Eight years into the Forge Era, the Steelborn unveiled something wild. In a lab deep under Redstone's crust, a team of Ribs—their circuits practically buzzing—rolled out the first non-inertial drive engine. Jarek could tell they were thrilled, even if their metal faces stayed blank. The way their core signals spiked told him everything: this was big.
He got why. The engine was rough—glitchy, prone to stalling—but it was a game-changer. It bent physics, shrugging off inertia like it was nothing. If they nailed it, Steelborn ships wouldn't just crawl—they'd leap past light itself. Interstellar travel, real star-to-star stuff, was in reach.
Before, crossing the Redstone system was a slog—twelve years to Coldspire at old speeds. Eight years of Ribs' tinkering had slashed that to under a month, a hundred-fifty times faster. Impressive, sure, but the galaxy laughed at it. Coldspire was 8.6 billion kilometers out—eight hours for light. The nearest system, Crestfall, sat ten light-years away. At current pace, that was eight hundred years. The Steelborn weren't even toddlers in space—they were barely wiggling. This engine could make them run.
"My lord," a Rib scientist said, voice steady but core humming double-time, "this breaks the inertia lock. Superlight travel's possible." It knelt, offering a data stick packed with test logs, hands rock-solid despite the overload in its head.
Jarek took it, nodding. Faster than light—physics said no, but the Ribs said yes. If they cracked this, Crestfall wouldn't be a dream—it'd be next door. "Push it," he ordered. "Every Rib on it. I want us out of this system."
By Year Eleven of the Forge Era, they did it. The first Steelborn ship with a non-inertial drive hummed to life, acing every test. Jarek was prepping a scout run to Crestfall when the Ribs flagged something odd. "Lord," one reported, "we've got unstable readings—outer edge, Void-related."
Three days later, it hit. A rift tore open at the system's rim, spitting out dozens of warships. Jarek braced—Star League, maybe? But the hulls didn't match. No human sigils, just sharp, pale crests glowing on their sides. No hello, no warning—they opened fire, hammering a fringe asteroid colony with orbital blasts.
Jarek watched the feed, eyes narrow. The rock had no shields, just a few mining rigs and laser turrets. It folded in an hour, slagged to rubble. Then the ships stopped, pivoting to blast a signal across the system—loud, electromagnetic, demanding attention. The Ribs cracked the language in two hours flat.
The message rolled in:
"We are the Pale Crest Empire's fleet. Surrender by dawn, aliens, or our guns will burn every world you've got. You saw us crush your base in an hour—your strength's nothing to us."
Jarek snorted. First contact, and they came swinging. He'd expected aliens eventually—the galaxy wasn't empty—but this was bold. The Pale Crest had crossed stars to pick a fight, so their tech and grit weren't soft. Still, they'd misread the board. That asteroid? A dime-a-dozen ore hauler, not a base. A handful of lasers didn't make it a fortress.
He leaned back, steel fingers drumming. The Ribs were already pinging him—shipyards on alert, Pulse Cannons charging. The Pale Crest wanted to flex, but they'd kicked a hive. "Let's show 'em what we've got," he said. The Steelborn didn't bend—they broke things. This was their turf, and no one was taking it cheap.