It has to start somewhere,

It has to start sometime.

What better place than here,

What better time than now?

- Ancient Ballad, Unknown Artist

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.

“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?”