“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

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.

“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.

“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.

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.”