“They believe what?! I swear, the universe gets weirder every single day.”

SFR President Cotswald, when told about the Urthan Origin religion

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.”

“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.”

“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.”