The command room had settled back into its familiar rhythm.

  Low engine hum. Occasional status chimes. The soft vibration of a machine that was alive but not moving. Outside the narrow arrow slits, the flat Wild Lands stretched out in muted browns and grays, broken by the hulking shapes of the Ol’ Five Seven, the crippled turret fort, and the captured TPC parked like an afterthought that had become a problem.

  Grump sat at the command table with a slate in front of him, though he wasn’t looking at it. He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Otwin stood near the forward slit, arms folded, watching the horizon more out of habit than expectation.

  “So,” Grump said at last. “Here’s what I learned from the officers of the turret fort about what the Hegemony is up to.”

  Otwin didn’t turn. “They just volunteered the information?”

  Grump snorted. “Well. I had to have Humbert bounce them off the walls for a bit.”

  Otwin’s mouth twitched. “Typical.”

  Grump rolled his shoulders and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table now. “It wasn’t hard to get them talking. They weren’t fanatics. Just officers who’d believed their own propaganda long enough to think they were untouchable.”

  Otwin glanced back over his shoulder. “And.”

  “And,” Grump continued, “it wasn’t a private build like we first thought. Not really. That turret fort is straight Hegemony military. Official pattern. Stripped down, but standard.”

  Otwin turned fully now. “Meaning.”

  “Meaning it’s about on par with the Ol’ Five Seven,” Grump said. “Iron to low Bronze overall. Decent engineering. Solid construction. Nothing fancy.”

  Otwin frowned. “Then it’s no match for an Imperial military Steam Fort.”

  “No,” Grump agreed. “Not even close. Against a Peel Tower or a proper line fort, that thing would get dismantled.”

  Otwin stared back out the slit, jaw tightening. “If that’s what the Hegemony military can field, they’d be in serious trouble if another war kicked off.”

  Grump nodded slowly. “That’s what I thought too.”

  He tapped the table once, sharp and deliberate. “But that’s the wrong way to look at it.”

  Otwin turned back. “Go on.”

  “The Hegemony’s changed how they’re thinking,” Grump said. “They aren’t trying to keep up with Imperial steam or magi-tech anymore. They know they can’t win that race.”

  Otwin’s expression darkened. “So what are they doing?”

  “They’re mass producing.”

  The words hung in the air.

  Grump continued. “Cheap hulls. Simplified systems. Fewer lift stones. Less redundancy. Forts like that turret aren’t meant to survive stand-up fights with Imperial forces. They’re meant to overwhelm with numbers.”

  Otwin felt a slow chill crawl up his spine. “How many?”

  “According to the officers,” Grump said, “that fort is one of about thirty currently operating in Imperial territory or the Wild Lands.”

  Otwin stared at him. “Thirty.”

  “Minimum,” Grump replied. “They’re all built to the same standard. Same hull pattern. Same simplified systems. The turret fort we took is the template. That’s the point. Standardization. Saturation.”

  Otwin exhaled slowly. “I’m surprised we haven’t run into another already.”

  “So were they,” Grump said. “They assumed the Empire’s patrol coverage was thinner than it is. Or that most civilian forts would fold or pay tribute before anyone fought back.”

  Otwin thought of the STVs, the ambushes, the way the turret fort had committed without hesitation. “They’re raiding, not conquering.”

  “Exactly,” Grump said. “Bleeding the edges. Stripping salvage. Hitting trade. Forcing the Empire to spread itself thinner responding to small fires everywhere instead of one big front.”

  Otwin’s fingers tightened where they rested against the bulkhead. “That’s bad.”

  “Very,” Grump agreed. “And it explains why the Empire pays so well for captured forts. They want proof. Patterns. Logistics.”

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  Otwin turned away from the window. “We need to get out of here as soon as it’s mobile.”

  Grump nodded immediately. “My thoughts exactly.”

  He gestured vaguely toward the turret fort outside. “The longer we sit, the more likely we are to attract another one of these things. Or something worse.”

  “And if we run into another before repairs are finished,” Otwin said, “we won’t get lucky twice.”

  Grump gave a thin smile. “Luck’s already spent.”

  They fell quiet again, the weight of the information settling in. The Ol’ Five Seven hummed softly around them, unaware of the strategic implications of what it had just captured.

  Otwin broke the silence. “Did they say where the others are operating?”

  “Broad zones,” Grump replied. “Trade routes. Ley intersections. Anywhere traffic can’t easily avoid. Nothing precise.”

  Otwin nodded. “Then we treat every open stretch like it’s hostile.”

  “Already doing that,” Grump said. “I’ve doubled watch rotations and told the engineers to work in shifts. No one sleeps far from a weapon.”

  Otwin looked at him. “You sound like you’re expecting trouble.”

  Grump shrugged. “After today, I’d be stupid not to.”

  Otwin glanced toward the doorway, where distant voices and the clatter of tools drifted in. “Once we’re moving, we go straight back. No detours.”

  “Agreed,” Grump said. “Rafborough first. Bounty collected. Debts cleared.”

  “And then.”

  Grump’s smile returned, this one sharper. “Then we decide how much we want to be involved in whatever this turns into.”

  Otwin looked back out at the Wild Lands, suddenly seeing them not as empty, but crowded with unseen threats moving slowly and deliberately.

  “Let’s hope the Empire notices before it gets worse,” he said.

  Grump snorted. “They will.”

  He leaned back in his chair again. “The question is whether they notice the right things.”

  ***

  The work was slow, loud, and unforgiving.

  Getting the turret fort moving again was not about clever engineering or inspired fixes. It was about weight, leverage, and patience. The engines had taken hits, but nothing that could not be coaxed back into compliance. The real problem lay in the torn tread assembly, the broken links twisted and scattered like shed bones beneath the hull.

  They started by clearing space.

  Men with pry bars and cutters worked in pairs, hauling ruined tread segments away from the undercarriage and stacking them in grim, orderly piles. Others crawled beneath the fort, checking mounting points and bracing, tapping metal with practiced knuckles and listening for the dull notes that meant hidden cracks. Steam hissed intermittently as pressure was bled off and redirected. The air smelled of hot oil and scorched insulation.

  Otwin watched from the edge of the work zone, stripped of his armor and wrapped in a grease-stained jacket someone had shoved into his hands. Without the suit, he felt smaller, lighter, and oddly exposed. He made himself useful anyway, hauling, steadying, passing tools. No one argued. No one commented on the bruising or the stiffness in his movements.

  The replacement tread came from the turret fort itself.

  They had spares, as any military fort did. Heavy replacement links were hauled out from storage lockers and laid in place with methodical care. Even so, nothing fit perfectly after the damage it had taken. Some cannibalization was still required, rotating usable sections and redistributing stress so the rebuilt assembly would bear load evenly. It was not elegant. It was not optimal. It was enough.

  When the time came to lift the tread into place, everyone stepped back.

  Lift stones flared brighter beneath the turret fort, their glow deepening as the massive hull rose a fraction of a meter off the ground. Chains went taut. Winches screamed. The rebuilt tread swung up slowly, guided by shouted corrections and hand signals.

  “Easy,” someone called. “Easy.”

  Metal met metal.

  The tread seated with a heavy, resonant thunk that carried through the ground. Bolts were driven home. Locking pins slid into place. Bracing was tightened until arms shook and teeth clenched.

  Then they tested it.

  The turret fort’s engines spooled up cautiously, steam pressure rising in controlled increments. The rebuilt tread lurched once, then began to turn. Slow. Uneven. But turning.

  A cheer went up, brief and restrained.

  No one pretended this made them safe.

  They moved out within the hour.

  The turret fort rolled first, its pace deliberately slow, engines kept well below redline. A skeleton crew manned it now. The serfs who had surrendered were still aboard, watched closely, and given simple, essential tasks under supervision. No one trusted them. No one needed to.

  The Ol’ Five Seven followed, keeping close enough to intervene if something failed, far enough back to avoid becoming part of the same wreck if it did. The captured TPC brought up the rear, engines steady, its presence a constant reminder of how much attention they were now carrying with them.

  They took wide paths where the ground allowed it. They avoided shallow ravines and broken stone. Every stop was short. Every restart deliberate. Watches were doubled. Scouting STVs ranged ahead and to the flanks, never far enough to be isolated.

  The Wild Lands watched them pass without comment.

  By nightfall, they had covered more ground than anyone had expected. The turret fort held together, its rebuilt tread complaining but functioning. Steam consumption stayed within tolerances. The engines did not overheat. That alone felt like a minor miracle.

  They did not celebrate.

  They slept in shifts, boots on, weapons within arm’s reach. The forts idled low, lift stones dimmed to reduce signature. No one talked about what might be moving beyond the horizon.

  Morning came gray and cold.

  They were still moving.

  By midday, the terrain began to change. The ground smoothed out, old maintenance scars appearing under the dirt. Faded markers emerged at intervals, half-buried and worn. The faint glow beneath the surface strengthened.

  The Ley-Rail.

  When the turret fort’s treads finally rolled onto the rune-carved stone, the difference was immediate. Vibration smoothed. Power draw stabilized. The engines seemed to breathe easier, as if relieved to be back on something that wanted them to exist.

  Otwin stood on the Ol’ Five Seven’s deck and watched the glow intensify beneath both machines.

  They were back on the artery.

  Speed increased cautiously at first, then with growing confidence. The skeleton crew kept the turret fort steady, eyes glued to gauges and pressure readouts. The Ol’ Five Seven settled into escort position, guns tracking outward rather than forward now.

  Rafborough lay ahead.

  Not close. But closer than it had been a day ago.

  The decision to turn back no longer felt theoretical. It was happening, kilometer by kilometer, carried on steel and steam and the low, constant hum of the Ley-Rail beneath them.

  Otwin rested his hands on the railing and watched the land slide past.

  They were bringing in a prize.

  And prizes, he knew, always came with strings attached.