“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

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.”

“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.”

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.