“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!

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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!”

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“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.

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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.”