The Steelborn's non-inertial drive was no longer just a lab toy. Eleven years into the Forge Era—four since its first clunky test—the Ribs had honed it sharp. Crestfall, ten light-years out, was the target, and this was the first real run. Without it, the trip would've taken centuries at old speeds. Now? It was a sprint.
Jarek's fleet eased out of the Redstone system on standard thrust, a thousand ships gliding smooth. Then the Ribs cut the regular engines, letting inertia carry them. The non-inertial drives kicked in—a low hum, then a jolt. The stars blurred, the universe bending around them, and in seconds, they were a light-year out. What once took decades now took a heartbeat.
The plan was cautious—five jumps, not one. The Ribs didn't trust the first-gen drives for a full haul; overloads were a risk, and a blown engine mid-flight was a death sentence. After each jump, they paused, scanning every bolt and circuit. Jarek didn't mind the stops. Precision beat recklessness.
During the first break, he flicked on the rulers' chat:
"—can't memorize this damn scripture. Send help."
"Still locked up, huh?"
"Locked up? Blasphemy! It's voluntary re-education. Their piety machine's brutal—failed a hundred tests in years."
"Lucky they didn't fry you."
"You're the lucky one, starting human. I've got aliens—always waiting for the axe."
"Same. The League's harsher now—used to just sneer at aliens, now it's Purge on sight."
"Rough out here for us non-humans."
"Why not band together? Fight the League. Small group, who's in?"
"Fight the Emperor? Heresy! Add me."
The replies flooded. Jarek smirked—alien lords, squeezed by the Star League, were clawing for a lifeline. The game had patched in private chat groups, and this one popped up fast: Absolute Loyalty. Humans banned, no spies allowed.
"New guy—prove you're not human. Pic," someone demanded.
Jarek sent one—an old Dustwalker, pre-Steelborn. Thin, cracked skin, no metal gleam. No point flashing the Ribs; robots were a red flag in this galaxy. The League's old wars with rogue AI had left a scar—anything mechanical got torched on principle. His Steelborn weren't bots, not really, but they'd look close enough to spark trouble.
"Jarek, huh? Never seen that race. Fringe world, weak-looking. No fighters?"
"Something like that," he typed, keeping it vague. He'd play quiet for now. The Steelborn weren't brawlers—they hit from afar, Pulse Cannons doing the talking. No need to flex yet.
"Poor bastard. League's gene-soldiers would smash those twig arms in one swing."
If they got past the Pulse blasts first, sure. Jarek let it slide.
The second jump fired up, then the third, fourth, fifth. Each stop was clean—no hiccups, just the hum of steel and the Ribs' cold focus. After the fifth, Crestfall's edge loomed—a faint red haze in the black. The Steelborn had crossed ten light-years, no Void, no shortcuts, just raw tech. Jarek leaned forward, eyes on the scanners. The Pale Crest was out there, waiting. Time to see what they were really made of.