Jarek leaned against the tower window, watching Redstone's factories churn out machines at a pace he'd never imagined. The Steelborn had unlocked something fierce—freed from frail bodies, their minds and hands worked without limit. In just a year, they'd gone from a single ship to plans for one that could carry ten thousand. Their smarts, sharper than any human's, had been held back by short lives. Now, with steel and time, they were unstoppable.
The tech boom wasn't slowing down. What took humans centuries, the Steelborn could crack in decades—or less. Jarek figured a hundred years of this would just be the start. A thousand, ten thousand? They'd be gods of metal and wire by then.
The first ship—a thousand strong—had already left Redstone, cutting through the void toward Ironreach. It was a cold, dead rock, painted red with rust and ice, locked at minus sixty degrees. No water flowed, no air worth breathing hung around it—just a thin whisper of gas. But the Steelborn didn't care. Probes had found frozen water locked in the soil and thick ice caps at the poles, a mix of water and dry ice. For flesh, it was a graveyard. For machines, it was home.
Landing was tricky with the thin air, but the Steelborn's brains made it simple. They rigged the ship with thrusters and stabilizers, touching down smooth as stone on water. When the ramp dropped, Jarek got the message: Ironreach was theirs. Redstone's first colony. A jump from a single world to a starfaring people, like fish hauling themselves onto dry land.
The Forge System pinged in his head:
"First colony established. World Strength raised by 500. Tech reward: Pulse Cannons unlocked."
Jarek grinned. Pulse Cannons weren't just guns—they were shredders. Using magnetic bursts, they could rip a target apart, atom by atom. One shot, and a tank—or a man—would vanish into dust. It wasn't ready yet, just a blueprint, but the Steelborn would build it. Jarek had taken to calling them "Ribs" lately—their exposed metal frames looked like spare ribs on a plate. With endless time, they'd arm up soon enough.
Ironreach buzzed with activity. The Ribs hauled ore, built domes, and tapped the ice for fuel. Jarek's empire was growing, and he felt it in his bones—or circuits, now. He flicked on the rulers' chat, curious about the others.
"—being a lord's the best. Servants, food, no work," one bragged.
"Enjoy it while it lasts. The Star League's coming for you," another warned.
"Wait, 'coming'? You're one of them now?"
"Not 'one of them.' Loyal. Their ship found me six months back. I surrendered."
"So, what, you're still a lord?"
"Uh… not exactly. House arrest. I've got 3,000 pages of their holy book to memorize before I'm free."
"Prisoner, then?"
"Shut it. It's not prison—it's faith. Praise the League!"
Jarek snorted. The Star League sounded pushy, shoving their rules on anyone they caught. More chatter rolled in:
"—I'd fight them. My Titan walkers could take their ships."
"Blasphemy!"
"You too? Don't tell me you're bowing already."
"Not yet, but I'm close to their turf. Their fleets are moving again—the Void Storms are calming. They'll find me soon. Might as well practice the chants now."
Void Storms. Jarek frowned. The Steelborn had scraps of info on that—some wild energy space called the Void, tied to weird powers and fast travel. They hadn't dug deep; the old Dustwalkers thought it was dangerous, full of things better left alone. Jarek didn't care much for superstition, but if the Star League used it, he'd need to know more.
He turned from the screen. Ironreach's red glow flickered through the window, a new dot in his growing map. The Ribs didn't need sleep or warmth—just purpose. And he'd give it to them. "Next ship," he muttered. "Bigger. Faster. We're not stopping here."
The Steelborn were ready. The galaxy wouldn't wait, and neither would he.