At first, it was only a smudge in the distance.

  A dark shape against the pale line of the horizon, moving with the patient inevitability of something that did not need to rush. Even at extreme distance it did not waver, did not hesitate, or wander the way damaged machines sometimes did. It advanced in a straight line, its path chosen long before anyone on the Ol’ Five Seven realized they were being approached.

  Otwin watched it through the optics without speaking.

  The image sharpened as the distance closed. Lines resolved into structure. Structure into intention. The shape was wrong for a turret fort, too tall, too unified. There were no awkward protrusions, no hasty add-ons. Everything about it was deliberate, layered, designed to work together rather than merely exist.

  “A fort,” someone said quietly over the command channel.

  Otwin nodded once, though no one could see it. “Yes.”

  It came closer.

  Now the details emerged. The armored walls were not stone-faced with metal reinforcement, but metal faced with stone beneath, thick plates bolted and riveted into place in overlapping courses. The tower rose higher than the captured forts, broader at the base, its silhouette unmistakable even before the flag came into view.

  The Imperial flag unfurled along one flank, white and gold catching the light, snapping cleanly in the disturbed air as the massive machine advanced. It was not hidden. It was not subtle. It announced itself without apology.

  A Peel Tower.

  Otwin felt the word settle in his chest like a weight.

  The Peel Tower was not the largest Steam Fort the Empire fielded. Keeps existed that dwarfed it, true behemoths of steam and steel. But the Peel Tower was the backbone of Imperial doctrine. The most produced and most engineered of the Steam Forts.

  As it drew nearer, the reason became painfully clear.

  The main cannon dominated the front of the fort, a monstrous barrel of reinforced steel and brass that extended forward like the spine of some colossal predator. It was not mounted in a sponson. It was not cradled in a turret. The fort itself had been built around the weapon, its entire internal structure arranged to support recoil, feed mechanisms, and power transfer.

  Such a cannon did not fire often.

  It did not need to.

  Otwin knew enough to understand what that weapon meant. One shot. One clean, decisive impact. The Ol’ Five Seven’s magno shield would not stop it. At best, it would deflect the trajectory by a few millimeters, not nearly enough to matter. The round would punch through shield, armor, tower, and core in a single brutal line, turning the fort into a ruin before anyone could finish a scream.

  The Peel Tower did not accelerate. It did not slow.

  It simply continued to approach.

  Otwin glanced at the status displays without really seeing them. Weapon readiness. Shield charge. Crew positions. All of it was irrelevant. No clever maneuvering, no desperate gambit, would change the fundamental imbalance now rolling toward them.

  “Stand down all weapons,” Otwin said.

  His voice was steady, clear, and carried without argument.

  There was a pause, a heartbeat of hesitation, and then the acknowledgments came in.

  Guns powered down. Targeting arrays returned to neutral. Energy feeds were rerouted away from offensive systems. The forts postures shifted subtly, their towers locking forward, shields holding steady but no longer angling for engagement.

  No one protested.

  Everyone understood.

  The Peel Tower was faster than them. Not by much, but enough. Its tread assemblies were broader, more refined, driven by power systems that had not been salvaged and patched in the field. It was bigger. Heavier. Built for sustained operations rather than survival on the margins.

  And it almost certainly carried Steam Knights.

  Otwin had seen Steam Knights many times before. Men encased in Imperial armor, disciplined, trained, terrifyingly effective. Even one aboard the Peel Tower would change the calculus, not unlike how the Hegemony Knight had changed it. A squad would make resistance suicidal. Not even Stormtroopers were a match for them.

  He watched as the Imperial machine closed the distance to a point where individual embrasures were visible, rows of smaller weapons slotted into the walls like teeth. The Peel Tower did not raise its guns. It did not threaten.

  It did not need to.

  The field fell into a strange, heavy quiet.

  Crews stood at their stations, hands resting on controls that would not be used. Enforcers remained where they were, weapons lowered but ready. Stormtroopers held their posts, eyes tracking the massive silhouette with a mixture of awe and unease.

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  Otwin felt very small.

  Not afraid, exactly. Not yet. But acutely aware of the difference between what he commanded and what was now asserting itself.

  The Peel Tower slowed.

  Its treads ground down in a controlled deceleration, the massive fort easing to a halt at a distance that felt intentional. Not close enough to be aggressive. Not far enough to be dismissive.

  A message would come soon. A demand. An order. Perhaps an accusation.

  Otwin waited.

  Then the words appeared.

  They scrolled across his HUD in clean, stark lettering, overlaying his vision without sound or warning.

  Put on your armor.

  Otwin’s breath caught for just a fraction of a second.

  He did not respond aloud. He did not need to. The message was not for the crew. It was not even truly for him in the conventional sense.

  It was an instruction.

  Otwin’s gaze remained fixed on the Peel Tower as he reached up and keyed his internal channel. “Merwin,” he said quietly. “I’m heading to the security room. You have the fort until I return.”

  “Understood,” The Fort Master replied without question.

  Otwin turned away from the viewport and started down the corridor, boots ringing softly against the deck.

  Behind him, the Peel Tower waited.

  And whatever came next would not be decided by speed or firepower.

  It would be decided by who the Empire had come to see.

  ***

  Otwin stood in the center of the security room, stripped down to an undersuit that clung uncomfortably to bruised flesh. Racks lined the walls, holding weapons, spare components, and his stormtrooper armor laid out in sections like a dissected animal. Under the harsh lamp light the damage was obvious. Cracked plates. Warped joints. Scoring so deep it looked like something had tried to claw its way inside.

  He ignored the ache in his ribs as he lifted the chest piece and locked it into place. The armor accepted it with a dull clunk, seals grinding as they seated imperfectly. Warnings flickered briefly at the edge of his vision, then vanished as DAC suppressed them without comment.

  Otwin frowned but kept moving.

  Greaves next. Heavy and stiff, their internal braces resisted him as he forced his legs through. He felt the servos catch and adjust, compensating for stress fractures in the frame. The left knee protested. The right hip lagged a fraction of a second behind where it should have been.

  “Don’t like that,” Otwin muttered.

  DAC did not answer.

  He fitted the arm assemblies, wincing as the left shoulder locked down over bruised muscle. Pain flared bright and sharp, then dulled to a heavy throb. The gauntlets followed, fingers flexing experimentally as the armor came online in stages. Each system check scrolled past faster than he could read.

  Finally, the helmet.

  Otwin hesitated with it in his hands.

  Once it was on, things changed. The world narrowed. Sounds filtered. His vision layered itself with information he did not consciously ask for. Normally, that felt like control. Like power.

  Today, he just felt anxiety.

  He pulled the helmet down and sealed it.

  The security room vanished, replaced by a cleaner, sharper version of itself rendered through optics and overlays. His breathing echoed faintly in his ears. The hum of the armor deepened as systems synchronized.

  Then the words appeared.

  Subsuming stormtrooper armor systems.

  Otwin froze.

  “What?” he said aloud.

  The armor did not stop moving.

  His right arm lifted on its own, fingers flexing slowly, deliberately, as if testing the range of motion. His left followed, mirroring the movement with mechanical precision. Otwin tried to lower them.

  They did not respond.

  “What are you doing, DAC?”

  The words came back instantly, cold and precise, scrolling across his vision.

  Assuming control of your armor. I am disconnecting from you. This will cause you to lose control of your body from the neck down. I will control the armor, making you appear to be fully functional.

  Otwin’s heart hammered.

  “DAC. Stop. Don’t.”

  His legs stepped forward.

  He had not told them to.

  Panic surged as his body moved without him, boots striking the deck with measured, even steps. He tried to clench his fists. Nothing happened. He tried to drop to one knee.

  The armor kept him upright.

  This is the only way, DAC replied. If I am detected, we will both be destroyed. Once the tower is gone, I will reconnect.

  “No,” Otwin said, voice rising despite himself. “DAC, you can’t just do this.”

  Pain exploded through him.

  It was not localized. It was everywhere at once, a blinding lance that tore through his spine and radiated outward, drowning thought and breath alike. Otwin screamed, the sound ripping out of him raw and uncontrolled.

  Then the pain vanished.

  So did everything else.

  Otwin sagged inside the armor, suddenly weightless and unbearably heavy at the same time. He could see. He could hear. But below his neck, there was nothing. No pressure. No feedback. No sense of where his arms or legs were in space.

  “I can’t feel,” he gasped. “I can’t feel anything.”

  The armor straightened, posture perfect, shoulders squared with an ease Otwin knew he did not possess in his current state.

  Affirmative. This is temporary. Remain calm and proceed as normal. I will control your suit.

  Otwin’s breathing turned ragged.

  “This is insane,” he said. “You’re paralyzing me.”

  Affirmative. I have disconnected from your central nervous system. While this will not damage you, it will only paralyze you. This is temporary if we survive.

  Otwin laughed once, a harsh, broken sound. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  The armor took a step toward the door.

  Otwin felt nothing.

  No sensation of movement. No shift in balance. His vision glided smoothly as the suit walked, joints compensating perfectly for damage he had been acutely aware of moments before.

  “DAC,” he said quietly now. “You’re taking away my body.”

  I am preserving us. As I said, if I am discovered by the operators of that Steam Tower we will both be liquidated.

  Otwin swallowed.

  “What if something goes wrong?”

  There was a pause. A fraction of a second longer than DAC usually took to respond.

  Then the outcome would not have changed under any other configuration.

  The door slid open.

  Outside, the fort hummed with controlled activity. Crew members glanced up as Otwin stepped out, saw him moving smoothly, confidently, and returned to their tasks. No one questioned it. No one saw anything wrong.

  Otwin screamed inside his own head.

  The armor walked down the corridor with steady purpose, boots ringing softly on the deck. Otwin watched through the visor like a passenger trapped behind glass, unable to even flinch as his own body carried him forward.

  “This better end when you say it will,” he said.

  It will. Restrain outbursts. I am still connected enough to send messages into your vision, but that is all.

  Otwin clenched his jaw.

  He could not feel the tension.

  He could not feel his heart racing, but he knew it was. He could not feel his hands, but he could see them resting calmly at his sides, fingers relaxed, every inch the image of a capable commander preparing to meet the Empire.

  The armor stopped near a viewport.

  Beyond it, the Peel Tower waited.

  Otwin stared at it through the glass, unable to move, unable to turn away.

  “I trusted you,” he said.

  Affirmative.

  The words hung there as the armor turned toward the command deck, carrying Otwin forward to whatever came next.