Under the twilight sky awash in a stunning display of gold and indigo, Marcus’s new planet stretched out before him. In the distance, a small metropolis of monolithic steel buildings and soaring towers glinted in the light of the setting sun. He stood on a podium at the head of a great, metallic amphitheater, looking down on a field peppered with organised battalions of clone soldiers eagerly awaiting to hear his words.

  Line by line, row by row, square by square, all in perfect formation, they watched him. From here, they looked like a faceless mass. Around the inner rim of the amphitheater stood poles bearing the black and white banners of Neptura, whipping in the wind.

  Behind him, his high officials stood, each five meters apart from one another. Further behind them, his squadron of clone honour guards.

  Beyond the amphitheater the endless, rolling golden planes of the new colony stretched. The planet had been christened “The Creator’s World” at Marcus’s own insistence. My world. My new planet.

  There had been a council meeting about it, with several other names suggested, such as ‘Neptura Primus’ and ‘Vespera Nova.’ But Marcus chose The Creator’s World. It signified his personal grasp over Neptura and how the clone army owed their loyalty to him personally, not Neptura. Loyalty to Neptura could be interpreted in other, more dangerous ways, as Valen’s rebellious inclinations had shown him. As far as they were concerned, Marcus’s and Neptura’s goals were the same. Loyalty to Marcus meant loyalty to Neptura by proxy, just how he liked it.

  That, and it made Marcus feel powerful. Who else could say they had a whole planet named after them? It gave him an ecstatic rush as he pictured it. A whole planet of untapped wonders, all for him. A grin crept upon his lips every time he thought about it.

  Marcus ascended to a raised dais, wearing a humble, signature black tunic with a little insignia and trousers. He didn’t need to be glittering with medals and honours for them to know his station. His own aura spoke of that perfectly. Over the tunic, his sleek black high collared overcoat, padded with carbon fibre plating, flapped in the breeze.

  He brought his lips a touch closer to a small spherical microphone, the size of an apple, that floated before him. “Today, we stand at the very threshold of our destiny,” he declared proudly. “This is not merely a new home but the rebirth of the collective spirit of humanity, the culmination of our relentless struggle and the promise of a future we have fought so hard to create. Here, on this sacred ground, we claim our place among the stars, and we honour the vision that brought us here.”

  His eyes swept over the assembled, motionless crowd. “Let it be known,” he continued as his voice rose with triumphant fervour, “that from the ashes of our past, we have built a sanctuary for humanity. The Creator’s World will be a testament to our will, vision, and the divine spark that guides us on our journey back to the sacred homeworld of Vespera!”

  “Glory to Neptura!” The single, thunderous roar erupted from the ranks of the tens of thousands of clone soldiers before him. Marcus’s gaze over the chanting army betrayed a flash of self-adulation. A glint of megalomania born of his newfound power.

  The ceremony continued with brief, solemn words from his high officials, but it was the Grand Archon’s words that lingered in the cool evening air that day, etching themselves into the memory of the soldiers present. As the crowd began to disperse out of the amphitheater, Marcus knew his words that day would be whispered in every conversation between the colonists in the coming weeks. The rallying cry that promised both unity and the inevitable, transformative conflict, which loomed on the horizon.

  After the speech and splendor, the high officials retreated into the reception hall of the administrative capital of the new colony world. It stretched high above the city, its vast windows overlooking the glittering streets and towering, bland steel structures below. The ceremony had ended. The colony was no longer a mere outpost, it was not the heart of a new frontier. The first true step toward Neptura’s ultimate vision.

  He stood by one such window, drink in hand, gazing over his new city. The cheers of the assembled clone battalions had long since faded, but their voices still echoed in his mind. His voice, a thousand times over. They worship me. The thought was intoxicating and sent a shiver across his skin. The way they chanted for him, how they saluted with perfect discipline. No king, emperor, or president back on Earth had ever commanded such loyalty.

  The doors behind him slid open. Ironsides entered first, his white uniform pristine as though he had just slipped it on. Claric followed quietly, dressed in a casual grey tunic and trousers befitting a civilian. His curious gaze flickered over the opulent hall, decorated with tapestries and polished oak furniture. Neither bowed or saluted, for in private Marcus allowed them the illusion of informality.

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  “You’ve done well, your excellency,” Ironsides said, stepping toward the long table at the room's center, on top of which a selection of imported Nepturan liquor gleamed in decorated crystalline flasks. He poured himself a glass, swirling the deep amber liquid before taking a slow sip. “The colony’s foundation is secure. The people believe in it.”

  “The people believe in me,” Marus corrected his minister, turning from the window. “And they’ll believe what I tell them, isn’t that the point?”

  Ironsides nodded, setting his glass down with a faint clink. “It is indeed, your excellency. But belief alone may not hold them together forever.” He met Marcus’s gaze, ever cautious. “Certain political factions are forming on Neptura.”

  Marcus smirked, stepping toward the table to fill up his glass. “Naturally. Give men a world, and they’ll soon start fighting over who gets to rule it. If only to keep lesser minds from doing it first.”

  Ironsides leaned forward, hands resting on the polished steel. “Two factions are rising quickly. With how things are going, I doubt they’ll remain mere ideological circles for long.” He listed them off with a calm voice, like a briefing.

  “The Human Defence League, started by none other than the former War Minister, Valen.” The name hung in the air…

  So that’s what he’s been up to, huh? Marcus frowned. “What of it?”

  “They see Neptura as the final bastion of humanity and believe that, if we are to retake Vespera, we must keep humanity pure, untainted by alien influence in our cultural and political life. They fear the infiltration of xeno elements in Neptura so much that their more extreme members believe we should actively purge any xeno life we can before it becomes a threat.”

  “Okay…” Marcus said, brooding. He remembered Varn’s words about purging the primitive Xaelith on Sarrith 4, now wondering if he too was an influential member in this faction. And if he is, that means this faction now has influence in the government… “And the next?” he asked.

  “The Vanguard of the Creator, they call themselves,” Ironsides said with slight optimism. “As everything in the universe has an equal and opposite reaction, this faction appears to have been gaining traction to combat the purists. A militaristic faction, with some fanatics at the higher echelons who believe in you, not just as a leader but something more. They claim you are divinely chosen, that only you can lead humanity back to Vespera and cleanse it of the technocrats.”

  Marcus chuckled, a smile crawling on his lips. “It seems the faction we must support is obvious.”

  “It’s dangerous,” Ironsides said, taking a step forward. “A man may guide a movement, but when a movement starts to guide a man…” The First Minister let the words linger. “You could risk being nothing more than a puppet, a figurehead while they steer the wheels of fate from the shadows.”

  Marcus leaned against the table, rolling the glass between his fingers. “Would it really come to that? If I am their god, they will obey me. And I’ll make sure they know the consequences if they don’t.”

  The First Minister pressed his lips. “I worry that if they see only themselves as your true followers, they could stop answering to the state, to me. They may warp your image and answer only to what they believe you should be. Not what you are.”

  Marcus considered that, gazing at the floor for a moment as the silence lingered, then shrugged. “I think you're blowing that out of proportion, Ironsides. They could only puppeteer me if I allowed it, and I will not. Let them believe what they want if it makes them work and fight harder. What’s the harm?”

  Ironsides frowned but said nothing.

  Claric, who had been unusually quiet until now, let out a small breath. “Forgive me, your excellency.” He adjusted his cuffs. “But neither of these factions impress me. The future cannot be won through purity or force alone, but through knowledge.”

  Marcus looked at the scientist, raising a brow. “Meaning?”

  Claric sipped his drink. “I believe this empire can be guided by something greater than military fervour or purity. Science, progress, and philosophy should guide our path. Not dogma.” He swirled his glass, looking into the depths of the little whirlpool he had created.

  Ironsides shot him a harsh glare. “Do not make it so that we must worry about three factions rather than two. Factionalism will tear this government apart, Claric. You are not of the leadership caste, and you forget your place due to the Grand Archon’s favour.”

  The scientist merely raised his arms, smiling. “Just something to consider.”

  Marcus drank deep, savouring the burn in his throat. “Factions can be useful, so long as they know their place. I welcome all ideas, Ironsides, regardless of whom they come from. Elitism has led to the decay of just as many empires as factionalism.” The Grand Archon turned back to the window, watching the city lights pulse in the darkness.

  “After all, a ruler’s greatest weapon isn’t his army,” Marcus murmured. “It’s his ability to make men fight for different reasons and still serve the same cause.”