Wind, wet and freezing, whistled through a shattered windowpane, but it failed to dissipate the suffocating atmosphere of failure clinging to the room. Chairman Pago sat slumped in his high-backed chair, resembling a pile of rapidly liquefying lard. A blood-stained bandage was plastered to his left cheek—a souvenir from a clumsy tumble off his carriage during last night’s frantic retreat.
“Sign, Chairman,” Jasta said, sitting opposite him with the casual grace of a man attending a high-society tea. He slid a thick stack of documents across the mahogany table and offered a gold-nibbed fountain pen with professional courtesy.
“These are... the final terms?” Pago’s voice carried a wet, pathetic tremor. “You’ve seized the entire inventory, monopolized the retail channels, and even requisitioned my private docks... what else is there? Do you truly intend to squeeze the marrow from my bones?”
“Heavens no, Chairman. We are civilized people; we don't slaughter the goose to get the egg.” Jasta gestured toward the window with his ivory cane.
Visible through the jagged glass was the northern sector of Rust-Water Port. Known as the Iron Rust District, it was a wasteland of toxic sludge and sinking foundations. Decades ago, it had been a thriving ore transshipment hub, but industrial accidents and shifting tectonic plates had turned it into a no-man’s-land for industrial waste and unidentified corpses.
“That plot of land,” Jasta said, his smile as light as the morning fog. “I wish to lease the entire North District. For a term of... ninety-nine years.”
“The North District?” Pago blinked, his small eyes darting as he searched for the trap. “It’s a swamp of rot and sulfur. Even the rats won't nest there; the ground is structurally compromised. What use could you possibly have for a garbage pit?”
“That is a logistics concern for our engineering team,” Jasta shrugged. “Perhaps we in Skyreach are simply sentimental about the industrial atmosphere. Or perhaps we merely require a sufficiently wide berth to park our... ‘Large Toys.’”
Pago thought of the steel monster that had flattened his iron gates the night before. A cold shiver rippled through his fat layers.
“And the rent?” Pago asked, a merchant’s instinct attempting to salvage a crumb of profit from the trash heap. “It is wasteland, but the acreage is massive. According to market rates—”
“Rent?” Jasta chuckled. The sound lacked any trace of warmth. He pulled a silver-white disc from his pocket—a Sky Credit—and flipped it onto the table.
Ting—
The coin spun on the wood, emitting a crisp, high-frequency ring before settling to reveal the [1 KW·h] engraving. “One Sky Credit per annum. Symbolically, of course.”
“This is robbery!” Pago surged to his feet, his double chin quivering with indignation. “One Credit? That won't even buy a damn lighter!”
“No, Chairman. It is a protection fee.” The sudden drop in Jasta’s tone, combined with the predatory intensity in his fox-eyes, forced Pago back into his seat. “You seem to forget, Chairman. If I hadn't insisted on maintaining ‘Commercial Order,’ Mr. Brad would have dismantled this building and hung your head from the weather-vane by dawn.”
Jasta leaned forward, tenting his fingers. “Lease us the land, and you remain the nominal Chairman of Rust-Water. You keep your soft chair. Refuse...” Jasta didn't finish the sentence. He simply made a polite gesture toward the door.
Standing outside like a grim sentinel was Brad. He was encased in his heavy exoskeleton, a toothpick clamped between his teeth as he stared through the doorway with the bored malice of a man looking for a reason to hit something.
Pago looked at the lone aluminum coin, then at the god of war in the hall. He had no leverage left.
As Pago’s trembling hand applied the ink and the Golden Gear Guild seal, the map of Rust-Water Port gained a new sovereign entity—a "state within a state."
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Rust-Water Port, Iron Rust District.
The land was, as described, a total failure of civil engineering. Black oil slicks covered the mud, and the air carried a persistent, stinging sulfurous bite. To most, it was a graveyard of rusted cranes and collapsed containers. To Skyreach, it was the perfect Extraterritorial Concession.
RUMBLE—!
Vibrations rippled through the marshy soil as the Land Crawler Mk.II - Command Variant roared into the center of the ruins. Without slowing, its massive run-flat tires pulverized several dilapidated shacks, clearing a wide staging area.
“Parking it!” Brad yelled, vaulting from the turret. “The soil is trash, but the Crawler is the foundation! Clear sightlines, cliffs at our back—this is prime tactical real estate!”
With a series of heavy pneumatic sighs, the armored vehicle lowered its chassis. Four massive hydraulic outriggers punched through the mud and bit into the bedrock below, anchoring the twenty-ton machine to the earth. It had ceased to be a vehicle; it was now a steel citadel.
“Old Gob!” Brad shouted.
“Present! Present!” The goblin scurried forward, leaning on a gold-topped cane—a trophy he’d "requisitioned" from Pago. He directed a small army of goblin laborers who were frantically unloading supplies. “Get the signage up! High visibility!”
An enormous sign, constructed from high-lumen neon tubes, rose above the Land Crawler’s roof.
[Skyreach SPECIAL ADMINISTRATIVE REGION & GOB’S GENERAL MERCHANDISE]
The name was crude, but when the power grid engaged, the brilliant red and blue luminescence cut through the gray smog of Rust-Water Port like a neon nail driven into the city’s heart.
One week later.
The "Ruins" of the North District had vanished. In their place sat a logistics hub operating with a efficiency that bordered on frantic. Skyreach convoys cycled in and out day and night, delivering glass, soap, coal, and fire-starters. They left heavily laden with raw ore, hides, and piles of gold coins gathered from across the region.
At the gates of the concession, the line of local merchants and laborers stretched from the North District all the way to the southern docks.
“Sky Credits only! We don't take gold!” Old Gob screamed into a bullhorn from the roof of the armored citadel, spittle flying. “If you don't have Credits, get in the exchange line! Exchange rate is 1 Gold to 10 Credits! Take it or leave it!”
The crowd didn't complain. They fought to throw their gold and silver into the exchange windows, desperate for the weightless aluminum discs. They knew that only with those coins could they purchase the industrial miracles within the walls. To acquire more Credits, the inhabitants of Rust-Water began selling their raw materials and their labor to Skyreach at a feverish pace. The city’s Economic Vasculature was being systematically grafted onto Skyreach’s pumps.
Chairman Pago stood atop a distant watchtower, looking down at the North District. The place he had once dismissed as a dump was now a beacon of light, its prosperity dwarfing the Upper District. Watching the crates of gold being hauled away and the "cheap trash" being hauled in, the realization finally hit him.
Alex hadn't sent a single soldier to occupy the City Hall. He didn't need to. Through a "borrowed" patch of mud, he had seized the city’s throat. Rust-Water Port had become an Economic Colony.
High atop the Land Crawler’s turret, Brad sat with his helmet off, letting the sea breeze mess with his hair. He idly chewed a toothpick, polishing the 30mm heavy machine guns as he watched the locals look up at him with a mix of fear and religious awe. “So this is ‘Security’ work?” Brad grinned, patting the steel hull of the beast. “A hell of a lot easier than football.”
[POV Switch: First-Person (Alex)]
Back in Skyreach’s administrative center, I leaned against my desk, reviewing the battle reports. On my System panel, the Fiscal Deficit indicator had finally shifted from a warning red to a stable, glowing green.
“Good work, Jasta. Good work, Brad,” I muttered, setting the reports aside. I stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the construction of the Tier-2 platform was entering its final phase. The massive structural steel frame glinted like gold in the setting sun. With this constant infusion of wealth, Skyreach’s Acceleration was no longer just a goal. It was an inevitability.
“Now,” I whispered to the glass, “let’s see what else the world has to borrow.”
Question of the Day: Now that Sky-City has an economic colony, what should be the first "Export-Only" high-tech item Alex releases to Rust-Water Port?
?? A) The Steam-Powered Crane: To "help" them reorganize their docks.
Result: Infrastructure Control. You speed up their logistics, but they become entirely dependent on your fuel and spare parts to keep their city running.
?? B) Civil-Grade Radio Transceivers: To "improve communication."
Result: Signal Intelligence. You connect the city, but every conversation is being filtered through Mykra’s listening posts. Total information dominance.
?? C) Defensive Turrets (License-Locked): To "protect" the local merchants.
Result: The Engineer's Choice. Sell them the guns, but keep the keys. If Rust-Water ever tries to revolt, you just press a button and their own defense grid shuts down.
Follow and Rate for more industrial madness!