The fight found its rhythm.

  The Ol’ Five Seven stayed hard on the ley-line, engines driving her forward with steady, punishing persistence. Power flowed in just fast enough to keep her aggressive without starving the magno-shield or overtaxing the boilers. Ahead, the turret fort rotated continuously, its squat octagonal body turning with increasing urgency as it struggled to keep its cannon trained.

  Both Light Energy Cannons fired.

  They did not wait for each other. They did not sequence politely. Each cannon cycled as fast as its capacitors allowed, ten seconds per charge, independent and overlapping.

  The port LEC discharged first, its beam lancing out and ripping into the turret fort’s forward face. Armor glowed, warped, and then tore loose in a screaming cascade of metal. A plate the size of a wagon door cartwheeled away across the ground.

  The starboard LEC followed shortly after, its own cycle completing as the turret rotated. The beam struck off-angle, chewing into a seam between armor segments and spraying molten metal outward as internal bracing failed. The damage stacked. Nothing catastrophic yet, but nothing repairable either. The turret fort was being stripped layer by layer.

  The enemy answered with patience.

  The cannon fired.

  The sound was not sharp or sudden. It was a deep, rolling concussion that flattened the air. Otwin felt it through the hull, through his armor, through his teeth. The iron ball screamed past the Ol’ Five Seven’s bow close enough to tug at the magno-shield’s edge, the pressure wave slapping the fort hard.

  “Reload cycle,” Keller called. “About a minute.”

  “Good,” Grump replied. “Make them pay for every shot.”

  The LECs continued their work.

  Every few seconds, another beam struck. Sometimes port. Sometimes starboard. Sometimes close enough together that the impacts overlapped in time. Each cannon fired as soon as it finished charging, unconcerned with what the other was doing. Armor peeled away from the turret fort in chunks. Secondary mounts sparked and died. Cabling burned through and vented smoke. The rotating assembly began to judder as stress built unevenly across the octagonal faces.

  The distance collapsed faster than the turret fort could manage.

  The two Steam Forts thundered past each other at close range.

  For a brief, violent stretch of seconds, the world was nothing but vibration and steel and proximity. The Ol’ Five Seven surged alongside the turret fort, close enough that Otwin could see figures inside through slits and ports, scrambling between stations as systems failed around them.

  “Arc limit,” Grump snapped. “Port LEC only.”

  The starboard cannon went silent immediately. There was no safe firing angle. To shoot would mean burning straight through their own hull.

  The port LEC fired again.

  At that range, the beam was devastating. It raked across the turret fort’s flank and tore into the outer ring of the rotating assembly. Something inside failed catastrophically. Sparks cascaded in a blinding sheet as the turret shuddered and briefly stalled before lurching back into motion.

  Behind them, the STVs met again.

  The remaining enemy riders had tried to regroup beneath the turret fort’s bulk, using its shadow as cover. It bought them seconds at most.

  Jordy cut in hard from the side, his STV skidding as he forced it into a tight arc. He fired once. The energy bolt struck the enemy rider high in the torso, snapping him backward and out of the saddle. The STV ran on without its rider before slamming into uneven ground and flipping end over end.

  “Two left,” Jordy reported. “They’re breaking.”

  The turret cannon fired again.

  This time, the failure was undeniable.

  The turret tried to track the Ol’ Five Seven as the range collapsed, but it could not turn fast enough. The cannon lagged behind, overcorrected, and sent its shot screaming wide. The iron ball tore a useless trench through the ground far off to the side.

  “They can’t keep up,” Otwin said.

  “No,” Grump replied. “They built it to kill at a distance.”

  Humbert was already moving.

  He surged ahead of the Turret Fort, STV engine screaming as he cut directly across the turret fort’s path. Small arms fire erupted from open ports, bullets snapping and sparking off his armor and STV plating. None of it slowed him.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Otwin watched Humbert lean out, one massive armored arm swinging low.

  The package dropped.

  It was compact, heavy, and purpose-built. It struck the ground hard and skipped once before settling directly in the turret fort’s path. Humbert veered away at full throttle, STV fishtailing as he poured on speed.

  “Package down,” Humbert said calmly.

  The turret fort could not stop.

  Momentum carried it forward, damaged systems protesting as its treads rolled inexorably over the charge.

  The explosion was brutal and contained.

  The blast ripped upward into the turret fort’s undercarriage, shredding track assemblies and bracing meant to survive sustained fire, not focused detonation. One tread tore free in a spray of metal and sparks.

  The turret fort lurched sideways.

  Metal screamed as the sudden loss of traction sent it sliding into a half spin. The rotating assembly shuddered and locked for a heartbeat before jerking back into alignment. Dust and debris filled the air as the fort skidded and fought physics.

  Then it stopped.

  Engines roared uselessly as the crippled fort struggled to compensate. Lift stones flared brighter, straining to keep the uneven mass upright. The octagonal hull sagged, one side dipping low.

  “Mobility kill,” Keller said. “They’re done moving.”

  Otwin watched through the slit as the turret fort sat crippled on the ley-line, smoke venting from torn seams and scorched armor.

  The Ol’ Five Seven rolled past its broken opponent, engines steady, guns tracking.

  The fight was not over.

  But it had ended as a chase.

  Now it was something else entirely.

  ***

  The Ol’ Five Seven fired again.

  Not in anger. Not in panic. Just enough to remind the crippled turret fort that the fight was still theirs to lose.

  A port-side LEC burned a fresh scar across already mangled armor, the beam chewing into exposed structure and leaving the metal glowing. Smoke vented in thick, uneven plumes. Inside the turret fort, something clanged loose and fell, the sound carrying faintly even over the engines.

  Then the turret fort answered in a way Otwin had not expected.

  A white flag rose.

  It emerged slowly from a damaged port on the turret’s upper face, fabric scorched at the edges and tied to a bent rod that had once been something else entirely. It fluttered weakly in the disturbed air, stark against blackened armor and drifting smoke.

  “Cease fire,” Grump said immediately. “Hold.”

  The Ol’ Five Seven’s guns fell silent.

  Otwin exhaled, the tension bleeding out of him in a way that left his hands faintly unsteady. He pushed it down. There would be time later, if there was time at all.

  “STVs,” Grump continued over the command channel. “Circle them. Weapons hot. Otwin, you have control of the fort.”

  “Copy,” Otwin replied.

  He swung back into his STV and gunned the engine. The remaining squad followed, engines roaring as they fanned out and began a wide, methodical orbit around the crippled turret fort. From this close, the damage was worse than it had looked at range. One tread hung slack and twisted, torn free from its housing. Armor plates were missing entirely along one face, exposing scorched internal structure and sparking cabling. Lift stones flared unevenly, struggling to compensate for the imbalance.

  No weapons were fired.

  No movement beyond the slow, labored venting of steam and smoke.

  Otwin brought his STV around toward the lowered ramp as it began to descend.

  The turret fort complied without hesitation.

  Heavy mechanisms groaned as the ramp lowered fully, slamming into the ground with a dull, final thud. Interior lights flickered on, harsh and uneven, illuminating a bay that had never been meant to host guests. The space was cramped, packed tight with machinery, ammunition racks, and maintenance gantries. The smell hit Otwin immediately. Hot metal. Burnt insulation. Blood.

  He rode in first.

  The others followed, STVs rolling cautiously into the bay before cutting engines one by one. Silence settled, broken only by distant hissing steam and the crackle of damaged systems.

  Otwin dismounted and raised his rifle, sweeping the bay.

  The crew were already on their knees.

  They were not wearing officer colors. No insignia beyond crude work tags and unit marks burned into clothing and armor. Serfs, just as the voice had said. Mechanics. Loaders. Gunners. Their hands were bound with cable and strips of fabric torn from uniforms.

  At the far end of the bay, several figures lay prone and bound more thoroughly than the rest.

  The commander and his direct staff.

  They had been stripped of weapons and insignia. Their hands were tied behind their backs, their faces pressed to the deck. One of the officers glared at the kneeling crew with a hatred so pure it seemed to radiate heat.

  One of the kneeling serfs rose carefully, holding something in both hands.

  A Hegemony flag.

  It was folded neatly despite the circumstances, fabric clean and intact, its colors bright in the harsh bay lighting. The man approached Otwin slowly, eyes downcast, steps cautious.

  “We surrender,” he said. His voice shook, but he did not stop walking. “We’re just serfs. We follow orders. We had no choice.”

  Otwin took the flag and looked at it for a long moment.

  The weight of it surprised him.

  Behind him, the commander exploded.

  “Traitors!” the man shouted, straining against his bindings. “You will all pay for this. Every one of you. The Hegemony will skin you alive for this betrayal.”

  The words echoed in the bay, sharp and ugly.

  Humbert moved.

  He did not rush. He did not shout. He simply walked over, the deck plates trembling faintly under his weight. In Stormtrooper armor, Humbert looked less like a man and more like a moving siege engine, plating scorched and scratched from the fight.

  He stopped in front of the commander.

  “Shut up,” Humbert said.

  The commander sneered up at him. “You think you’ve won? You’re nothing. You’ll die on this road like...”

  Humbert hit him.

  It was not a punch so much as an impact. A single armored gauntlet connected with the commander’s face with a wet, cracking sound that silenced the bay instantly. The man’s head snapped sideways, his jaw coming unhinged as half his teeth scattered across the deck in a spray of blood and enamel.

  The commander collapsed, unconscious, before he hit the floor.

  Humbert flexed his hand once and stepped back.

  “Better,” he said.

  No one argued.

  Otwin looked from the flag in his hands to the kneeling crew, then to the bound officers. He took in the fear, the exhaustion, the quiet relief that the fighting was over.

  “You did have a choice,” Otwin said finally. His voice was calm, level. “You made it.”

  The serf nodded, tears streaking through grime on his face.

  Behind them, the Ol’ Five Seven rumbled softly, engines idling as she loomed over the captured turret fort. The ley-line hummed beneath both machines, indifferent to banners and blood.

  The fight was over.