¡±

    ¡°That doesn¡¯t leave us a lot of choice, does it,¡± stated Artifex.  ¡°The empty system, does it have mapped Waypoints?¡±

    ¡°Two,¡± said Titus.  ¡°It was marked ¡®militarily insignificant¡¯, and we kept token patrols to watch out for smugglers and expeditionary military forces.  Realistically, with a seven or eight month transit time from the Waypoint in Swiftes to the inner system, it was hardly considered a threat.  But I digress. Two Waypoints, both with Ways to minor inhabited systems, one by a single translation, the other by two.¡±

    ¡°Which route is faster?¡±

    ¡°Well, the faster route may not be the better route.  If we take the faster route, we¡¯ll get to a system with three inhabited systems, and multiple Waypoints leading to major trade routes.  If we go the longer route, we¡¯ll hit a smaller colony with a full space station, with one Waypoint leading to a different, smaller trade route.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re worried about hostile local space fleets?¡± guessed Artifex with a grin.

    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t I be?  We¡¯re in what can only generously be called a small ¡®war¡¯ ship, with no weapons or defenses to speak of, no crew and the barest of necessities,¡± said Titus.

    ¡°Let¡¯s reason this out then,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°If the Imperium, or parts of it, have survived, then this region, which was near the heart of the Imperium, should be fairly safe and not too jumpy about small ships.  If it didn¡¯t survive, however, then they probably formed a local government.¡±

    ¡°You know as well as I how paranoid small, multi-planet governments were.  We conquered enough of them, after all,¡± said Titus.

    ¡°It¡¯s not paranoia if I¡¯m actually coming to get you,¡± said Artifex dryly.  ¡°Let¡¯s go with the smaller system. A single planet might still be paranoid, but in a remote location they¡¯ll be hungry for materials.  More importantly, we can go to the space station and work on refits without having to worry the planetary government with a toothless-but-scary-looking warship. Besides...¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re thinking about conquering the planet, aren¡¯t you,¡± said Titus.

    ¡°No point in letting them see me coming,¡± said Artifex.

    <hr>

    The Crown¡¯s Vigor turned away from the mausoleum that was the shard of Sphere, where by all rights, the Eternal Emperor Artifex should have died.  The blue and black orb held invisibly between the two arms of the v-shaped warship glowed brighter as untold amounts of energy from foldspace coursed through it.  The manifold engine, obeying laws native to a different dimension of the universe, or maybe a different universe, began to pull the warship away. Faster and faster, the ship accelerated at a pace not seen since the Formican War centuries previous.  The inhabitants of the craft barely registered the speed, internally experiencing only 1.5 gravities. The hum of the gravitational generators barely registered, while the corvette leapt towards the Waypoint at an incredible pace.

    Unlike non-Imperium ships, the Crown¡¯s Vigor didn¡¯t need to slow down as it approached the Waypoint.  Manifold translation was not in human hands. The polaritonic neural network calculated and re-calculated the exact second of translation, allowing the ship to translate into the transdimensional fold without needing to slow down.  It would easily save weeks of time, by eliminating the acceleration and deceleration burns of typical translations.

    Three weeks after leaving the fragment of the Imperium Sphere, Artifex translated out of his ruined capital star system.  Known as Artifex the Builder to his own, and Artifex the Destroyer to his enemies, the Eternal Emperor was once more set loose upon an unsuspecting universe.

 Chapter 13: Its a Trap [A]

    ¡°How can you, the so-called ¡®Technocracy¡¯ Party, claim to represent progress? The Regnum Tertius barely holds a third of the territory that Eternal Emperor claimed, and a fraction of the Imperium¡¯s might. If we didn¡¯t hold two Omega Stations, we would have splintered along with the rest of the Imperium! How dare you make such bold and baseless claims? Your ¡®progress¡¯ will undo what remains, and your ¡®political reforms¡¯ are thinly disguised bread-and-circus policies aimed at pleasing your supporters at the expense of the Regnum. I and my faction stand opposed to your Governance Reformation Act.¡±

    Lady E. Lamentum, Imperial Faction of Regnum Tertius

    19 Julius, Annum 413 ERT

    <hr>

    Dominus Valerius Artifex, Eternal Emperor

    Enroute to Antarasel System, Unknown Space

    The Crown¡¯s Vigor translated back into normal space with no warning or fanfare. Translating between a transdimensional fold and normal space, for all the difficulty of bending space-time of two different dimensions, had very little impact on human or supran senses. In one moment, the ship was in foldspace, the next, normal space.

    Because the corvette did not have to slow down, it already had significant velocity already built up. Artifex really wished he could have repaired the cloaking functions before traveling. He was feeling particularly naked without weapons, defenses or a massive Imperium War Fleet around him.

    ¡°Well, this system isn¡¯t quite abandoned anymore,¡± said Titus, after analyzing the sensor data. ¡°It looks like there is a good amount of traffic between the two Waypoints. That doesn¡¯t bode well for the Imperium having survived.¡±

    ¡°At the very least, for the Imperium to have retained control of this sector of space,¡± corrected Artifex. ¡°I don¡¯t see any stations, and those planets don¡¯t look settled either.¡±

    ¡°Nothing in the habitable zone, no terraforming,¡± confirmed Titus.

    ¡°I see a cargo cog ahead of us, heading to the same Waypoint. We got lucky,¡± said Artifex.

    ¡°Indeed. The two Waypoints are nearly on top of each other. Only a scant 13 million kilometers. And this is the one we want, according to our records. The other is 108 million kilometers away. That¡¯s a solid six to eight week trip between them.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s borderline long-range,¡± observed Artifex.

    ¡°That was borderline long-range,¡± corrected Titus. ¡°We don¡¯t know what the new normal is. If this area is no longer Imperium controlled, then multi-system trading might be more difficult, and a moderate-to-long range route such as this might actually be safer because it hits fewer star systems. And if major traders are avoiding one system or the other, local traders might be making a lot of profit off of this route that would have otherwise remained dark.¡±

    Artifex nodded in concession. Titus¡¯ observations were as astute as ever, one of the reasons he had been at Artifex¡¯ side for so many centuries. The two men, despite having deep, mutual respect and admiration, simply looked at the world through different perspectives. Artifex always had an end goal in mind, and operated from the big picture view, and the bigger picture view. His actions were driven by targets to be met and plans to enact. Few actions had a single purpose, and he never lost sight of the goal lines. Titus, on the other hand, had an eye for minutia. He saw the interrelations of systems, how Person A and System B might interact, and how Object C could change that interaction. Titus excelled at pattern recognition and abstract comprehension, and could track fine details of finance and economics at a macro and micro scale.

    With that segue aside, Artifex refocused his attention on the system plot. He could detect two other ships in the system. This did not, of course, preclude other ships from being present - only that any other ships here were either running dark or simply had better electronic warfare capabilities. If modern warships were spoofing their systems, Artifex did not expect to be able to find them. After all, they had a thousand years to improve on the technology of his day.

    What Artifex found was two cargo cogs. One was a remarkably large one, the type that would have been owned by a rich, powerful family or consortium. It was slower than Artifex expected, but cargo cogs came in all sizes and capabilities. This one was on its way to the Waypoint that led to the more populous system. Through the Muenes Waypoint, Artifex knew there wasa star system that had, at least a thousand years prior, three populated planets.

    The other, smaller cargo cog was heading towards the Waypoint leading to the Antarasel System, albeit their heading indicated that they were coming from the Waypoint leading to Muenes. From the calculated trajectories of both the small cog and the Crown¡¯s Vigor, their paths should come close about a three day¡¯s out from the Antarasel Waypoint. Artifex assumed that at that point, the corvette would be able to slip past it and get through the Waypoint first. He shrugged and dismissed the cog from his thoughts.

    ¡°Sixteen days travel time to the Muenes Waypoint,¡± said Titus. ¡°Since we¡¯re closer to that one than heading to Antarasel, it will be twenty-four days that direction. Last chance to change our minds and hit the bigger system first.¡±

    Artifex shook his head. ¡°Too likely that we will get asked lots of questions and maybe even detained. We don¡¯t even know if we¡¯re speaking the standard dialects anymore. A more backwater system is definitely better.¡±Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    ¡°In the interests of keeping our capabilities unknown, then we should plan on dumping velocity and going slow through the Waypoint,¡± suggested Titus.

    ¡°Why- oh. Both those cargo cogs are doing deceleration burns,¡± came the reply.

    ¡°Imperium cargo cogs lasted around a century or so, before pitting from micrometeorites, costs of engine and systems maintenance, and general wear and tear pushed the running costs too high to ensure profitability. So we can assume that those cogs are no older a hundred years old¡­¡±

    ¡°And if they are that new comparatively, then either the non-Imperium civilizations never figured out polaritonics or phased crystal technology, or the modern Imperium lost the technology,¡± said Artifex. ¡°And letting a random cargo cog see our full speed capabilities would be foolish, since that is literally our only advantage right now.¡±

    ¡°Exactly. Any Waypoint is an emergency escape hatch, since no one else can get through without slamming into retroburn, and we can hit at top speed.¡±

    <hr>

    Because of the need to slow down, the Crown¡¯s Vigor slipped through the Waypoint thirty-one days after entering the unnamed system, and two days in transdimensional space before exiting into the next star system. This system was equally unnamed in the navigation system¡¯s database, for the Imperium did not name systems unless they were in active use - either because of inhabited planets, space stations, or significant military assets.

    The system that Artifex and Titus had just entered had none of those things. There wasn¡¯t a true star, per se, but a protostar that was mostly just a giant ball of condensing gas. There was no true nuclear fusion yet, and may not for another hundred thousand years. A few lumps of matter had started accreting in a loose orbit around the protostar, which someday may form into protoplanets, and eventually into planets. But all of that was millions of years away. Right now, the only true use for this system was as a stepping stone to the next Waypoint.

    The two Waypoints were reasonably close together, only a scant two week trip, which pleased Artifex to no end. The longer they were in space, the more likely something they had cobbled together would come undone. It was already a risk that they had decided to head to the further system of their two choices.

    ¡°We¡¯re picking up a signal, looks like an emergency beacon. Hmm, still basically the same mix of electromagnetic and gravitic signaling as we used,¡± said Titus.

    ¡°Why fix what works?¡± said Artifex rhetorically. ¡°Is it the cargo cog we followed?¡±

    ¡°No, they¡¯re still ahead of us, but we¡¯ll pass them in normal space before the next Waypoint.¡±

    ¡°Where is the beacon coming from then?¡±

    Titus pulled up a rough sensor map of the system onto the dashboard screen. Two purple hexagons indicating Waypoints flashed into existence, followed by two white circles to indicate the cargo cog and the Crown¡¯s Vigor. Then a red dot, about six million kilometers off to the side, began to flash. As sensor data kept pouring in, the map continued to refine itself, showing asteroids and dense clusters of dust and elements that were condensed enough to give a return to the sensors. The red dot was in a section where the spiraling matter and asteroids made good sensor scans almost impossible.

    ¡°And we¡¯re getting a weak radio signal,¡± said Titus.

    ¡°Radio? Really? No local ansible?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re not detecting any emitters,¡± said Titus. ¡°If they don¡¯t have an onboard emitter, then radio is still a reliable way to talk.¡±

    ¡°...please help¡­.. oxygen... almost¡­ really low¡­ need¡­ anyone¡­ children onboard¡­¡±

    The radio message repeated itself, but didn¡¯t improve. It was a woman¡¯s voice, and the sheer panic in her voice was enough to pull any heartstring, and galvanize a rescue effort.

    ¡°It¡¯s a trap,¡± said Artifex matter-of-factly. ¡°Set course for the next Waypoint.¡±

    ¡°Are you sure?¡± asked Titus dubiously. ¡°Oh, new communication inbound. Ansible this time.¡±

    ¡°Put it up,¡± said Artifex.

    A three dimensional holographic image of a man from the shoulder¡¯s up appeared on the dashboard. There were visible lines of distortion throughout the image, indicating a major lack of signal clarity and quality. The man looked to be middle-aged, with a portly face made even rounder by long mutton-chop sideburns that joined up to the ring of hair circling the bald dome of his head. He wore a green monocle over one eye that glinted with light, making it an obvious information device projecting images directly into his eye. A ruffled collar and formal jacket atop it was all that was visible of his clothing.

    ¡°This is Captain Ivago of the cargo cog Fat Pony. Oh, wow, your ansible clarity is amazing! To whom am I speaking?¡±

    ¡°I am Captain Valerius of the Swift Summons. What can I do for you?¡± answered Artifex.

    ¡°Have you detected the emergency beacon in-system?¡± asked Captain Ivago. His accent was strange, definitely not anything at all like that of the suprans of Swiftes. Obviously, planets would have a variety of accents, but a dominant monoculture such as the Imperium had decreased local cultures, dialects and even accents to a significant degree by the time Artifex went ¡®on ice¡¯. But far more important than the accent was the fact that the man was still speaking Imperial Standard. It did not give an answer as to what had happened, but it did say, that at least here, near what had been the heart of the Imperium galactically speaking, that the influence of the Imperium was still obvious.

    ¡°I did,¡± answered Valerius, but he gave no further commentary.

    After a long, awkward silence, Ivago spoke again. ¡°I intend to go rescue that poor family trapped out there. Can I count on you for assistance?¡±

    ¡°You may not,¡± answered Artifex.

    ¡°What?!¡± said Ivago in obvious outrage. ¡°There are innoc-¡±

    Artifex cut off the transmission. Immediately, the transcom began to flash indicating an incoming communication request.

    ¡°So it¡¯s a trap?¡± said Titus.

    ¡°Yes, as I was trying to say before our dear friend Captain Ivago called us. The signal is originating from a place that is naturally hard to sweep with sensors at a distance, and probably not very well up close either. It is close enough to the common path between the Waypoints for a kindhearted ship¡¯s captain to consider going out of their way to help. And yet, it¡¯s far enough away that a slow cargo cog would have trouble escaping once they found trouble,¡± reasoned out Artifex.

    ¡°You present a convincing case, Imperator,¡± said Titus.

    </a>

 Chapter 14: Pirate Station [A]

    ¡°The most exciting method that the Imperium Aeturnus used to project power was by way of their Hypercube Junctions. Imperium Scientists are purported to have deep knowledge and understanding of manifold translations and transdimensional space. With this understanding, the Imperium built massive Hypercubes that created ¡®shortcuts¡¯ between the different arms of the galaxy, allowing traffic to avoid years-long journeys to get from one arm to the next. These Hypercubes, much like a Waypoint, allowed a connection to six different star systems - so long as a Hypercube was on the other end. This permanent, stable connection was a permanent, one-way tunnel. Typically, each Hypercube used two connections between star systems, while the major trans-galactic junctions used all six to facilitate traffic. This was a significant source of revenue in the form of tolls, as well as a way to solidify the Imperium¡¯s dominance of human-controlled space. Sadly, only a very tiny handful of Hypercube routes remain functional, as many were destroyed during the Formican Wars by the Unity. Defunct Hypercubes have been found, but studying them has proven fruitless, as there appears to be no obvious control mechanisms. The most common hypothesis is that Hypercubes exist in both normal space and in transdimensional space. Sadly, this favorite theory has little in the way of evidence to prove it, and shows how radically different the Imperium¡¯s sciences really were.¡±

    Gerard Grummond, Lost Technologies of the Eternal Empire

    <hr>

    Dominus Valerius Artifex, Eternal Emperor

    Antarasel Station, Antarasel System

    The sleek Imperium corvette slid into the Antarasel System as quietly as they could. All active sensor suites were turned off, and Artifex allowed the ship to coast at the same relative velocity they had when entering foldspace. The manifold orb that pulled the ship along was dark, running in low-powered mode.

    ¡°The planet is still inhabited,¡± reported Titus. ¡°We¡¯re picking up radio signals and transcom noise on the passives. I can¡¯t triangulate since we don¡¯t have any trailing sensors to give us a third point, but direct observation gives indications of orbital traffic and night-side electric lighting on the surface.¡±

    ¡°Anything nearby?¡± asked Artifex as he ran through systems checks. One of their critical systems had gone from green to amber, adding a sense of urgency to finding a dock where they could trade their goods and stay docked for a full overhaul. He was looking to find what triggered the alert, and if it could be easily

    ¡°The space station is missing,¡± said Titus. ¡°A port station is in orbit around the planet. I assume that is where cargo cogs load and unload, but I don¡¯t see an obvious shipyard anywhere.¡±

    ¡°Probably a military secret,¡± said Artifex. ¡°That¡¯s not uncommon with these small systems. Civilian ships in need of major overhauls are flown by military pilots, and crews locked out of their own cockpits until the work is complete. I expect it¡¯s probably tucked behind a moon or asteroid somewhere inconvenient to the system¡¯s busiest Waypoints. Speaking of?¡±

    ¡°We have eighteen known Waypoints, only two explored. The partially-explored Protostar Waypoint we just came from, and the Ichnaea Waypoint, which is their access to the old trade lanes. Strangely, the trade lane for Antarasel and the one for Muenes didn¡¯t really intersect, so there was almost no trade between the two systems before we went under.¡±

    ¡°Was Swiftes a part of either trade lane?¡± asked Artifex.

    ¡°No, not for either of them,¡± answered Titus. ¡°At least, not that was in our database.¡±

    ¡°So the fundamental politics of the region reshaped the trade routes,¡± said Artifex. ¡°Increased demands elsewhere, coupled with a change in production locations, could easily explain that.¡±

    ¡°Hmm, there were major Imperium manufacturing centers in those trade lanes. What if Swiftes wasn¡¯t the only target? What if eliminating the Star Sphere and you was to cause confusion and allow multiple strikes at key Imperium industries?¡± asked Titus.

    ¡°That could help explain the loss of the transcom network. If the First Ring was targeted, then transgalactic communications would have been affected,¡± said Artifex.

    ¡°That would be fundamentally stupid,¡± said Titus. ¡°Why would the Coalition attack the transcom network? They relied on it at least as heavily as we did. Their entire financial system was built on it. Only the Nepans kept to the old, slow courier ship method.¡±

    ¡°And yet, we have no transcom network,¡± countered Artifex. ¡°So something happened in the First Ring.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s definitely a point in favor of the faction that wanted a more distributed network,¡± said Titus.

    ¡°Yes, at the risk of losing control of vital nodes,¡± said Artifex. ¡°I remember the arguments. I¡¯m still in favor of the faction that supported centralized node control. Risking vital Imperium secrets for the stability of a system that could be used against us is not something I would favor then, or now.¡±

    ¡°So do you think we should risk active scanning?¡± asked Titus.

    ¡°Let¡¯s do it,¡± said Artifex. He needed information, and they were out of time. He had pinned down the problem in their systems, and it wasn¡¯t good. Replacement parts were needed, and they had no spares. ¡°We have to get docked for repairs as soon as possible. We have a problem in our air handler systems. If it gets worse, things are going to get awfully cold in here. I can cannibalize another system, but that will break something else important. We¡¯re already past the point of diminishing returns.¡±

    Titus voiced agreement before turning back to his sensors. Once active sensors were brought online, a wealth of new information began to flood in. Several cargo cogs were in orbit near the port station, while one was heading their direction. That one was clearly heading towards the Waypoint that the Crown¡¯s Vigor had just exited. On the far side of the system, near the Ichnaea Waypoint, another ship could just barely be detected, but its class was uncertain.

    ¡°I found the local patrol,¡± said Titus. ¡°Looks like they prefer to stay close to home. They¡¯re in high orbit above the planet.¡±

    ¡°Does the planet have a name?¡± asked Artifex. ¡°Cursed fortuna! I can¡¯t fix this damn thing. We need a dock.¡±

    ¡°Seguro,¡± said Titus calmly. ¡°The planet is named Seguro. I think I may have found our wayward space station.¡±

    ¡°Oh? That sounds intriguing,¡± said Artifex, looking up from the diagnostic console that had been frustrating him for the last hour.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what happened, or when, but the space station is now hidden in the asteroid belt just outside the habitable zone, but in an orbit that is in the same ecliptic as Seguro. A significant part of each solar year for the planet is in easy reach of the station. But that¡¯s not all. Sensors are showing a significant number of rings are missing modules, like a lot of people hit the emergency eject button,¡± said Titus, his gentle voice unbothered by the description.

    ¡°But is it functional?¡± asked Artifex.

    ¡°It appears to be powered, but not broadcasting any signals whatsoever. If our sensors were in better repair I¡¯d be able to tell you if any ships were docked. However, based on its location and it apparently being online and functioning¡­¡± Titus trailed off to allow Artifex to pick up the thought.

    ¡°Then this is likely a rogue station now, independent of the planet. And rogue stations are great places for pirates, smugglers and people like us who don¡¯t want to be bothered by local authorities,¡± finished Artifex. ¡°Yes, and I do believe that is our goal.¡±

    ¡°We won¡¯t get full market price for our goods there,¡± warned Titus.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°That is true,¡± said Artifex with a grin, ¡°but I bet we¡¯ll be able to get bargain prices on parts and dock space. And it¡¯s not like we don¡¯t know where to go to get huge amounts of materials in the future if need be.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll set course and hail the station once we¡¯re closer,¡± said Titus.

    <hr>

    ¡°Docking fees are 10,000 centicreds or equivalent merchandise,¡± intoned the Sauran dockmaster over the grainy ansible transmission. ¡°Failure to pay within four hours of docking may lead to your ship being impounded, four months imprisonment and debt slavery, or both. You¡¯ve been assigned to ring C-3, slip 14.¡±

    ¡°Do you have a standard valuation of common goods and materials in lieu of hard currency?¡± asked Titus without a speck of concern in his smooth tone.

    ¡°What? Oh, yeah, um, I¡¯ll send over the price list,¡± said the Sauran. ¡°I¡¯ll include the station rules, also.¡±

    ¡°Any tips?¡± asked Titus.

    ¡°Yeah, read the rules and watch your back. This ain¡¯t no SFR pleasure station.¡±

    ¡°Thanks,¡± he replied.

    Artifex maneuvered the corvette around the massive station. The station itself was over ten kilometers in length, with ten rings around a central column. Each ring was two hundred meters thick, made up of hundreds of smaller modules that could be sealed and even ejected in an emergency. These rings also had dozens of stubby dockways jutting out for ships to clamp onto and dock. These jetways varied in size, from narrow and short for smaller craft such as the corvette, to massive and thick for the largest of cargo cogs. This was, at least at one point in time, a space-based colony, so large portions of each ring were devoted to aquaponic farming. But as Artifex got closer, the problems became apparent. Most of the rings had significant numbers of missing modules, leaving them looking broken and abandoned. These empty-socketed rings were also much worse off than the better filled ones higher up the station, and the top ring was almost completely filled and well maintained. While the lower levels had obvious pitting and radiation scarring from hundreds of years of neglect, the upper level sported new shield panels with fresh coats of paint.

    Ring C, Level 3 was a middle ground between the two extremes on the station. The Crown¡¯s Vigor had no trouble adapting to the dockway¡¯s umbilical system and clamp mechanism. The adaptive dock system that the Imperium had adopted for its warships was sufficiently configurable and intelligent that it could seal against just about any dock designed for humanoids. At least this was remarkably close to the standard used in human-controlled space a thousand years before. Once more, it was a case of not fixing what wasn¡¯t broken.

    Artifex met Titus at the airlock. ¡°Did you figure out trade goods?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Iridium has a remarkably high price relative to other ores on the price list. It¡¯s listed as 1000 centicreds per gram. I¡¯m bringing a hundred grams to get us started and to pay the docking fees. With any luck, we¡¯ll find a broker that offers better prices than the station,¡± said Titus. ¡°Then I¡¯ll be heading to find provisions. Fresh food, space suits, a tailor for new clothes, bedding, linens, and so forth. Here is another hundred grams for you, if you need to barter while you are out and around.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll start looking for parts and see what I can learn about a more long-term berth for the ship. If it¡¯s available, we may need to rent out a machine shop so that I can do custom fabrication, as well. I suspect it will come down to modifying what we find, and making new the rest,¡± said Artifex as he pocketed ten pellets of metal. The weight hung uncomfortably in a sealed pocket against his stomach that he was accustomed to keeping empty.

    ¡°What about weapons?¡± said Titus. ¡°We cannot afford to go unarmed for long.¡±

    ¡°Yes, I will be seeking out contacts for that as well. With the amount of iridium and osmium we have onboard, we should be able to afford quite a bit. However, it won¡¯t do us any good if it gets stolen from us.¡± Artifex held his hand up for silence as the stationside airlock door began to open.

    On the other side of the door, a very large, heavily scarred man in a generic space suit stood next to a drone. He glared up at the two of them as they stepped out onto the gangway. The interpolation of competing gravity fields caused a momentary stumble for both, but neither had trouble recovering. This left only a momentary stutter in their step as they walked down towards the station¡¯s portmaster.

    ¡°That¡¯ll be 10,000 centicred,¡± said the man without preamble.

    Titus handed over the metals. Unimpressed, and unlikely to have recognized the metals at all, the man handed them to the drone. The drone placed the metals into a compartment in its headless torso, its stubby, tubelike arms retracting away as a glow of light began. Seconds later, the drone spoke.

    ¡°99.998 grams of iridium. A station credit of 99,998 centicreds have been issued. Please accept this credit chit,¡± said the drone.

    The portmaster¡¯s head whipped to stare at the newcomers. Before he could say anything, Artifex strode forward confidently. He snagged the credit chit that the drone was holding and flicked it back to Titus, who caught it neatly and made it vanish.

    ¡°Drone, assign 5,000 centicreds to the portmaster standing next to you, to purchase his silence about our newfound wealth. I¡¯m certain he will find it will have a calming effect on his desire to tell tales.¡± Artifex looked up at the huge, muscled man who towered overtop him, dwarfing him physically. He casually reached up and gently patted the man on his cheek. ¡°I¡¯m sure he understands how swiftly a man whose tongue wags too often will find himself on the wrong side of an airlock. I¡¯m sure he also understands how much he can money he can earn for himself should he strive to give useful information to me instead. Is all of that clear, drone?¡±

    Even as the drone began to answer, the portmaster began to nod dumbly.

    ¡°Your purchase has been acknowledged and recorded,¡± said the drone. ¡°A detailed transcript has been provided to Madduwatta, Junior Portmaster, Third Class. Would you like this to be a public transaction? To eliminate official records of this action will cost 1 centicred.¡±

    ¡°Make the transaction private, drone,¡± said Artifex as he strode past the stunned and newly bribed portmaster, even as the airlock to the Crown¡¯s Vigor sealed tight behind him.

    <hr>

    The station was everything that Artifex could have hoped for. The ring he was on was well below the rings of the rich and powerful, and far above those of the poor and outcast. Each ring had twenty levels, but considering the relatively narrow width of the ring, it was nearly as tall as it was wide. Modules were divided into neighborhoods. Each neighborhood boasted a commerce module and an aquaponics module. Many neighborhoods were sealed against visitors, allowing entry only to residents. Others regarded visitors with suspicion, but would take their money in the commerce section.

    It took Artifex a few hours and a lot of dirty looks from asking locals for directions, but he finally found the module he was looking for. On level seven, he found a series of modules that were almost entirely commercial. Wide storefronts showing all manner of products, dark alleys with signs for shadier business offerings, and narrow but well lit corridors with small, discrete doorways all merged together in a miasma of greed, neon lighting, garbage lined thoroughfares and hints towards an underground red light district should he ask.

    At first, all Artifex did was look. He needed a feel for the cost of things, and this was a great place to get started. Before long, he realized he had eyes watching him. He asked after a few parts, but continued to wander closer and closer to the shady alleyways.

    After a few hours, Artifex finally stepped into one of the dark alleys. All his questions about hard-to-find parts had led him this direction. The real brokers, the fences who dealt in stolen goods, the movers and shakers who ran the real economy, they existed in the shadows cast by the neon, not under the billboards and gaudy money traps that lined the main routes. These were the people Artifex needed.

    Even as he stepped into the first real alley, Artifex recoiled in surprise. A pasty-skinned brute with bright blue hair and dozens of neon and black tattoos was kicking a young supran boy repeatedly in the chest. It took a moment for Artifex to realize the boy was a mixed-blood child of human and supran, but the golden skin was jarring. This was one of his people, no matter how far removed. In a fraction of a second, Artifex took in the malnourished frame, the bloody face atop a pale golden tan skin that was darker than his own, locked into a neck collar altogether too common in human history.

    Status: Healthy. Meridians are offline. Manifold power levels at one-quarter percent. Physical well-being is healthy. Detecting elevated stress hormones. Combat readiness enabled.¡±

    Rage swept through Artifex. In a moment, his carefully constructed barriers that compartmentalized his emotions away from his actions slid aside. While witnessing the brutal beating of a child, any child, would have incited some reaction, this was different. When Artifex saw the supran boy, he wasn¡¯t seeing a child. He was seeing the living remnants of his empire. He was seeing his legacy - and it was getting kicked in the ribs by a thug.

    He was far from at peak condition, but this one abused supran boy symbolized, at least for that instant, everything Artifex had built and bled for. Without a thought of the consequences, he channeled the tiny amount of manifold power in his Core and Pushed. Artifex¡¯s eyes glowed blue with Potential as the burst of energy blasted the man across the alley, making him slam into a steel wall with a crunch.

    ¡°Mortalis Divinitas!¡± said the boy in wonder, even as he scuttled to his feet and ducked into a dark crevice before vanishing.

    ¡°How dare you! Do you have any idea who I am?¡± said the blue-haired man climbed out of a pile of trash looking slightly mussed but otherwise unharmed.

    ¡°I¡¯m Carmine¡¯s son, and you are dead,¡± said the thug, even as he pulled a huge knife from his pocket.

    Artifex gave a humorless chuckle. He had no weapons, knives or otherwise. ¡°Well, it appears I¡¯ve found the criminal underground.¡±

 Chapter 15: Mortalis Divinitas [A]

    ¡°There are no species so inhuman and naturally evil as the Formican race.  While these are two-legged aliens that thrive in oxygenated environments like humans, that is where the similarities end.  These vile beasts have an insectile appearance, with hard carapaces overtop their bodies. The number and utility of their limbs is based on their sub-type, ranging from lowly worker castes up to highly intelligent soldier castes.  Their hive boss and scientific researcher castes are the most capable, and most inhuman of all. Through a complex web of countless hive minds, the Formicans embody cruelty and darkness, and stand against all that is good and light in the universe.

    Yet despite this inherent nature, when the Formicans formed their Unity and fought against humanity, human governments surrendered and signed the Formican Settlement.  Despite our obvious superiority, we gave up and have paid tribute ever since. Why? Tonight we will discuss the cabal perpetrated on us by our very own, to keep us in thrall to evil.¡±

    Conspiracies Uncovered: The Hidden Truth about the Formicans, Revealed!

    <hr>

    Dominus Valerius Artifex, Eternal Emperor

    Antarasel Station, Antarasel System

    The thug who self-identified as ¡®Carmine¡¯s son¡¯ was dressed in colorful, baggy clothes to match his bright hair and neon tattoos.  He wore too much gold jewelry around his neck and on his fingers. His sleeves were tight from the elbows down, and his pants were tucked into tall black boots, indicative of some local fashion trend that seemed to emphasize loud prints and flashy styles.  To Artifex¡¯ eyes, he was a shallow creature who understood nothing of the true meaning of power. He relied on brute force. When dealing with weaker individuals, it was a crude but effective method. But here and now, he was about to learn the limits of his chosen path to power.

    Artifex stepped forward with measured, well-trained steps, his feet automatically falling into a proper stance.  He mentally ran down his checklist in the scant microseconds before combat initiated. Physical enhancements would be fine.  Enhanced reflexes and strength, a modest speed boost, all would be helpful. He wasn¡¯t as heavily modified as an elite soldier, but he could hold his own in a fist fight.  Passive deflection field wouldn¡¯t function without working meridians. None of his active abilities were working without power, of course. This would have to be a straight up, physical brawl.

    With a scream that was probably meant to intimidate, but instead mostly sounded screechy and annoying, the thug flung himself down the grimy thoroughfare.  His charge showed a complete lack of training or discipline. With his knife-wielding hand over his head held so that he could stab downward, the baggy shirt pulled tight enough to highlight the thug¡¯s flabby stomach that he had managed to acquire in a time where endless generations of gene-editing should have made it impossible.

    With a sharp jab, Artifex punched the man in his right forearm, sending the descending knife blow wide.  A second, harder punch snapped into the thug¡¯s face, rocking him backward.

    ¡°Gah!¡± shouted the thug, his nose fountaining blood.  His face twisted in anger, and he grabbed for Artifex, seeming to forget the knife in his hand.  He was faster than Artifex had given him credit for, managing to get a grip on Artifex¡¯ tunic. The thug attempted a headbutt, but with a twist of his torso the man¡¯s forehead bounced harmlessly off his shoulder.

    The twist to avoid the headbutt unfortunately left Artifex open to the thug¡¯s right arm again, which slashed wildly at him.  At this close of melee combat, avoiding the knife altogether was a challenge, especially against an untrained opponent. The wild blows typically made a fight such as this, but the unpredictable nature meant Artifex could get gutted by a lucky strike.  The thug¡¯s wild swing slashed at Artifex¡¯ arm even as he dodged away.

    The blade of the knife struck Artifex in a powerful blow, more than enough to cut a human to the bone.  Instead, it glanced off the skin. Subdermal armor enhancements protected Artifex from attacks such as this, with the blade only cutting the skin.

    Mentally, Artifex chided himself for having let his martial training lapse for so long.  With enhanced reflexes and superior speed, he threw his own punch. The uppercut struck the criminal in the jaw, a classic blow that knocked the thug¡¯s head back and clearly rattled him.  As the thug stumbled back, Artifex grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him forward so that his rising knee could slam into his opponent¡¯s gut. Then he repeated the move, before shoving the thug back and off-balance.  A quick cross to the jaw followed, and just like that, the fight was over.

    Carmine¡¯s son, whatever his name was, slumped to the ground unconscious.  Artifex walked over and stepped on the man¡¯s wrist, forcing the fingers holding the knife to open.  He toed the knife away then picked it up. A quick search of the thug turned up a communication device of a make that Artifex didn¡¯t recognize, a small handful of credit chits, and the sheath for the knife.

    With an easy motion, Artifex sheathed the knife and tucked it into his belt.  ¡°Now, what do we do with you?¡± he wondered aloud.

    ¡°Deus, this way!¡± came a whisper from an alley.  Artifex looked over to see the supran boy step out of a hiding place.

    Cautiously, Artifex stepped towards the alley.  This was rarely a good idea, but he held out some hope that saving the boy a beating would endear him to some degree.

    ¡°What¡¯s your name, boy?¡±

    ¡°Aranth,¡± he answered, a measure of fear and awe mixed on his face.  ¡°Aranth Veli.¡±

    ¡°Aranth,¡± repeated Artifex.  ¡°That¡¯s a good, strong Goldaran name.  Does your family originate from Dacre or Oldumes?¡±

    ¡°Thank you, Deus.  My great-grandfather came from Dacre,¡± he answered.  ¡°Come, come, follow me!¡±Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Where do you want me to go?¡± asked Artifex with a frown.  He wasn¡¯t that trusting.

    ¡°You said something about a criminal underground.  You mean the Market, yes?¡±

    The way the boy spoke, the Market was clearly capitalized, meaning it was almost certain to be what he was after.  A place of power where wealth was everything and anything could be bought for the right price.

    ¡°What do you know of it?¡± he stalled.

    ¡°I know where it is, yes,¡± replied the boy.  ¡°The Templars say I shouldn¡¯t go there. Supran boys fetch a good price to the right buyer.¡±

    Slavery.  It was always a bane of Artifex¡¯ rule, something he had relentlessly tried to end.  Despite the sheer idiocy of any system that relied on it, slavery in some form or another always cropped up when dealing with humans.  The same adaptability that made humans so fascinating and able to thrive in countless environments across the known galaxy also meant that they could convince themselves of the value and rightness of even the most vile practices. Hatred for the other, for anything not the same, was the type of tribal thinking that plagued humanity, and was one of the things he had tried to breed out of suprans. He frowned at the local acceptance of the barbaric practice, but he wasn¡¯t surprised.  Rogue stations like this were breeding grounds for the worst in society, and if he was going to take advantage of the benefits of such a lawless place, he would have to tolerate the intolerable - at least for now.

    ¡°So if you can¡¯t go, then where are you taking me?¡±

    ¡°To the Temple, of course, Deus,¡± said the boy incredulously, as if there was any other place he would even consider taking him.

    ¡°My name is Valerius,¡± said Artifex, ¡°not Deus.¡±

    ¡°I know,¡± said the boy.  ¡°We all know.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Artifex said, real alarm in his voice.

    ¡°You are the Divine One,¡± said Aranth calmly.  ¡°The mortalis divinitas. Flesh made god. You and your Ascended created us.  You have Returned for us!¡±

    The clear overtones of religious fervor struck Artifex.  This wasn¡¯t just a grateful boy who was thankful to his savior.  This was a worshipful boy, one who recognized him. Artifex¡¯ face had been widely seen in his time - holograms and video screens showed his speeches to his government, annual addresses to the citizens, victory celebrations, and the like.  If it was still commonly known, it would make secretive movements harder.

    ¡°Alright, take me to your Templars,¡± said Artifex.

    <hr>

    Aranth led Artifex through a maze of alleys and corridors, even cutting through a few modules that had been stripped of anything useful and appeared to be slowly filling with trash and debris.  Finally, they wound up at the lowest level of the ring, at its innermost edge. Without pausing in his endless push forward, the boy walked up to a plain door with the word ¡°bar¡± graffitied on the wall above it.

    Despite its ramshackle and makeshift exterior appearance, after pushing into the bar, Artifex found a room that was essentially like any bar ever built in human history.  The room was cramped, as to be expected from a space station, but well laid out and clean. Tall metal tables were bolted to the floor with metal stools around them. The lighting was dim, and a shelf in the corner had a large hologram displaying a cage match of some sort between a lizard-like alien that looked vaguely Sauran and a winged Avisli.  The holocam was focused in a way to keep a good angle on the fight, and the quality was good enough to make out the sweat on the lizard-like alien¡¯s skin, and the tufts on the feathers of the Avisli. A bar took up one corner of the room, a length of about six meters with no stools. No liquors or anything breakable at all was visible behind the bar, and the wall behind the bartender had three spigots for beer taps.  There were less than a dozen patrons, and of those, only a few paid any attention to the holographic fight in the corner. Most stared into their own mugs. None made any movement at all when the door slammed shut behind the newcomers.

    Even as Artifex took in his new surroundings, Aranth was talking to a man in the corner, who in turn began to eye Artifex.  He listened as Aranth spoke, then motioned with one hand for Artifex to come over.

    The man had deep wrinkles and calloused hands, his skin showing a very faint gold sheen.  Heavy eyebrows and black-and-silver hair that was more silver than black shadowed deep set eyes that looked both welcoming and wary at the same time.  Once Artifex was close enough for the man to get a good look at him, Artifex saw a flicker of surprise flash across his face almost imperceptibly.

    ¡°It looks as though there is some measure of truth to the boy¡¯s words,¡± said the man.  ¡°Thank you, Deus, for saving him.¡±

    ¡°And you are?¡± asked Artifex.

    ¡°Curious,¡± said the man.  He pulled a red crystal from a pocket.  It was about the size of the palm of his hand in length, and half that in width.  He held it up so that Artifex could see it, then tossed it to him. Instinctively, Artifex caught it.

    ¡°Standard Soldier Core, Model CZ-33.  Core status is optimal. Owned by Aketes, son of Damon (no surname).  Manifold energy level at one hundred percent. Owner¡¯s physical well-being is sub-optimal (deceased).  Establish new ownership?¡±  Artifex¡¯ own Core read the information from the Core in his hands, causing the crystal to glow faintly from within.

    ¡°Who is Aketes, son of Damon?¡± asked Artifex.

    ¡°My father,¡± said the man, his expression softening to a warm smile.  ¡°The boy speaks true. You are the Eternal Emperor, Returned to us. I am Philon, son of Aketes.¡±

    ¡°Why has no one claimed this Core?¡± asked Artifex.

    ¡°Is that what they are called?¡± asked Philon.  ¡°No one is certain how to trigger them. Some accept new recipients, others go dark and refuse even the most devout believers.  We have fewer than a dozen Chosen who follow the path to become Ascended.¡±

    ¡°Unless manually configured, Cores will accept only those with sufficient supran genetics for the Core to be able to work.  It is a basic safety measure, for the wrong Core can kill humans without appropriate preparation. But a Core is the first step towards becoming a true supran, and all the benefits that come with it.  This is a Soldier Core, designed for those who fought in my Legions. It helps strengthen the body, gives protection against vacuum and poisoned air, and a basic information overlay. If you would like, I can configure this for you.¡±

    ¡°What good would a soldier¡¯s Core be for me?  I am already an old man,¡± said Philon dismissively.  ¡°Have you been Returned for long, Deus?¡±

    ¡°A handful of months,¡± admitted Artifex, intuitively recognizing an ally.  The religious overtones of Philon¡¯s faith were new, but Artifex had never shied from taking any path to power that presented itself, and this would be no different.  He needed people, and this looked like an easier path than he¡¯d anticipated. ¡°I¡¯m sorely in need of information, and a starting point.¡±

    ¡°And we, your Faithful, will assist,¡± said Philon fervently.

    ¡°I have some resources,¡± added Artifex, this time withholding information about how much.  Potential ally or not, some things were best left a secret. ¡°But I awoke with only one of my Consuls.  We have much work to do, and little help to do it.¡±

    ¡°I suspect, Deus, that you are far less alone than you realize.¡±

 Chapter 16: The Templars [A]

    ¡°They believe what?! I swear, the universe gets weirder every single day.¡±

    SFR President Cotswald, when told about the Urthan Origin religion

    <hr>

    Dominus Valerius Artifex, Eternal Emperor

    Antarasel Station, Antarasel System

    ¡°So tell me about this¡­ religion,¡± said Artifex, ready to finally start learning about what he had missed.  He¡¯d been flailing in the dark for entirely too long. While he had more important things to ask about, starting by ingratiating himself to the man¡¯s belief system would only help in the long run.  ¡°When I was last¡­ awake, the Imperium was mostly Finitus Natura believers. I personally preferred the Dominus Finitus over the Custodio Finitus, but was not a true devotee. A large number of Universalists were around as well.¡±

    ¡°Not many follow the old ways of Finius Natura,¡± said Philon.  ¡°Mortalis Divinitas is centered around seeking out immortality through service to you and your Ascended.  We have waited for the Imperator and his Four Consuls for a thousand years! This is so very exciting that you are sitting in front of me!¡±

    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± said Artifex, waving his hand impatiently.

    ¡°The Faithful believe in the divinity of the flesh.  We seek enlightenment in your writings, striving for immortality and godhood and to transcend the weakness of our minds and our bodies by improving them.  We work to be uniters, as you were, and to bring people back together. You and your Chosen proved that divinity could be achieved, and we have long believed that one day you would Return.  We stand ready to help take up your cause, and hope for the day, by your Will, bestow the gift of Ascension on the worthiest of us all,¡± said Philon.

    ¡°And how do Templars fit into all of this?¡± asked Artifex, his face a mask to hide his incredulity.

    ¡°The Templars are the order of Faithful who strive to live and spread your Word to all.  You have many believers, both human and supran alike. The Templars are split into four Societies, depending on which of the Chosen they favor.  For example, those who seek to gather information like The Eye did join the Order of Shadows. Those with a learned bent like the Sage formed the Eternal Scholars, followers of the Hound join the Grand Hunt.  Devotees of the Saint join the Ardent Path. Then, of course, there are those who simply follow your words. These Templars take no special name.¡±

    ¡°This sounds far more organized than I could have hoped for,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°May I get some of your teachings so that I can better understand your faith later?¡±

    ¡°Of course!  It is but a poor collection of your own Words, after all,¡± said Philon.  ¡°I am the Grand Templar of this station, so you have but to command me, and all of the Faithful shall answer the call.¡±

    Artifex had his doubts, but he kept them to himself.  Religions had a way of taking on a life of their own, and could be a double-edged sword.  He would read and learn, lest he do something to make these people his enemies for some accidental heresy.

    ¡°Can you bring me up to speed with a broad overview of the state of the galaxy?  Is the Imperium still around in any form? What about the Coalition? It¡¯s been a long time,¡± said Artifex.

    ¡°Wow, this answers a philosophical debate amongst the Templars.  Would the Eternal Emperor Return with full knowledge of the Universe, or would he be ignorant of the time lapsed in his absence?  This is so great!¡± gushed Philon. Then, catching the look on Artifex¡¯ face, he smothered his gleeful grin and looked contrite. ¡°My apologies, Deus.  Things have changed quite a bit.

    ¡°To answer your questions, neither the Imperium or the Coalition exist as they did during your reign.  A lot of history is murky because of the Long Fall, but what I remember from school was that the Battle of Swiftes kicked off the Coalition War.  Since the Imperium Aeternum was already at war with the Formican Unity, and the Star Sphere destroyed, the war went poorly. The Formican Unity had similar levels of technology, while the Coalition had numbers.  I don¡¯t recall when that war turned into the Formican War, with the Formicans against all humans and suprans. A lot of core Imperium systems got trashed really badly, and after the Settlement, there was a long general decline,¡± Philon shrugged.  For him, this was all old history - things taught throughout school but with no personal stake.

    ¡°How long were these wars?  What was the Long Fall?¡± For Artifex, this was all new and very personal.  His voice carried some urgency.

    ¡°Not sure,¡± said Philon.  ¡°A century or two? I think closer to two?  I remember reading somewhere that thousands of systems were destroyed and death counts were something like in the trillions.  It wiped out a lot of important systems, I guess. The Long Fall lasted for a few centuries after that. It wasn¡¯t until a few centuries ago that some of those star systems started to get resettled.  There are lots of relic hunters out there, since there is a huge market for Imperium technology. That Core I showed you? You could sell that to a collector or to a research group for a quarter million centicreds, easy.¡±

    ¡°Huh,¡± said Artifex.  He would need to pick up some history books to fill in the major gaps.  ¡°And of the Imperium?¡±

    Philon shook his head.  ¡°It is no more. The Regnum Tertius is seen as the successor to the Imperium, but it is maybe a third the size?  The Coalition broke up after the Settlement. Everyone blames them for the tribute payments we have to make to the Unity.  The only other big player is the Solarian Federation of Republics down near the galactic center. They claim to be the ¡®true origin of humanity¡¯ or some such.  They¡¯re a lot smaller than the Coalition was. Otherwise, lots of independent systems, lots of smaller star kingdoms. I mean, I don¡¯t follow politics much, but this is pretty common knowledge stuff here.¡±

    ¡°And Antarasel?  Is it an independent system?¡± asked Artifex as a distraction.  The Imperium was dead; it was official. Artifex felt emotionally rocked by this even though he expected it.  Carefully, he locked that emotion away once again while Philon spoke.

    ¡°Yeah, you could call it that.  The space station took on a bunch of damage back in the Formican Wars.  A lot of modules were ejected when Unity injection pods hit them. Someone moved the station later, then it got forgotten about.  It¡¯s a rogue station now, with a few shady corporations at the top and a black market at the bottom.¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    ¡°That pretty much sums up what I assumed about the station.  It¡¯s good to understand why it¡¯s such a wreck though. I¡¯m surprised it wasn¡¯t abandoned,¡± said Artifex.  He had certainly ordered stations in better condition to be replaced in the Imperium. ¡°Let¡¯s go to the black market.  I have to find a broker for some materials I need, and a place to dock my ship for a major overhaul. I will need to get back to my ship soon, as well.  Titus will be concerned, and we have plans to make.¡±

    ¡°The Saint is with you?¡±  Philon looked ready to faint.  ¡°I¡¯m of the Ardent Path!¡±

    Artifex suppressed an eyeroll, and simply nodded.  ¡°Lead the way.¡±

    <hr>

    ¡°I can¡¯t help you.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not welcome here.¡±

    ¡°Just¡­ just go away. I don¡¯t want any trouble.¡±

    Artifex¡¯ expression grew darker and darker with each vendor that turned him away.  After he and Philon finished talking, Philon had summoned an honor guard. Surrounded by six very fit young men and women, Philon led Artifex down one more ring and into the furthest reaches to get to the area known as the Market.  Originally a series of hangar bays for light warcraft such as patrol boats and light assault ships, none of which rated more than a hundred tons, the ships that had been housed here were long gone. What was left in its stead was a series of very large open spaces with a warren of small rooms that had once housed offices, machine shops, supplies and living quarters for hundreds of officers, crew and support personnel.  Now the large open spaces were filled with stalls, divided by flimsy metal half-walls and covered in colorful cloth and loud signs selling anything and everything.

    A far corner that had access to smaller rooms was enclosed by cages, with slaves sitting in them bored and sullen.  Several large video screens above the cages were running endless commercials showing off the more expensive slaves in flattering clothes and beautiful environments, with the names of the slaves and a number to dial into whatever local communication device was popular.  Another, smaller screen next to the entrance of the slave market announced general auction times and contact information should you wish to make purchases outside of the public auction.

    Just the very existence of that corner bothered Artifex.  But it was more than that. He had been in more than a few black markets in his many centuries of life.  As long as laws existed for the protection of society as a whole, there always existed humans on the fringe who would find ways to make money from subverting those laws.  Black markets were rarely as blatant and open as this one - usually you had to ¡®know a guy to know a guy¡¯ who could get you what you wanted. So the concept wasn¡¯t so much an affront, for Artifex hardly cared about laws he didn¡¯t create and enforce himself.  What bothered him was the people.

    The majority of the people in the Market were poor.  Cheap clothing and downtrodden expressions were the norm.  Many of the vendors were hardly better than their customers, and the majority of what was for sale in this Market was necessities.  Food of dubious quality, water, air filters, questionably maintained space suits that needed those filters, second hand clothing and linens, cookware and used furniture.  In most ways, this was more ¡®market¡¯ than ¡®black market¡¯, and this was how the bottom rings of the station maintained its lifeblood.

    What added the ¡®black¡¯ into the ¡®black market¡¯ for this place was the intermixing of illegal goods.  Slave sales occupied the flashiest corner of the Market, but more discrete booths mixed into the general scrum offered much more.  These were subtly obvious if one knew what to look for. Many were little more than a small table with a single person seated behind it.  All had direct access to the maze of rooms surrounding the Market, where customers could be taken for private deals. Few had any visible goods, and those that did had several large armored and armed guards to protect those goods.  Weapons, starship parts, rare goods, armor, information. For a price, anything was for sale.

    Except for Artifex.

    The refusals were Market-wide.  None would even speak to him. Not even the vendors selling cheap food and worse booze.  Artifex was blacklisted.

    ¡°It seems there was a price for rescuing Aranth after all,¡± said Artifex to Philon.

    For his part, Philon looked supremely embarrassed on behalf of the Market.  ¡°Apologies, Deus. I will find out what is happening. I¡¯ve not had time to speak to the Shadows yet.  But I do have someone I can talk to that owes me a favor. He is a broker, who works on behalf of rich clients.  I will go to him now.¡±

    ¡°Take this,¡± said Artifex, handing over the hundred grams of iridium.  ¡°Station price for this is roughly 100,000 centicreds.¡±

    ¡°Deus,¡± breathed Philon.  This was a fortune. He lived on eight hundred credits a month, less than a single centicred.

    ¡°Do not accept less than 150,000 centicreds.  Negotiate down his rate, but do not pressure him to take less than his bottom figure because of your favor.  Brokers are naturally greedy creatures, and resentment will build if he does not get his cut,¡± said Artifex. He turned and looked at his escort.  ¡°Protect him.¡±

    Artifex¡¯ natural charisma and talent for command, coupled with the religious conviction of his new allies, meant that two of the guards stepped forward without question to follow Philon.

    ¡°I will meet you at the bar when I¡¯m finished, Deus,¡± said Philon.

    As Artifex made his way back out of the Market, he passed by the slave pens.  He studiously ignored them, compartmentalizing away his loathing and focusing instead on what he could do something about right that moment.  But his attempts were cut short by yelling from the slavers. He turned to see four slavers pulling against a giant of a man who stood nearly seven feet tall.  His clothing was mussed and torn in a few places, but was of rich fabric and cut, clearly tailored to flatter his massive size. Finally, the slavers managed to get the struggling, manacled man tossed into a cage and the door slammed in his face.

    With a start, Artifex realized he recognized the man.  The giant had a portly face with long, mutton-chop sideburns connected to a ring of hair around his bald pate.  The man¡¯s low resolution ansible had not done him justice. While he was middle-aged as Artifex had assumed, the man had the dignified bearing of a borne warrior, one who had set aside the sword for the plowshare, so to speak.  His slight portliness did nothing to hide the massive muscles still beneath the coat and frilly shirt of a merchant.

    ¡°You!¡± shouted Captain Ivago, his eyes landing on Artifex.

    ¡°What about me?¡± he replied.

    ¡°You knew!¡±

    ¡°I guessed correctly,¡± replied Artifex.  ¡°It was a trap. It¡¯s always a trap.  I was in an unarmed ship.¡±

    ¡°So was I! You could have warned me, at least, you selfish bastard!¡± snarled Ivago.  ¡°You owe me!¡±

    ¡°I owe you nothing,¡± said Artifex coldly, but a thin thread of guilt worked its way in.  He could have warned him.  It would have cost him nothing.  He ignored the guilt. ¡°I did not set the trap.  I did not wander into it with the naivete of a teenager.  I certainly didn¡¯t put you in a cage.¡±

    Artifex turned to leave, but Ivago stuck his arm out in a grasping, pleading motion, ¡°No, wait!  I¡¯ll do anything! Help me, please! I cannot be a slave!¡±

    With a deep sigh, Artifex paused, then turned back.  He could always use new allies at his back. With steel in his voice, Artifex said.  ¡°Will you work for me? Advance my cause as your own, in return for fair treatment and honest pay, until you have worked off your debt?¡±

    ¡°Will you help me find the bastards who stole my Fat Pony?¡± countered Ivago, his gruff, angry voice softened only slightly.

    That Artifex could promise.  Piracy had been almost nonexistent under the Imperium.  ¡°I can and will. Hold tight, I will have my broker purchase your freedom as soon as possible.¡±

 Chapter 17: The Train [A]

    ¡°Blaming the Long Fall on the Coalition is the position of Imperium apologists. The Imperium was a galactic dictatorship that conquered tens of thousands of star systems. Claims that the Imperium brought some nebulous benefits and a so-called ¡®improved standard of living¡¯ are spurious and subjective. They hardly account for the fact that aside from their endless march across the stars, the Imperium had no qualms about manipulating markets to their favor, and destroyed untold numbers of democracies. Taking away the voice of the people and putting restraints on the free market are the antithesis of democractic ideals. One sentient, one vote is not just a high ideal, it should be the practical standard in all star systems, no matter the cost. If that cost is a trillion lives, then that blood is simply watering the tree of liberty. The road to victory is justified by the results.¡±

    Frederick Ingraham, SFR Political Commentator

    <hr>

    Dominus Valerius Artifex, Eternal Emperor

    Antarasel Station, Antarasel System

    The dockway leading to the Crown¡¯s Vigor was sheer chaos. The floor was packed with shipping crates, plastic boxes and plastic bags, leaving narrow trails to get back and forth. The bribed portmaster, Madduwatta, stood guard at one end looking fierce, while a stream porters in sturdy clothes overtop basic thin-fit space suits lugged items in. On the other end, the four ship drones were loading goods from the dockway into the warship, and in the middle of the entire mess was Titus, dancing back and forth with sheets of plastic vellum neatly tucked into a clipboard with a grace that belied the madness. None of the dockworkers were allowed past the dockway bulkhead, a rule enforced by Madduwatta, leaving all the real loading to the drones.

    Artifex stood back and waited for the endless train of goods to end, before attempting to get to the dockway with his four new guardians. The docking hub that serviced both the dockway for the Crown¡¯s Vigor and a dozen other dockways was busy. It was a large, long room with dull, industrial pale blue walls that were dulled with age. The space was crowded with porters working in teams. Each set of workers was arrayed in front or behind of six-wheeled crawlers that were loaded to the max. The crawlers had no driver, following an electronic tether held by one of the porters. Smaller packages were carried back and forth by singular couriers, all rushed to make their deliveries to the various dockways as swiftly as possible.

    When a lull hit the dockway deliveries for the Crown¡¯s Vigor sufficient enough to enter easily, Artifex and his new escorts entered and walked up to the ship. Titus turned and caught sight of him as he approached.

    ¡°You¡¯ve made new friends?¡± asked Titus.

    ¡°Volunteers, here as a protection detail,¡± said Artifex.

    ¡°Well, that didn¡¯t take you long. Local allies?¡±

    ¡°Maybe much more than that, Titus,¡± he replied with a slight smile.

    ¡°Titus? The Saint?!¡± gasped one of the women escorting him. She blushed furiously when Artifex and Titus turned at her outburst. ¡°Apologies, Deuses, but I¡¯m of the Ardent Path.¡±

    Titus nodded respectfully to her, which seemed to set her at ease. He turned back to Artifex with a questioning look. Artifex gave a subtle shake of the head, so Titus dropped it for the moment.

    ¡°I¡¯ve secured us a drydock berth,¡± said Titus. ¡°It seems this was quite the shipyard back in the day. There are quite a few abandoned facilities on the lower rings. They¡¯re airless right now, but sealed against cold space. Cost is reasonable, mostly since the owners assume we¡¯ll leave behind whatever improvements we make when we go.¡±

    ¡°How much space is it? I wasn¡¯t able to see much at the Market, but the components that were visible were far too crude for what we need. I¡¯ll need to build some basic fabrication facilities,¡± said Artifex with a frown.

    ¡°They are far larger than we need for just the ship. Come, let¡¯s finish loading. We¡¯ll move to our new berth and you can look for yourself. Before I forget, here¡¯s your station phone,¡± said Titus. ¡°I haven¡¯t run our security algorithms on it, so assume it¡¯s unsecured.¡±

    ¡°I always do,¡± said Artifex with a nod of thanks as he slipped the device into his pocket. He turned to his four escorts. ¡°Would you mind helping us load? You can ride with us in my personal ship to our new berth afterwards.¡±

    The four had semi-permanent looks of wonder, and nodded dumbly in agreement. Between the drones, the four Templars, and Artifex working to load the ship while Titus took the final deliveries. Within the hour, the Crown¡¯s Vigor was on the move.

    <hr>

    The four starstruck Templars clumped together in the back of the cockpit, sitting on unpadded seats at various unpowered crew stations and gaping at the exotic controls of the Crown¡¯s Vigor.

    ¡°You¡¯re cleared to your new berth at Ring GG-6. After the drydock¡¯s blast doors are sealed, the station will refill the atmosphere. Be warned that opening the blast doors without pumping down the atmosphere is considered a major breach and will be considered an attack on the station,¡± said the station¡¯s portmaster over the ansible. The Sauron looked bored, an impressive feat considering his lizardlike features and facial expressions were very alien and far from their human counterparts. He hung up without further comment.

    Ahead of them, a massive section of the station cracked and began to open. It didn¡¯t look anything like a door. Rather, it looked like a huge piece of the station¡¯s hull was being pried open. A dozen small spacecraft painted in construction yellow and with flashing orange lights hovered at the corners of the door. Inside, the inner hull was doing the same, except that hull was split into two pieces that opened ¡®up¡¯ and ¡®down¡¯ on the station¡¯s orientation.

    Artifex pulled in and set the ship down. The hull was already sealing itself behind them, not wasting even a second of time once they were inside. The drydock hangar was massive, easily twice the size of the Crown¡¯s Vigor. Huge pipes were riveted at various points along the wall, many of which were marked as high voltage. A power transformer was fenced off in one corner behind a chain-link fencing. Large industrial lamps on the ceiling cast harsh, bright light on everything. A few standard doors lined one wall on the station spindle side of the facility. Various bits of debris and discarded equipment were piled in one corner, a bit of graffiti tagged another. Next to the doors was a broken couch.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    ¡°Atmosphere in the facility is stabilized,¡± said Titus. ¡°It¡¯s safe to go out there.¡±

    ¡°Just the same, I¡¯m glad we have space suits again,¡± said Artifex. ¡°I hated flying without such a basic safety measure.¡±

    He climbed out of the pilot seat and headed towards the airlock. ¡°Go make contact with Philon and let him know where to find me. Give him my new station phone number. Then take up station at the outside door of the facility.¡±

    The four held their right fists across their chest above their heart for a few seconds, the ages old Imperium pledge of fealty, before heading out the airlock and down the ramp into the facility.

    ¡°Walk with me, Titus,¡± said Artifex.

    ¡°Imperator,¡± said Titus, his clipboard full of velum.

    Together they walked around the large room, examining the industrial feeds that were available to them. Basic liquids and gasses as well as electricity were available, so long as they built in the equipment to receive them. The debris was annoying, but could be easily hauled away for recycling. As they walked, Artifex filled Titus in on the Templars and the Mortalis Divinitas religion, as well as being blackballed in the Market.

    ¡°You had quite the adventurous morning,¡± said Titus.

    Artifex opened the doors at the end of the large bay, to find smaller rooms filled with metal benches, cabinets and work tables. Titus found a room with a basic metal desk, and several rooms that had clearly served as bunkrooms at one point. All were in need of cleaning and were stripped of anything of value. But they were a start.

    ¡°This will do,¡± said Artifex. He took Titus¡¯ clipboard and flipped to a blank page of vellum, and began to scribble rapidly on it with a stylus. ¡°With any luck, we¡¯ll be able to find what we need here. Philon is finding us a broker to the Market. Have you made contacts with the official trade markets here?¡±

    ¡°Yes. As we suspected, the rare metals are a controlled market, with fixed pricing. The only place we can legally sell them is to the station. I anticipate we will do much better through the Market. Fortuna seems to be watching out for us,¡± said Titus. He paused, then started again after a brief hesitation. ¡°Imperator, I must say I am unsettled by this whole Templar business. We have never actively encouraged religions before, and certainly not one that venerated us, and you in particular. I have reservations. Are we not toying with them?¡±

    Artifex stopped his scribbling for an equally short pause, before continuing. ¡°Titus, my oldest friend. Tell me, why did we do it?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±

    ¡°Why did we do it? Why did we build an empire? What drives me on, even now, to try again?¡± He paused again, no longer paying attention to the vellum in front of him. His eyes bored into Titus¡¯ as they stood in the dusty, formerly abandoned industrial facility. ¡°What is our Purpose?¡±

    ¡°We¡­ have sought the unification of humanity, Imperator,¡± said Titus confidently. ¡°We want the betterment of all.¡±

    ¡°To what end?¡± asked Artifex intently.

    ¡°I¡­¡± Titus faltered. He was a follower at heart. Titus had found Artifex in a lab when they were both fresh from university studies, and already Artifex had a growing group of adherents. His scientific genius was revolutionary; his ideas already generating him a fortune to build from. Titus had simply stepped into the role of administrator - keeping the money going to where it needed to go and helping Artifex as his projects got larger and more ambitious as the years went by. In the process, he¡¯d fallen under the charismatic spell of his boss, like all who came to work for him. Following him came naturally, his loyalty well rewarded over the centuries. But it had been at least that long since he¡¯d actually put thought into the philosophy that drove them.

    ¡°Tell me, Titus,¡± said Artifex, his demeanor intense. Any demeanor of casual acceptance of the current circumstances gone. It was a mask, worn as needed to suit the situation, and discarded when no longer necessary. This was the Eternal Emperor, the man who united trillions under a single banner. ¡°Imagine you are operating a cargo train, and see a dozen people on the track before you, about to be struck. On a second track is a single person, but you must pull the lever to switch to that track. You can avoid the dozen but will kill the one. What is the ethical thing to do?¡±

    ¡°I¡­ well, I suppose pull the lever. Although killing someone does not sit well with me,¡± said Titus. ¡°I know I¡¯ve helped you manage wars, so you could say-¡±

    ¡°I could say that there is no good ethical choice. In fact, morality plays no role when circumstances dictate either a bad outcome or a horrible one. Choice in the matter is an illusion,¡± said Artifex. ¡°The question says more about the person who answers it than it does about the situation. You are pragmatic, and at our level, a degree of pragmatism is required. But there is a larger picture that is lost upon you, one you¡¯ve never seen and may have willfully chosen to ignore.¡±

    ¡°And that is, Imperator?¡± asked Titus.

    Artifex seemed to radiate power and intensity, his eyes hard. ¡°The fact of the matter is that we are the train. There are consequences to our actions, and we must live with those consequences. No matter how we plan, people will die that may have lived had we not acted.¡±

    ¡°And yet we power on,¡± said Titus. ¡°Are we so sure that unification is right, then, if you look at the destruction we will cause?¡±

    ¡°And this is what you fail to see,¡± said Artifex. ¡°For we are not the only train. There are a great many dangers to this universe, and many other species competing for the same resources. Humanity is splintered and ill-prepared to meet these threats. We have managed some small progress in improving our genome, but at our core, we are the same tribal and overly-emotional savages that strode across a primordial jungle on a primitive planet lost in history. Humanity pays tribute to the first powerful species that came along, because homo sapiens are too short-sighted by their very nature to see past their selfish needs and stabbed me in the back while I was fighting for their safety. Only after I was gone did they realize that the devil they didn¡¯t know was worse than the one they did.¡±

    ¡°I mean, I knew we were trying to fix genomic problems by evolving homo sapiensintohomo supera,¡± said Titus. Deep thinking about such things was relatively alien to him, yet he felt that he must understand. ¡°But is the situation truly that dire?¡±

    Artifex looked at Titus. ¡°Look around you, my friend. This station was three translations from Swiftes. All of the technology of our time is gone, replaced with inferiority. We weren¡¯t just defeated, we were erased. Our legacy is that of death, and our species is beholden to an alien race that cares nothing for it. How could I not push for humanity to evolve, wish to try again? We must transcend the weaknesses that have cursed our species for countless millennia. I will drag humans into a better future kicking and screaming the whole way if I must. I care not if they love me or curse me. I will make use of any who will help, be it from self-interest or from religious conviction. The Templars may have been the greatest gift that ten centuries of lost time has left to me.¡±

    Artifex returned his attention to the clipboard, and scribbled a few more lines to the vellum while Titus processed his words. The station phone in his pocket chimed, and he read the notification on its tiny screen.

    ¡°Come, my friend, think your deep thoughts later,¡± said Artifex, the intensity covered by the congenial demeanor once more. He pressed the clipboard into Titus¡¯ hands. ¡°Here is the first list of things I need. Philon is on his way with the broker. I need your talents to get these parts so that I can build my first Fabrication facility. I have a great many things to build.¡±

 Chapter 18: Hearts and Minds [A]

    ¡°Why would I care what the average sentient off the street has to say about political issues?  Nine times out of ten they are hardly qualified to give any sort of informed opinion. The masses are satisfied so long as they are paid a fair wage for their work, they can educate their young in safety, and can live a comfortable life with enough luxury to ease their days.  Democracy can achieve that in small doses, but it is inevitable that corruption and greed work their way into every level, destroying everything that previous generations bled for. The Imperium is an autocratic meritocracy, where talent and knowledge is rewarded, and corruption is ruthlessly exterminated.  The quality of life of our people on average is far superior to that of the so-called wealth-driven ¡®democracies¡¯ of the Coalition. We found a better way to govern, and they can¡¯t stand to see us succeed. That¡¯s why we¡¯re the ¡®evil empire¡¯.¡±

    Consul Emilia ¡°Sage¡± Sagax

    <hr>

    Dominus Valerius Artifex, Eternal Emperor

    Antarasel Station, Antarasel System

    ¡°You gotta understand, I¡¯m doing this as a favor, right?¡± said the broker, even before she introduced herself.  ¡°You made someone really powerful angry, and that someone can really mess up my life.¡±

    Artifex looked to Philon and the Templars who were standing with him.  Philon had the grace to look embarrassed. ¡°Hannah has found a buyer for the iridium, who is willing to pay 163,000 centicredits to get around the station laws.¡±

    The broker was slightly below average height, her brown hair speckled with gray.  She wore a thin style of space suit, underneath a formal jacket atop a ruffled blouse.  The cut of the jacket was tailored to her curvy build. Despite her shady profession, Hanna was clean cut, with a professional hairstyle and subtle jewelry.

    ¡°Minus my ten percent,¡± said the broker.

    ¡°Down from fifteen,¡± said Philon helpfully.

    ¡°Yeah, well, I pay my debts,¡± said Hannah gruffly.  She stuck out her hand to Artifex. ¡°Hannah Hallam, broker extraordinaire, at your service.¡±

    Artifex smiled.  He recognized the type, and could work with it.  He shook the broker¡¯s hand. ¡°Captain Valerius. I have quite a lot of things to buy and sell, and need a good agent.  If you do well on this shipment that I¡¯ve brought in, I will hold your end of the bargain fulfilled, and happily pay your normal fifteen with the next shipment.¡±

    Hannah cleared her throat to cover her surprise, then gave a sharp nod.  ¡°Alright, what are we working with here?¡±

    Titus escorted the broker to the side room that had the desk, leaving Artifex with Philon once again.

    ¡°So how bad is it, really?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Well, on the positive side, the Templars are excited that you and The Saint are here.  Was that him? Anyway, we were hoping you could come to our weekly Speaking and maybe say a few words?  It would mean a lot,¡± rambled Philon.

    ¡°Focus, Philon,¡± said Artifex.

    ¡°Oh, right yeah, so the bad news is that Carmine is pretty damn angry.  You didn¡¯t kill his boy, but rumor has it that Todd will be laid up for weeks.  You¡¯re new here, so there¡¯s no way you could know. Carmine basically runs the Market.  His crew charges rent and protection fees, and has free rein everywhere except the slave market.  He¡¯s a crew captain, and a big one. Rumor has it he¡¯s next in line as head of the Family. Worse, a lot of people owe him favors, including the Father.  I wouldn¡¯t show your face around the Market again. You only survived last time because they didn¡¯t have time to get their bruisers in place.¡±

    ¡°How did they get me blackballed if they couldn¡¯t get their guys there?¡±

    ¡°Oh, you misunderstand.  Carmine¡¯s guys are all over that market.  They spread the word. Realistically, though, most of them aren¡¯t bruisers, and I¡¯d bet most aren¡¯t armed.  They¡¯re shielded by the Family¡¯s reputation on your normal days.¡±

    ¡°So we are completely dependent on Hannah and her honor,¡± said Artifex with a frown.  ¡°Well, looks like I will have to take on the Family sooner rather than later.¡±

    ¡°Take on¡­ the Family?¡± said Philon in disbelief.

    ¡°Of course,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°I can¡¯t take over the station and leave the rotting corruption of organized crime behind me, can I?¡±

    ¡°Oh, Deus!¡± said Philon in fervent surprise.  ¡°What can this lowly Templar do to earn his place at your side?¡±

    ¡°Call all your most devout.  We need at least a dozen from the Ardent Path to aid Titus.  I want at least ten Scholars and ten Shadows for a project. How many of the Faithful have military experience?¡± asked Artifex.

    ¡°Dozens, Deus,¡± said Philon.

    ¡°Excellent.  I want the most experienced and most devout to begin with.  Say, two dozen? We will train them first, and they can begin training more.  I need my Cohort Captains for my newest Legion. Servitium super sui.¡±  Artifex began to pace back and forth, even as Philon began to write notes on a creased piece of vellum with a short stylus.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°What of the project for the Scholars and the Shadows?¡± asked Philon.

    ¡°I need them to start a soup kitchen,¡± said Artifex with a smirk, anticipating Philon¡¯s reaction.

    Philon did not disappoint.  His jaw hit the floor, gaping for a solid few seconds before sputtering in surprise.  ¡°Do what now?¡±

    ¡°The Scholars will start building out the infrastructure for an intelligence network fronted by the soup kitchen.  Hidden meeting spaces, data collection servers, pattern analysis, communications, and so forth. The Shadows will establish themselves as community activists and outreach for the Temple.  They will start with feeding the poorest - orphans, jobless families and the like. I assume you have a Temple?¡±

    ¡°Two, in fact.  We have grown over the last few decades,¡± said Philon with pride.  He had not blatantly stated it, but the look on his face claimed credit for that growth.  ¡°Our largest is one ring above the Market, while we have another a few levels down but on the same ring as the Market.  We do not have any followers from the wealthier levels. Obviously, industrial rings like this one have nothing, either, since people do not live here.¡±

    ¡°Buy or rent space near the lower Temple, as this will be closer to the poor people.  Feed them but ask nothing at all of them. Simply offer free food, at least to start.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± said Philon.

    ¡°Did you know that few people are ever truly involved in the overthrow of governments?  Many may be affected by the war itself, but the percentage of a population that is actually involved is very tiny.  Successful social revolutions against tyrannies happen when mobs of people, usually the young and disillusioned, manage to force out an elite political group.  Rebellions occur when a faction gains sufficient arms to fight the government. Military coups happen when the military disagrees with the civilian government. Do you know who has the least say in the matter, and bears the highest cost?¡± said Artifex.

    ¡°The civilians?¡±

    ¡°The civilians,¡± he confirmed.  ¡°But if you are the one who can empower the people, there is no limit to the power you can draw from them in return.  The Shadows can listen, at first. These people see, they hear, they witness. There is power in information. We need that power.  The Shadows will plant the first seed there, while we build here. Schedule times for each group to come here with Titus as soon as possible.¡±

    ¡°Deus,¡± said Philon with a slight bow, his fist over his heart.

    ¡°What is ¡®Deus¡¯?¡± asked Hannah as she and Titus returned from their discussion.  Both had pleased expressions on their faces. The meeting had clearly been productive.

    ¡°All is well, I assume?¡± asked Artifex.

    ¡°We had a fruitful discussion,¡± confirmed Titus.

    ¡°I have another task for you,¡± said Artifex to Hannah, walking over to where she and Titus were standing.  ¡°It¡¯s a bit time sensitive, I¡¯m afraid. I need you to make a purchase for me.¡±

    ¡°Alright, what do you need?¡± said Hannah, raising a sheaf of vellum into place and getting her stylus ready to write.

    ¡°At the slave market, there is a man named Ivalgo who has been brought in -¡±

    ¡°Slaves?!  I don¡¯t do slaves,¡± snapped Hannah.  She turned to Philon. ¡°I told you I don¡¯t do slaves, and where did you bring me?¡±

    ¡°I need to buy his freedom,¡± snapped Artifex loudly.  ¡°And any of his crew, if he had any survive. I struck a bargain with him at the Market, and will employ him once he is free.¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± said Hannah, deflated.  ¡°I won¡¯t work with them directly, nor would they talk to me if I would.  But I know someone who will do it for me.¡±

    ¡°How much money will you need for those purchases?¡±  Artifex¡¯ estimation of Hannah went up a few notches, more than enough to forgive the mistaken assumption.

    ¡°What is his profession?  You said he had a crew? Ship¡¯s captain?¡± asked Hannah, once again taking notes as if she¡¯d never had an outburst.

    ¡°Of a small cargo cog,¡± he answered.

    ¡°Those usually have a crew of six to eight.  Experienced spacers are worth around a thousand centicreds, and a crew captain between two and four thousand,¡± she said.

    ¡°I¡¯ll pre-approve up to 20,000 for all of them,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°If it costs more, I¡¯ll know why before I consider paying more. One last thing.¡±

    ¡°Yes?¡±

    Artifex handed her a new list.  ¡°We need arms and armor. I¡¯ll pay the full 15% premium on those.¡±

    <hr>

    ¡°You know she thinks you¡¯re going to start running weapons, right?¡± said Titus as soon as their guests left.

    ¡°You think so?¡± asked Artifex.

    ¡°Why else would you make a deal with an enslaved cargo captain to free him and his crew?¡± asked Titus rhetorically.  ¡°Why did you do that though, really?¡±

    Artifex sighed.  ¡°I let my own anger interfere, and I let him fly blindly into that pirate trap.  I didn¡¯t even warn him.¡±

    ¡°He was the one foolish enough to fly into it in the first place,¡± retorted Titus.  ¡°He is responsible for his own actions. We didn¡¯t tell him to charge in like he was a space knight from some children¡¯s fable.¡±

    ¡°I know that.  But I could have warned him, and I can put him and his crew to work.  We need salvagers we can trust,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°We brought a small fortune with us, but we will need a very large fortune to fund our campaign.¡±

    ¡°Armies won¡¯t march on empty stomachs,¡± acknowledged Titus.  ¡°How do you know he is to be trusted?¡±

    ¡°It was a gut instinct,¡± admitted Artifex.  He held his hand up to deflect the inevitable comment.  ¡°I know, I know. I¡¯ve said it a thousand times myself. Gut instincts are never to be trusted.  Just the same, I took this one. Let¡¯s call it a calculated risk.¡±

    ¡°Calculated?¡±  said Titus, about to argue the point, when Artifex gave him an apologetic look.  Titus sighed. ¡°Very well. I need to get to work on the environmentals, seals, and organizing the supplies.¡±

    ¡°I need to start on the system restorations and deep maintenance,¡± said Artifex.  ¡°I can do a lot now with some of what you purchased, so I will need to build up the fabricators to do the rest.  But there is something else I need to spend some time on, before we get too busy.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s that, Imperator?¡± asked Titus.

    ¡°I need to fix my Core.¡±

 Chapter 19: An Unwelcome Gift [A]

    It has to start somewhere,

    It has to start sometime.

    What better place than here,

    What better time than now?

    - Ancient Ballad, Unknown Artist

    <hr>

    Dominus Valerius Artifex, Eternal Emperor

    Antarasel Station, Antarasel System

    There was no other task that Artifex wanted to accomplish more than to work on his Core. Ever since he had first tried to use some of the tools it made available and found them nonfunctional, Artifex had felt like a piece of himself was missing. He had only been awake a few weeks, after all, and he¡¯d had some variation of a Core for several centuries. Like all his projects, the Cores had gone through hundreds of iterations over the years. But aside from simply missing tools he¡¯d grown accustomed to, he was also in more danger than he¡¯d been subjected to in quite some time. This was like the early days of the Swiftes rebellion, when he¡¯d thrown the Colonial Authority out of power and began the long path to an empire. Threats had been around every corner, and he hadn¡¯t had a Core to rely on then. He¡¯d still been a baseline human with the standard gene mods given to all the colonists on Nidus.

    Before he could start, however, Artifex had some work to do. He needed the medical pods to be functional again, but they had been stashed in a stateroom right next to the small onboard medical bay, unpowered. The medical bay itself was stuffed with boxes meant to resupply it. Artifex ordered two of the medical drones to begin organizing and storing away all of the supplies. The other two he used to help with heavy lifting. This wasn¡¯t their ideal purpose, for the drones had been designed as medical assistants. However, the entire drone industry in the Imperium had begun as basic laborers, and that functionality had never been removed. Interestingly, this was one of the industries where Artifex had almost no knowledge. He had never considered drones at all. An upstart enterprise from the outskirts of the Imperium had invented the technology, and their designs had become wildly popular across the empire.

    The furnishings of the stateroom had been removed to make room for the two medical pods. However, once Artifex popped the floor panel in the room, he discovered that the main power feeds ran parallel to where the pods were resting. He would be able to power one but not both in their current position. If he turned them ninety degrees, one would block the hatch into the hall. Fortunately, the walls were made of identically sized metal panels, each one pre-fabricated to fit standard frames with connectors for power, water, and air hoses, if those feeds were needed in that wall. With the help of the two drones, and not more than a few dozen curses and at least one instance of banged knuckles, Artifex was able to swap the wall panel between the medical bay and the stateroom with the hallway door panel. Then he was able to properly connect the medical pods to the main power, and get them bolted into place rather than simply strapped to the floor.

    After a quick shower in the tiny bathroom that was connected to the stateroom to remove sweat and grease, leaving the dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. Once he was done, Artifex powered on the more complex of the two medical pods without bothering to dress. This pod was the one that had been his prison for so many centuries, the deluxe model that could rebuild or repair just about any type of physical damage. Artifex checked the stock of biologics, and found that they were almost empty. The silvery-white pod had required massive amounts of materials to repair him.

    With a few typed commands, Artifex requested a deep diagnostic scan. If he was to get to the bottom of his malfunctioning Core, he needed to know what was happening inside his body. After the pod opened and the cradle raised up to the lip of the pod, Artifex laid himself down. It took a few seconds of adjusting until he was comfortable, and the cradle lowered him into the pod as the lid closed over him. Inside the pod, a gentle silver glow lit the enclosed space, but Artifex couldn¡¯t see it. A stasis field held him frozen in place, unharmed and unmoving while hundreds of deep scans criss-crossed across his body. After thirty minutes, the stasis field lifted and the pod opened once again. From Artifex¡¯ perspective, he¡¯d been in the pod for less than a minute.

    After a quick stop in the stateroom where Titus had stashed the boxes of new clothes, Artifex re-dressed himself in a basic, dark gray thinsuit-variety of space suit, with collapsable helmet hidden in the collar. A simple ruffled shirt and black jacket and sturdy black boots completed the outfit. Artifex examined himself and sighed; he had really liked the tunics that had been popular on the Star Sphere in Swiftes, and the more military-style tunic he¡¯d worn to Antarasel. But there was no helping fashion.

    By the time he returned, the neural network terminal in the medical bay was already flashing, indicating that the scans were complete. A hologram appeared above the terminal - a high resolution, three-dimensional representation of his body. Artifex began to flip through test results, and as he did, the relevant parts of his holographic image would light up to highlight in green and red what was good and bad. The report itself would appear next to the image, and Artifex could scroll through the report with a flick of his fingers.

    Report after report went by, detailing his overall health and the health of each of his bodily systems. Pulmonary, circulatory, limbic, nervous, and so forth, system by system, he was in the green. Each report highlighted areas that had been recently gutted and replaced by the medical pods, for even technology as incredibly advanced as this could not do work without leaving traces behind. Artifex flipped through these detailed reports swiftly, for they told only the tale of his body. They did not tell of his technological enhancements.

    When he finally got to the Phased Crystal Core Report, the holograph lit up once again. The core that was fused into his ribcage lit up in green, but flickered red occasionally. Thin threads spread throughout his body, following the lines of his nervous system to spread out into his hands and feet, as well as up into his skull. Periodically, small nodules in his torso appeared with dozens of threads connecting into them. But the problem was immediately obvious. Most of these threads were red, and all of the nodules were red as well. Huge swaths of the system had been carved away when he had been healed in the medical pod.

    Artifex frowned as he studied the report. The medical pod technology was a completely independent field of medical technology from the phased crystal technology that was the basis for much of the Imperium technology. The pod itself received power from power cores and main lines connected to true Conduits, but they could just as easily be powered by fusion reactors or, if there were huge numbers of them, even solar panels. The two technologies didn¡¯t intersect, and this was a common end result of major reconstructive surgeries like what had saved Artifex¡¯ life. But Artifex couldn¡¯t understand why his own Core hadn¡¯t recognized the problem and started fixing the network. He sent a query to his Core.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    ¡°Status: Sub-optimal¡±, said the Core. ¡°Meridians are closed and must be reopened. Manifold power levels at 0.5%. Physical well-being is excellent.¡±

    Meridians were an unusual feature of elite-level Cores. All Cores would build a small manifold Conduit allowing transdimensional power to be drawn. This pinhold power Conduit would allow the Core to build in many mechanical mods such as basic informational displays, improved visible spectrum ranges in eyesight, subdermal armor, or even Transcom Nodes and local ansible communications. Not all Cores had the same features, for an elite engineer would not need subdermal armor, for example, nor would a soldier want a Transcom Node that could pinpoint his exact location.

    Merdians, on the other hand, were not internally focused. They were independent Conduits that drew and stored extra transdimensional power, and allowed manipulation outside the body. Artifex had many abilities thanks to the Meridians he had grown, such as deflection fields to help ward off lasers and fast-moving projectiles, for example. Another ability to make micromanipulation gravitic fields allowed him to Push or Pull small objects.

    Yet Meridians were only possible for people who were capable of using them. It was a mix of physical constitution and mental aptitude, and the elite Cores were programmed to analyze their carrier¡¯s capabilities to a rigorously high standard before allowing the Meridians to be grown. Early tests had proven catastrophically fatal for those who weren¡¯t able and were given the Meridians anyway.

    The standard was so high that, including himself and his four Consuls, only Artifex and his spymistress, Auria the Eye, were able to grow them. Most of his had been removed during surgery, yet his Core was reporting them as ¡®closed¡¯ and need of ¡®reopening¡¯. The one that was still remaining was, in fact, not functional. That was what was storing the tiny half-percent of power.

    From the terminal, Artifex pulled out a small plastic tab with two metal studs on one side. He peeled off the adhesive tape and placed it on his right temple before connecting a wire from the medical bay¡¯s terminal to the two metal studs. After pushing a button on the terminal, he instructed his Core to do a deep diagnostic. The hologram of his body vanished, only to be replaced by a rapid stream of data as information went back and forth between the Core and terminal.

    ¡°Analysis Complete. Core Integrity is compromised. Purge and repair procedure calculated and loaded. Sixty-one point four grams of Ventricite required for reconstruction,¡± reported the Core. ¡°Estimated time to completion: seventeen hours, twelve minutes.¡±

    He had his answer. The Core itself had failed to detect its own integrity problems, leading to mistakes in its reported output. Like any programmatic device, if you input garbage, your output was garbage. He would need to consume extra calories and the ventricite crystals, and take a seventeen hour nap.

    A rap on the open door of the medical bay¡¯s hatch brought Artifex¡¯ eyes away from the technical details of the reconstruction procedure being displayed above the terminal. Titus stood at the door with a strange look on his face.

    ¡°I am going to need a little over seventeen hours for Core reconstruction,¡± said Artifex, his thoughts still on his own project. ¡°It should go a long ways towards regrowing my Meridians and restoring some functionality.¡±

    ¡°We have¡­ visitors, Imperator,¡± said Titus.

    ¡°Valerius,¡± corrected Artifex absently without looking away from the diagnostic report.

    ¡°Imperator,¡± Titus said, ignoring the correction. ¡°I need your attention on this.¡±

    Artifex pulled himself away from the fine details, reluctantly admitting he was going to allow the reconstruction to happen regardless of what he read. ¡°What do you have for me?¡±

    ¡°Would you mind meeting with the visitors? We have a representative from what I suspect to be a local power player, and his¡­ companion,¡± said Titus. He could tell something was off, but hadn¡¯t laid a finger on it.

    Artifex¡¯ nodded, noticing Titus¡¯ unease. ¡°Very well, let¡¯s see what they want.¡±

    They exited the ship, the ramp closing up behind them as they strode across the large industrial floor. They traversed into the front room, where comfortable seating and an unmanned reception desk had replaced the dusty, garbage strewn decor. Two Templars stood guard at the door behind the reception desk, preventing anyone from leaving the foyer.

    Standing neatly in front of the desk and completely ignoring the chairs were two people. The man was tall and well-built, his features a typical, generic blend of genetics that told of standard spacer stock. With light blond hair, prominent nose and strong jaw atop olive skin, he cut a striking figure and knew it. Arrogance was written across his face, with a smug smirk that seemed to broaden when Artifex entered the room.

    Behind the man stood a smaller person whose features were utterly obscured by a baggy, hooded cloak that left no feature visible. This person seemed to be staring at their own feet, merely waiting for instruction. The pale blue cloak was of fine fabric with elaborate stitchwork.

    ¡°Captain Valerius, I presume?¡± said the man without waiting for introduction.

    ¡°I am,¡± he replied. ¡°What brings you here?¡±

    ¡°I am Oliver Must, here on behalf of Vice Chancellor Larzo Tutna. Perhaps you¡¯ve heard of him?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m quite new to the system,¡± said Artifex diplomatically. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I haven¡¯t had the pleasure of meeting him.¡±

    ¡°Ah, but he has heard of you, and your precious cargo,¡± said Oliver as he pulled a small box out from his pocket and presented it to Artifex. ¡°The Vice Chancellor is inviting you to a private dinner at the Bon Chance, the most exclusive restaurant on Antarasel Station.¡±

    ¡°What is this?¡± asked Artifex as he opened the box. Inside lay a key and an electronic device that looked similar to the touch-screen station phones that Titus had acquired for their use. He lifted out the remote gently, to see that the key was attached to it by a ribbon.

    ¡°The Vice Chancellor sent along a welcome present, by way of thanking you for your business and to encourage a mutually profitable future,¡± said Must. With a flourish, he whipped the cloak off of his companion.

    Beneath the cloak was a beautiful woman, wearing next to nothing at all. She was veiled from the nose down in a tight cloth mask, its pale blue offset by the red curls and pale white skin not common to this area of the galaxy. She wore nothing at all on her chest, except for a thin chain that was clamped to the nipples of her perfectly sized, perky breasts. At her waist, she wore a tight metal bikini bottom that was clasped and locked with a padlock. A long, transparent pale blue strip of cloth hung from the front and back of the bikini bottom.

    None of this caught Artifex¡¯ attention, for his eyes were riveted to the thin, silvery collar that wrapped around her neck and was tied ever so delicately to the chain between her breasts. The collar was metal, but it was formed exactly to the woman¡¯s throat. His eyes met hers, and in a mere second he could read her absolute humiliation and despair, despite her not moving a single muscle.

    Oliver Must did not seem to notice Artifex¡¯ stiff reaction, merely waving for the girl to go. She meekly moved to stand beside Artifex. ¡°Shall I tell the Vice Chancellor you shall be joining him? Say, at 1900 station time?¡±

 Chapter 20: Compulsion [A]

    ¡°To be peaceful, one must first accept that you must be ready and willing to commit great violence. If you are incapable or averse, you prove only one thing about yourself. You are harmless, not peaceful.¡±

    Dominus Valerius Artifex Primus

    12 Mars, Annum 1833 EIA

    <hr>

    Dominus Valerius Artifex, Eternal Emperor

    Antarasel Station, Antarasel System

    ¡°Captain Valerius receives this ¡®gift¡¯ in the spirit in which it was presented,¡± said Titus graciously, with no trace of contempt lurking in his voice. ¡°I¡¯m sure dinner with the Vice Chancellor would be an excellent start to future interactions.¡±

    Artifex, for his part, picked up the pale blue cloak and held it out to the girl. The girl did not move, her eyes watching him fearfully.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be sure to let the Vice Chancellor know to expect you,¡± said Oliver, now watching Artifex.

    ¡°We are rather new to the station,¡± said Titus with sorrow in his voice. ¡°Regretfully, we are unfamiliar with the various players, as it were. Could you remind me what the Vice Chancellor¡¯s portfolio is?¡±

    When he realized that the girl wouldn¡¯t, or couldn¡¯t, cover herself with the cloak, Artifex opened the cloak and rested it around her shoulders. Her arms stayed straight down her side, so he fastened the magnetic clasp at the neck himself, making the young woman decent once again.

    ¡°She¡¯ll only do what you order her to do,¡± said Oliver with a frown. ¡°Except for talk. She was too argumentative, so the vocal chord restrictions are permanent. I¡¯m afraid we received her that way. Is there a problem?¡±

    ¡°Oh, no, none at all,¡± said Artifex, schooling his face to be devoid of emotion. ¡°I¡¯m afraid my culture is a bit¡­ prudish about public nudity. It¡¯s¡­ uncomfortable to discuss business like this.¡±

    ¡°Ah, I understand,¡± said Oliver with a cruel grin. ¡°Business in the streets, fun time in the sheets.¡±

    ¡°Ahem,¡± said Titus. ¡°The Vice Chancellor¡¯s portfolio?¡±

    ¡°Right. Officially, the Vice Chancellor manages the Public Works. Unofficially¡­¡± Oliver gave him a meaningful look. ¡°Let¡¯s just say that the officeholder for the Chancellor¡¯s office changes every two years. The other vice chancellors serve no more than six.¡±

    ¡°And Mr. Tutna? How long has he held his office?¡± asked Titus.

    ¡°Vice Chancellor Tutna has generously served this station in his current capacity for thirty-two years,¡± said Oliver. ¡°So we will see you at 19:00 station time?¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± said Titus.

    <hr>

    ¡°Come this way, girl. Titus, please find the necessities for her, and meet us in the medical bay,¡± said Artifex.

    ¡°UN-UNNN!¡± came a muffled cry from the girl. She was walking after him, her feet betraying her even as she appeared to be fighting with every grain of her being to avoid going with him. Tears leaked from her eyes as she looked around wildly in sheer panic.

    Artifex turned back in confusion. The young woman looked to be nearing a mental breakdown, she was so scared.

    ¡°Stop, stop, it¡¯s okay,¡± he said to her soothingly. ¡°I¡¯m not going to hurt you. We aren¡¯t slavers, we¡¯re going to help you. I can help you, free you, and fix it so you can talk again. You do want to talk again, right?¡±

    The girl froze the moment he started talking, and slowly his voice broke through her panic. Artifex kept talking gently, until a sense of calm allowed her to step back from the mental ledge she¡¯d been teetering on. He had no idea what terrible fears were in her head, but she did not appear to be someone bred into slavery. She had probably been captured or sold into it, with all of the trauma that involved.

    Finally, he asked, ¡°Are you ready?¡±

    She gave a hesitant nod.

    ¡°I hereby order that you have full control of your own body, without requiring any commands from myself or my companion. Anything we ask you to do should be considered a request only, not an order. Do you understand?¡±

    Again, he got a nod from her.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    ¡°If you¡¯re ready, can you follow me to my ship? I have a medical bay where we can look at breaking you free of this¡­ compulsion collar,¡± said Artifex. He frowned at the very thought, for the collar had demonstrated a deeper and more nuanced command and control capability than even the most advanced slave collars from his own day.

    Artifex began walking once more down the hallway, past all the empty offices and workspaces on the way back to the large industrial bay. A quick glance over his shoulder showed that she was following him, her eyes downcast but casting furtive looks his direction.

    The girl stared at the warcraft in the industrial bay, for it was very much a throwback from anything she would have seen before. Artifex had seen the bulky, over-built ships that were common to this part of space when he docked. The sleek, integrated lines and its glowing-blue manifold engine made it stand out. Fortunately enough for him, the universe was full of strange things, and spacers were notorious cynics.

    The ramp extended as Artifex approached, and he boarded the ship. He turned back to see the girl standing at the bottom, trembling. He walked back down.

    ¡°You are afraid of the ship?¡±

    The girl hesitated, then gave a quick nod.

    ¡°Afraid you¡¯ll be carted off somewhere again without your permission?¡±

    Again, she nodded, then she held her hand up and let it waver back and forth in a ¡®so so¡¯ motion.

    ¡°Yes, but there is more to it?¡± guessed Artifex. ¡°Hmm, worried it¡¯ll be worse than kidnapping?¡±

    The girl cringed, as if her revealing her fears would make them come true. Artifex frowned at the cringing, but schooled his expression once again. What could be worse than slavery? Oh, he thought to himself.

    ¡°I know you have no reason to trust me,¡± said Artifex. ¡°You¡¯ve had some traumatic experiences, and were given to me like chattel. But if you can summon a bit of courage, I promise to help free you. Will you let me help you?¡±

    The girl lifted her trembling chin and looked him in the eye, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. She took a step forward, onto the ramp. Artifex followed her, then guided her to the medical bay. They walked past the exam table and cabinets crammed with supplies, and into the pod room. Artifex gestured to the bathroom door, then held out the key to the locks on her bikini.

    ¡°Through there is a bathroom. Please take your time, and if you would like, shower and remove all the chains and such that you can remove. Come back out in a towel, and we can put you in the medical pod,¡± said Artifex.

    The girl gestured sharply, making a motion with her hand that Artifex didn¡¯t understand for a moment. Then it clicked. ¡°Ah! Stylus and vellum! Yes, I¡¯ll get some.¡±

    Artifex ducked out of the room to get her request, and when he returned, she practically snatched it out of his hands.

    ¡°Are those Imperium Medical Pods?¡± wrote the girl, underlining ¡®medical pods¡¯ in emphasis.

    ¡°It is,¡± confirmed Artifex.

    ¡°Those are worth a fortune! Do you know how to make it work?¡±

    ¡°I do, indeed,¡± said Artifex with a twinkle.

    This time the girl took longer to write, then averted her eyes when she showed it to him. ¡°Can it undo a biosculpt?¡±

    ¡°They sculpted you? Where?¡± asked Artifex.

    The girl pointed at her face, and swirled her finger in a motion to encompass her chest.

    ¡°I¡¯ll do what I can.¡±

    <hr>

    ¡°They reshaped her face and breasts,¡± Artifex said without looking up from the pod screen. He could hear Titus setting some things down on the counter before he walked into the small pod room, where Artifex was looking at the girl¡¯s medical diagnoses. She was frozen in stasis as he worked, sealed into the pod and safe. Every now and then, he sipped at a smoothie-like protein drink laced with ventricite crystals. It tasted metallic and nasty, but it was the easiest way to get the ventricite into his system that he would need for his own repairs.

    ¡°Someone invested a lot of time and money into her,¡± he observed.

    ¡°A natural virgin is my guess. For some reason, that is ever a prize,¡± sighed Artifex. ¡°Otherwise, why the show with the locked chastity belt?¡±

    ¡°How is her health, otherwise?¡± asked Titus.

    ¡°These new compulsion collars are nasty. They thread into the nervous system and up into the brain. They aren¡¯t ever meant to be removed, at least not without permanently crippling the wearer.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fortunate you¡¯re work with Cores required so much work with the nervous system,¡± said Titus. ¡°You can unwind the damage?¡±

    ¡°Cores work symbiotically with the nervous system, while this runs parallel and often overlaps it. But yes, I can fix it. I¡¯ve already started the repairs to her face to restore her original looks based off her DNA. The breasts¡­ I can restore to a modest size. I actually have no gauge for what they should have been, for women¡¯s breasts change constantly throughout their lives, depending on age, children, weight, and so on. If I¡¯m off the mark, we can try again later,¡± said Artifex clinically.

    ¡°Poor child,¡± said Titus sympathetically. ¡°I assume you want me to find her something useful to do?¡±

    ¡°That would be for the best,¡± said Artifex. ¡°She¡¯ll be in the pod for days, at a minimum. I¡¯m going to have to manually sequence a lot of the repairs, and allow the pod to do its work. This will use up most of what¡¯s left of our biologics. Have we found a new source yet?¡±

    ¡°There is not much of a medical culture on this station,¡± said Titus. ¡°I¡¯m reaching out to the medical suppliers, but we may only get a few basic stocks here. I¡¯m hopeful the planet has better options.¡±

    ¡°Very well. I¡¯m going to get ready for my meeting. I assume I have a few Templars waiting to escort me?¡±

    ¡°Indeed, Imperator,¡± said Titus. ¡°And I have a new staff to start training.¡±

 Chapter 21: Bon Chance [A]

    ¡°All habitable planets are the property of the Great Host.  Your species is merely a caretaker, holding these planets until we get around to colonizing them.  Any resources used will need to be repaid after we evict you, and any who remain after the eviction will be executed.¡±

    Avisli Ambassador from the Great Host to the SFR

    <hr>

    Dominus Valerius Artifex, Eternal Emperor

    Antarasel Station, Antarasel System

    Appearances are important.  For someone with Artifex¡¯ age and experience, he knew this better than most.  From the nature and method of invitation given to Artifex from the Vice Chancellor, clearly Larzo Tutna understood this as well.  From the extravagant, of not tasteless, gift and the high-level flunky who issues the ¡®not optional¡¯ invitation, to the high class restaurant, Chancellor Tutna fully understood how to send a message.  Fortunately for Artifex, he knew how to send one right back.

    Artifex¡¯ stateroom on the Crown¡¯s Vigor looked far different than it had upon landing.  It had been essentially bare, all the rotted carpets and bedding tossed aside.  Artifex and Titus had lived in the cockpit for the few weeks they were in space, the acceleration couches at the pilot station the only suitable place to sit or sleep.  Now, however, it looked like a proper stateroom. A thick mattress was now on the metal frame, covered with thick blankets and lush pillows. An area rug covered the metal floor, and the washbasin in the corner was stocked with toiletries.  A wardrobe was now filled with clothing, including numerous Imperium uniforms without insignia. As always, Artifex was impressed with Titus¡¯ resourcefulness in finding a tailor to cut and stitch new clothes in such short order.

    With a few motions, Artifex flipped through the clothes until he found an appropriate outfit.  It was in a similar cut to the Imperium uniforms, evoking the same sense of style without being militaristic.  Artifex liked it because it was designed to go overtop the thinsuit-style space suit. The thinsuit was sturdier than normal clothing, able to turn one or maybe two low-grade laser blasts as well as offer him safety in case of atmospheric breach.  He¡¯d experienced vacuum directly before, and it wasn¡¯t something he liked the idea of doing again. After a swift shower and shave, Artifex dressed, leaving the top few buttons of his jacket undone. He checked his appearance in the mirror. He looked appropriately well-bred and wealthy, with the air of confidence that only real power could give.  It didn¡¯t matter if he had only the tiniest fraction of power he¡¯d once had. Appearances are important.

    Four Templars met Artifex at the door of his industrial bay.  All four had the look of veterans, and wore body armor. Sidearms were prominently on display on their belts, and they had a dangerous air to them.  One of the Templars held out a pistol to Artifex.

    ¡°For you, Deus,¡± he said reverently.

    Artifex thanked him and slid the pistol into his jacket.

    The trip up to the top of the station was far different than the one down to the Market.  Corridors were clean and well repaired. There were no gaps from missing sections, and businesses had friendly and professionally lettered signs with cute slogans.  There were small personal transport vehicles moving amidst the crowd, curtained sedan chairs atop wheeled conveyances. The vast corridors were large enough for two-way traffic of the huge cargo carriers that intermingled with the foot traffic that dominated.

    The templars knew how to get to the restaurant Bon Chance, showing that the Mortalis Divinitas faith was spread further through the station than Artifex had expected, to know the upper, rich rings.  It had struck him at first as a faith of the poor, a belief system that, like most religions, sold itself through false promises and misplaced hope. But as Artifex had read through the texts provided to him by Philon, he was learning that this was more of a culture than just a religion.  It was a way of life, and it sold self-improvement as the fundamental doctrine, where hard work led to great rewards. If anything, it was more philisophical, with the mystic elements and rewards something that, given time and materials, Artifex could fulfill. For the price of his time and supporting the existing Mortalis Divinitas faith structure, Artifex could have fanatic followers.  For someone who was willing to go to extremes for his own goals and beliefs, Artifex was utterly untroubled by the prospect.

    The restaurant had no flashy advertisements, with the initials of the restaurant engraved into the door with simple stylized letters in a white-on-white color scheme.  The templars opened the door for him, and escorted him to a concierge dressed in a white suit.

    ¡°Mr. Valerius, I presume?¡± said the concierge, his accent clipped and formal.

    ¡°That is correct,¡± replied Artifex.

    ¡°If you¡¯ll follow me,¡± said the concierge, ignoring the templars altogether.

    ¡°Two of you stay by the door inside, the other two, with me,¡± said Artifex.  The templars nodded, and followed his instructions as they entered the dining room proper.  The white-on-white theme continued, with tables and chairs covered in white linen, the walls held blank canvases framed in white metal instead of artwork. The light fixtures were white as well, but gave off a soft, golden glow that somehow matched perfectly with the theme.

    All of the tables were full, but at the back of the dining room was a single table set back from the others.  It was easily large enough for six people, but had only two chairs, opposite each other on the long sides of the table instead of at the head and foot.  A white haired gentleman in a dove gray suit was seated behind the table, with two massive bodyguards behind him. As the concierge led Artifex to the table, the man gestured for Artifex to seat himself.  The two templars with him took up station at his back, standing behind him and mirroring the Vice Chancellor¡¯s bodyguards.

    ¡°Captain Valerius,¡± said Vice Chancellor Larzo Tutna without preamble.  ¡°You are making waves.¡±This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    ¡°So it would seem, to warrant an invitation,¡± said Artifex.  He sat completely at ease, showing no concern to be meeting the de facto ruler of the station.  ¡°I have to say, I have not tried this restaurant yet. How is the chef?¡±

    Tutna frowned, Artifex¡¯ lack of reaction unexpected.  ¡°The chef is fantastic. He came up from Arsache, which is the so-called ¡®culinary capital¡¯ of Sunomy.¡±

    Sunomy was the settled planet in the Antarasel system, which he had avoided in his search for a shipyard.  Artifex had learned little about the planet beyond its name, mostly because of other priorities and a lack of time.  It would receive his attention in due time. Tutna waved his hand at a waiter, who immediately came over with a bottle of white wine, pouring each wineglass half full.

    ¡°I am looking forward to it,¡± said Artifex.

    ¡°You are a resourceful man,¡± said Tutna, trying to take control of the conversation that Artifex had deftly derailed.

    Artifex nodded, pretending to sip the white wine.  He said nothing, letting Tutna¡¯s statement go unanswered.

    ¡°The station¡¯s monopoly on iridium exists for a reason,¡± said Tutna.  ¡°Iridium is rare and tremendously important, especially for a space station.¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± came Artifex¡¯ reply, a faint, engaged smile on his face.

    ¡°At the same time, I understand that the Market has buyers that will buy iridium at a much better price,¡± continued Tutna.  His tone was conciliatory, but at this point his eyes hardened. ¡°I can overlook sales such as this, but it comes at a cost.¡±

    ¡°And what is that cost?¡± asked Artifex.

    ¡°Thirty percent of the profit above the station price,¡± said Tutna, his tone brooking no argument.

    Once again, Artifex¡¯ response took Tutna by surprise, for he merely nodded in acceptance.  ¡°What does this percentage buy me?¡±

    Tutna smiled wolfishly.  ¡°I can spare guards to help protect your investments.  I can get you access to the business people of the station.  And of course, you are protected from the station¡¯s legal system, if trouble arises.  After all, we both profit from your freedom.¡±

    ¡°Then it sounds like we have a deal,¡± said Artifex.

    ¡°You are an Elder Templar?¡± said Tutna.

    ¡°Not exactly, but close enough, why?¡±

    ¡°You have access to Imperium technology.  Unless I missed my guess, you have a retrofitted Imperium corvette?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I do not follow what you are getting at,¡± said Artifex.

    Tutna frowned and appeared deep in thought.  He tapped his fingers on the table, then took a breath.  ¡°Yes, alright. I¡¯ll get to the heart of the matter. Are you familiar enough with Imperium technology to repair it?  All the restoration experts I¡¯ve met were all Mortalis types, but none of the ones on station have the necessary expertise.¡±

    ¡°I have had pretty good luck with such repairs in the past,¡± allowed Artifex.  ¡°But my knowledge is not limitless.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know if you¡¯re aware, but this station dates back to the Imperium days.  Now it¡¯s been worked on constantly for centuries, so most of the technology in the station has been replaced during repairs and retrofits.  But not all. The core air exchange system for the station is true Imperium technology. It has few moving parts, and replacements are easily fabricated.  However, the Imperium used phased crystal technology, and it runs a neural network that controls the system. This appears to be breaking down. Are you familiar?¡±

    It was Artifex¡¯ turn to think, thoughts racing through his brain as he weighed options and paths forward.  If he could convert the station¡¯s ruler into an ally, at least for now, he could concentrate on building out his organization and finishing the repairs on his ship.  He nodded. He despised the blatant corruption of the Vice Chancellor, but he had worked with worse.

    ¡°I can repair your air exchange system,¡± said Artifex.

    ¡°If you succeed, I will cut my take from 30% to 20% for your next shipment,¡± said Tutna.

    ¡°Make it my next two shipments,¡± he replied.

    ¡°Fine. Two shipments,¡± said Tutna.  He stared at Artifex right in the eyes.  ¡°Do not try and cheat me. I know all and see all.  My men here are SFR TANCs, and you do not want to see the kind of punishment they can dish out.  And my reach is far greater than just my job description.¡±

    At that exact moment, every single diner in the restaurant stopped eating and talking, turning instead to stare at Artifex.  In the eery calm, Tutna held his arms out, showing off his power. It was an effective demonstration, the theatrics not lost on Artifex.

    Artifex frowned, for the first time giving Tutna the reaction he was looking for.  But the frown was for a completely different reason. Tutna¡¯s mention of TANCs had thrown him, not the room full of strangers that obviously worked for Tutna staring at him.  TANCs were the elite commandos of the Coalition. It was the first direct indication that the Solarian Federation of Republics was the successor to the Coalition. His ancient enemy may have survived after all.

    He turned his attention back to Tutna.  ¡°I understand your message, and have one of my own.  I am not some random tramp freighter captain, and I am not to be trifled with.  I will hold up my end of the bargain. If you fail to hold up yours, there will be repercussions.¡±

    Now it was Artifex who gestured.  He used his tiny 0.5% of banked manifold energy to wrap a push field around the powerful Vice Chancellor, and to squeeze.  The pressure was not great, but it was enough to hold the chest tight and make it hard to breath in. He held it for a few seconds, just enough time for Tutna to gasp once for breath, before he released it.  Even that tiny demonstration had drained him of power, but the Vice Chancellor didn¡¯t know that.

    ¡°A true Supran,¡± said Tutna in surprise, waving his bodyguards back even as they stepped forward to attack Artifex.  ¡°What a rarity.¡±

    For his part, Artifex waved back his own templars as they reached for their guns.  They relaxed, probably not even realizing that their weapons wouldn¡¯t do anything to a true TANC, if they were anything like what he remembered.

    Artifex declined to stay for dinner, loathe to spend time with the corrupt official now that business was concluded.  Instead, he and his templars took their leave, heading back down the station to the industrial ring and his own facilities.  The hour was growing late, the ¡®night¡¯ side of the station cycle beginning as the corridor lights dimmed to make a pseudo-twilight.  It was still bright enough to see, but dark enough to know that it was night time.

    When they reached their ring, however, the streets were practically deserted.  One lone person saw them, and immediately turned and ran. Artifex walked forward, his guards around him, confused.

    ¡°Something is wrong,¡± he said.

    Ahead of them, in the corridor, a dozen men stepped out of doorways on both sides of the corridor.  Behind them, another half dozen stepped out from a side hallway. All wore loud, colorful clothes except one.  He stood in the middle of the larger group, dressed much like most station inhabitants did - a thinsuit with a jacket.  He was also unarmed. The rest of the men carried knives and pistols, a few carrying bats.

    ¡°Captain Valerius,¡± the man said. ¡°You attacked my son.¡±

 NEW RELEASE: Defier of Fate

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    When Fate itself failed to kill him, even the gods should fear.

    Taliesin knows all about apocalyptic wars. He was supposed to die in one so his people could escape, but wound up lost in the Void beyond time and space - but not beyond Fate. He¡¯s no longer an ordinary wizard - he¡¯s seen the building blocks of the universe and understood them- the Akashic Records - the very thing that brings life to gods and powers to mankind.

    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    Yet the Void could not hold him. Drawn into a new world facing its ragnarok, Taliesin will defy Fate and keep its people safe. With only his wits and scraps of his former power, he must build more strength, make allies, and carve a new path before the Twilight of the Gods consumes the world.

    Taliesin refuses to kneel before any god¡ªnor will he watch another world burn, no matter its Fate.

    A Strong to Stronger Progression Fantasy featuring an archmage that will surpass the very limits of magic.

    Book 1 is completely written, working on book 2 now!

    https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/109076/defier-of-fate</a>

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    Please check it out, and I hope you enjoy!

    -- JP Koenig

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