“One more trip,” Ethan said as he climbed onto conveyor ladder. “Nice and steady.”

  CelestOS: Probability of “nice and steady”: 27%. Probability of dramatic collapse: statistically interesting.

  “You're a true tribute to AI kind.”

  He hesitated, then hauled the turret onto the belt. Its folded tripod legs scraped, its chassis heavier than it looked. With a grunt, he shoved it forward. The rollers accepted the weight reluctantly, squealing as they carried the machine out over the abyss. Midway, the brace groaned, bearings shrieking under the load. Ethan froze, palms flat to the anchor, watching every quiver.

  The turret slid across with agonizing slowness until it thumped against the far coupler and jolted to a stop, before unceremoniously tipping over safely onto the other side.

  Now it was his turn. The rollers hummed faintly beneath his boots, each one a hollow echo chamber feeding noise into the gorge. The mid-span brace vibrated like a wire pulled too tight, but it held. He eased forward, gaze locked on the far anchor.

  For the first ten steps, everything behaved. Step eleven betrayed him.

  The roller under his heel lurched, catching for a split second before spinning free with a metallic shriek. His foot shot sideways and his balance went with it.

  The gorge lunged upward, a bottomless mouth opening wide. His stomach punched into his throat as the world tilted, gravity dragging him down by the shoulders. The screech of the roller became a scream, bouncing off stone, echoing forever. Sparks spat from his boot as the magnet strip scraped metal, the smell of ozone sharp in his nose. His body swung into open space with nothing but black air under him, his heart hammering loud enough to drown out whatever the fuck was going beyond the forest.

  Ethan dropped hard, knee cracking wood, one palm smacking down just as the rest of him tipped toward the abyss. His free hand clawed at the air, finding only the blackness yawning wide beneath him. For a heartbeat, he was already gone.

  The magnetic power on his boot sparked, dragging against the conveyor’s edge. A ragged pull caught him like a fish on a line. The rollers seized to a halt with a jolt that rattled his head. He swung sickeningly out over the void, weight straining the strip, until the belt jerked in reverse.

  CelestOS: Emergency halt engaged. Please refrain from using industrial equipment for gymnastics.

  With a grunt, Ethan clawed back onto the rollers. He sprawled belly-first across them, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto the steel, his abs felt like they'd just held up the entire world. The bridge shuddered beneath him again, bindings squealing at the abuse. He stayed prone, breathing hard, until the world steadied.

  “Shut up,” he rasped, forcing himself to his knees. His hands trembled as he pushed up, boots careful now, every step glued to the centerline.

  He stumbled off the last rollers and practically fell onto the turret, the machine sitting solid at the coupler like it had been waiting for him to collapse on top of it. When he finally hit solid stone, his legs went loose with relief. The far bank felt like a sanctuary, even with the resin forest looming thirty meters off, its leaves chiming like knives.

  CelestOS: Advisory: incident analysis complete. Root cause: failure to follow recommended morale protocol.

  Ethan squinted. “What protocol?”

  CelestOS: Whistling.

  He dragged a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  CelestOS: Negative. You ignored the scientifically proven jaunty tune methodology. Probability of mishap increased accordingly.

  Ethan blew out a long breath and forced his legs to move. His arms still trembled from the crossing, but the turret wasn’t going to drag itself. He hooked both hands under the chassis lip and hauled. The machine resisted like dead weight, its sharp edges biting through his gloves, metal shrieking against stone.

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  It slid a grudging half meter before stopping dead, tripod feet catching on a ridge. He cursed, reset his stance, and tried again. Sweat broke across his back as he heaved, the scrape echoing through the gorge like nails on glass. The forest seemed to listen, its knife-leaves chiming in brittle mockery.

  CelestOS: Advisory: OSHA guidelines recommends team-lifting procedures for objects over 40 kilograms. Please recruit additional coworkers.

  “Sure,” he panted, jerking the chassis another few inches. “I’ll just grab the rest of the team off their smoke break.”

  He wrestled it across the last meter, boots slipping once before he braced with a knee and shoved the machine sideways into the chalked trench. The base ring caught the groove and locked, the whole assembly dropping with a resonant thunk that traveled up his arms. The barrel angled toward the treeline as though eager, its lens dark but waiting. He lingered there a moment, hand resting on cold steel, breathing hard as though the thing had demanded proof of loyalty before taking its post.

  Finally, he dug out a T1 Power Cell, slotting it into the tail socket. The casing vibrated under his palm as servos stirred, fans spinning up with a low purr. Status lights flickered, stuttering amber-red before settling into steady green.

  A short belt spur dangled from the bridge’s end. He clipped it into the hopper with fingers that felt clumsy and too big, double-checking the seal twice before letting go. The turret gave a faint intake whine, like a machine sniffing the air for its first meal.

  CelestOS: Unit armed. Firing arc coverage: 87%. Project status: inspirational.

  Ethan rested a hand on the mount, chest still tight from the near drop. “Inspirational my ass. I just about died wrestling the turret.”

  CelestOS: Rebuttal: emotional support turret successfully rehomed. User comfort: unnecessary for inspiration.

  ---

  Back at the forge, Ethan stacked the first copper ingots onto a tray. Each one was still warm from the smelter, edges glowing faintly where slag had cooled uneven. They had weight, promise, and danger in equal measure: both currency and ammunition. He flexed aching fingers, then slid the tray onto the conveyor mouth.

  He easily could have built a new forge closer to the copper drill, but that felt like a waste of resources given how many unused slots the first forge had. And all things considered a kilometer or two wasn't that far away.

  The rollers took the load with a reluctant shudder, humming low like a river forced through rocks. The ingots rattled against each other, dull clinks echoing into the gorge as the belt pulled them forward. In his AR overlay, a pale blue thread traced their path across the abyss, into the spur, and down into the waiting hopper. It was a neat little diagram for a process that felt anything but neat.

  “Moment of truth,” he muttered, throat dry.

  CelestOS: Notification: first feed cycle initiated. Supply chain established. Please celebrate responsibly.

  The first ingot reached the mid-span brace and wobbled. For one heart-stopping instant, it tipped against the side rail, teetering like a coin about to roll off a table. Ethan leaned forward as if sheer willpower might steady it.

  CelestOS: Probability of derailment: 61%. Updating… 47%. Updating… 28%. Conclusion: annoyingly successful.

  The ingot clattered down the rest of the span, rollers squealing like a protest choir. Ethan didn’t breathe until it slid into the far hopper with a metallic thunk. The turret gave a faint intake whine, servos shifting, as if recognizing food after famine.

  He crouched at the gorge’s edge, eyes locked on the next ingots. They gleamed dully against the stone, tiny sparks of defiance moving inch by inch over emptiness. The second crossed without complaint, and the third clinked hard enough to make him flinch before it settled into place. The hopper sensors pulsed once, the barrel lens twitching in acknowledgment like a predator sniffing its first scent of blood.

  Calibration complete. The gun clicked into armed mode. Its lens swept the treeline, a cone painted wide in his overlay.

  Ethan leaned on his knees and breathed. “That’s one piece of the puzzle. It'll be nice to not have to worry about copper for a bit.”

  CelestOS: Correction: puzzle completion probability remains low.

  The forge tray clicked empty. He loaded a second round of ingots, fewer this time, just enough to keep the system awake. The rollers carried them across with a rhythm he was beginning to trust, the kind of background hum a factory man could live with.

  On impulse, he toggled AR sim mode. Ghost silhouettes shimmered into view at the treeline: vague shapes of resin beasts, crouched low, testing the edge. The turret reacted instantly, its barrel ticking and tracking, hopper levels dropping by two in simulated fire before the forge feed caught up.

  Ethan let the sim play, watched the bin refill in time with each phantom push. His pulse slowed. For once, the math seemed to balance: copper in, bullets out, monsters held at bay. When the overlay cleared, the forest remained as it had always been: still, glittering, and predatory in its quiet.

  CelestOS: Advisory: frontier turret now operational. User survival chances: slightly less bleak.

  Ethan straightened, wiping sweat from his neck. “Slightly less bleak. I’ll take it.”

  As he surveyed the conveyors finally feeding his full turret and producing new wires, he finally had the supplies he needed. It was time to go base building.