Chapter 26: The Tau’s Gambit

The Tau Empire wasn't a monolith—it was a patchwork of five clans: Tai, Earth, Water, Wind, Fire. Wind and Fire carried the spears, their hands stained from centuries of war. For ages, they'd chased some mythic Supreme Being's call—expand or die—pushing their borders in a relentless, bloody sprawl. Big wars, small raids, it never stopped. But their clans kept to themselves, barely mixing blood. Wind and Fire stayed lean, their ranks stretched thin—too few warriors for a thousand worlds.

Jarek slouched in Crestspire's command spire, Crestfall's steel heartbeat thrumming below. Year Sixteen of the Forge Era, and his Steelborn empire stood tall—Namu locked, three systems under his fist. The Tau had barked war a month back, their voices dripping with smug bravado. He'd grinned then, optics flickering. Let 'em try. But now? Greenskin Orcs were ripping their turf apart, green tides crashing against their thin lines. Jarek's grin widened, a low hum in his circuits. "Stretched too far, huh?" he muttered, almost laughing. The Tau couldn't swing at him and the orcs both—not with their numbers bleeding out.

Across the void, Tau leaders huddled in a dim war room, their flat faces tight. A Wind Clan officer slammed a fist on the table, voice sharp as a blade. "Orcs are eating us alive—Steelborn'll carve us open if we blink!" A Fire Clan strategist leaned in, eyes glinting with a desperate spark. "Two fronts, one fix—lure Jarek in. Smash the orcs together, peek at his tricks." A Tai Clan diplomat flinched, voice low. "He's not dumb—he'll smell it." The strategist's grin flashed, all teeth. "Bait him fat—triple our ore haul, a galaxy on top. He'll drool for it." "And if he catches on?" The Wind officer growled. "What's to lose? We're drowning—throw the line!"

Days later, a Tau envoy's voice crackled over Crestfall's comms, smooth but edged with strain. "Orcs flood a galaxy near your border—our ranks are threadbare. Join us, crush 'em. Win or lose, triple this year's ore—third now, rest after. Plus a fresh system, yours free. Hundred ships, that's it." Jarek's optics flared, a harsh laugh scraping his throat. "Triple? A whole damn galaxy?" He paced, holo-feed glowing. The hook was obvious—they'd gawk at his fleet, sniff out Living Steel, Riftgates, anything they could steal. "Greedy little rats," he snarled, voice thick with disdain. But the haul? Too juicy to ignore.

He didn't flinch. Crestfall's conquest had left him scraps—Pale Crest hulks, patched and wheezing, crewed by Elephants, their trunks bowed under Steelborn rule. Exorcist-class cruisers—7.3 kilometers of battered pride—rotted in Redstone's yards, relics until now. Black Crest vets, hardened from Edgehold's meat grinder, manned them—loyal, broken, his. Jarek's Ribs sneered at the junk—too clunky, too frail—but it'd do. "Their trash, Tau's tab," he growled, a glint in his steel jaw. "Bleed 'em dry."

He shot back fast, voice booming over the comms. "Get your crates ready—my ships'll roll when I see 'em. Orcs? We'll stomp 'em flat—call it a favor." The Tau envoy froze, flat face twitching. "He… didn't even pause," one stammered, voice cracking. "Trap?" another hissed, eyes darting. A third barked a laugh, sharp and smug. "No—dazzled by the loot! We'll see his guts up close." "The payout?" "Words bend—Jarek's wet behind the ears, he'll swallow it." Their laughter echoed, cocky and brittle.

A month crawled by. Tau scrambled, their vaults half-empty—triple ore didn't stack overnight. Finally, sleds rolled into Shatterpoint's docks—thorium bars gleaming, iridium crates piled high, a third of the deal. Jarek's Ribs prowled the haul, optics cold, counting every speck. "Good enough," he rasped, a hungry edge in his tone. "Ribs—haul out the Elephant junk." A hundred Pale Crest wrecks shuddered awake—Exorcists, frigates, scarred husks of a dead empire. The flagship, an Exorcist-class monster, loomed—7.3 kilometers of patched steel, guns still snarling. Old, sure, but a beast to the Tau's tin cans. Black Crest captains—eyes hollow from Edgehold's hell—gripped the helms, voices low. "For Steelborn," one muttered, hands trembling but steady.

Tau envoys met the fleet at Shatterpoint's rim, their sleek ships dwarfed by the hulking relics. "These… your Steelborn rigs?" one choked, voice wobbling, flat face creasing. A Rib diplomat—circuits humming with alien-reading code—stepped up, voice a dead buzz. "Yeah—Steelborn fleet, as promised." The Tau blinked, confusion rippling. These weren't the Living Steel killers they'd drooled over—too rough, too odd. "They're… not what I pictured," the envoy pushed, voice tight with doubt. "Classified," the Rib snapped, optics flaring red. "Steelborn secrets—you wouldn't know 'em, Tau."

The envoy's eyes sparked, greed flaring. "Secrets?" he breathed, voice trembling with thrill. "Perfect—your hidden fangs against orcs! Riots'll be ash!" His grin stretched, buying the lie whole. Jarek's circuits hummed with a dark chuckle—suckers. He'd tossed 'em scrap, kept Living Steel and Riftgates buried. The Elephants' rust-piles would slug it out, Black Crest grunts bashing orcs while Tau stared at junk. "Triple ore for a laugh," he growled, voice thick with glee. "Idiots."

Crestfall's yards roared as the fleet jumped—Namu secure, Redstone forging on. Jarek paced, holo-maps spinning, a predator's grin in his steel jaw. The Tau thought they'd crack his shell; he'd let 'em lick rust. "Ribs—track every move," he barked, voice sharp. "No cracks." Absolute Loyalty flared—players buzzing. "Tau suckered you in?" one jabbed, voice teasing. "Orc bait—slick." Jarek typed back, short and smug: "Their coin, my win." Steelborn didn't bow—they broke. The Tau's play would cost 'em—ore now, tears later.