The completion of the first forty miles of the Grand Western Canal had turned Oakhaven-West into a feverish hub of activity. The canal was a marvel of civil engineering—straight, deep, and lined with a proprietary Oakhaven "Hydraulic Cement" that prevented the water from seeping into the surrounding porous silt. But the Syndicate had not surrendered. They had retreated to the mouth of the Oryn Estuary, where the canal met the sea, and played their final political card: a challenge of viability.
The Merchant Lords of the Free Cities, pressured by the Syndicate's lobbyists, had declared that they would only sign an exclusive transport contract with the party that could deliver a thousand-bushel load from the Marches to the Coast in under twenty-four hours. For the Syndicate, this was a certainty; they had commissioned the Silt-Runner, a sleek, triple-masted clipper designed specifically for river-speed, manned by sixty veteran oarsmen for the windless stretches.
"They think it's a race of muscle and wind," Deacon said, standing in the Oakhaven dry-dock. Before him sat the SS Integrity. It was a radical departure from any vessel the Empire had ever seen. It lacked sails, oars, and the high, ornate carvings of the Syndicate ships. It was a low-slung, iron-hulled barge with a blunt prow and a massive, shrouded housing at the stern.
"David, the weight alone is a concern," Miller said, adjusting a brass fitting on the stern-housing. "The iron hull is heavier than timber. If the engine fails, she's a floating coffin. And the Syndicate is laughing at the 'screw' design. They say a wheel belongs on a wagon, not under a boat."
"Let them laugh," Deacon replied. "A paddle-wheel is inefficient; it loses half its energy splashing the surface. We're using a Screw Propeller. It works on the principle of fluid displacement—pushing a column of water backward to move the mass forward."
The "Great Race" began at dawn at the transition lock of the Grey-Silt. The Silt-Runner sat in the river, its sails unfurled and white, its oars bristling like the legs of a centipede. The SS Integrity sat in the parallel canal, its boiler hissing a steady, rhythmic breath of geothermal-charged steam.
"To the Coast!" the Imperial Referee shouted, dropping the signal flag.
The Silt-Runner surged forward with an explosive spray of water as the oarsmen hit their stride. It was a beautiful display of traditional power. The clipper caught a favorable tailwind and began to pull away, its gilded prow cutting the silt with ease.
Inside the SS Integrity, the heat was stifling. Deacon stood at the helm, his hand on the telegraph to the engine room. "Miller. Engage the primary drive. Ten percent throttle. Let the bearings warm before we push the pressure."
The iron barge groaned as the propeller began to spin. To the spectators on the banks, it looked like the Integrity was struggling. There was no visible effort, no oars, just a churning wake behind the stern. The Syndicate ship was already a mile ahead, disappearing around the first bend of the natural river.
"They're mocking us from the banks, David," Julian said, looking through his binoculars. "Varth is on the lead clipper, waving a Syndicate banner. He thinks he's already won."
"He's fighting the current and the curves of the river," Deacon said, his eyes fixed on the perfectly straight line of the canal. "We're fighting friction. Once we hit cruising speed, the Bernoulli effect will keep the hull stable. Miller—increase to fifty percent. Open the secondary steam-injectors."
The Integrity began to vibrate—a deep, resonant hum that smoothed out as the speed increased. The blunt prow didn't climb the water; it pushed through it, the iron hull slicing with a mathematical precision that timber could never achieve. By the tenth hour, the straight-line advantage of the canal became apparent. While the Silt-Runner had to navigate three major hairpin turns and a shallow sandbar, the Integrity maintained a constant, unwavering sixteen knots.
At the halfway mark, the canal and the river ran parallel for a three-mile stretch. The Silt-Runner was visible, its oarsmen flagging, the wind having died down to a stagnant breeze. Varth stood at the railing, his face pale as he watched the smoke-belching iron monster steadily gaining on them. The Integrity didn't look like it was trying; it simply existed in a state of relentless forward motion.
"Give them the whistle, Miller," Deacon commanded.
The Integrity's steam whistle let out a piercing, dual-tone shriek that echoed off the valley walls, a mechanical roar that drowned out the rhythmic chanting of the Syndicate's oarsmen. As the iron barge surged past the clipper, the wake from the propeller caused the Silt-Runner to wallow in the swell, its oars tangling as the men lost their rhythm.
"This is impossible!" Varth's scream carried across the water. "There is no wind! There are no oars! It's sorcery!"
"It's a 500-horsepower reciprocating engine, Varth!" Deacon shouted back, though he knew the man wouldn't understand. "Welcome to the new world!"
The SS Integrity arrived at the Oryn Estuary in nineteen hours and forty minutes—nearly five hours ahead of the Syndicate. When the iron barge glided into the docks of the Free City, the Merchant Lords were waiting in stunned silence. The grain was unloaded by hydraulic cranes Deacon had pre-installed, a process that took two hours instead of the usual twelve.
The contract was signed on the spot. Oakhaven now controlled the lifeblood of the Marches. But as Deacon stood on the deck of his victorious ship, he saw more than just a successful trade route. He saw the end of an era. The Syndicate was broken, but their desperation would now turn into something far more dangerous than a race.
"We have the coast," Deacon told Julian as they watched the first Imperial bank-draft being handed over. "But the Syndicate won't just go out of business. They'll look for a way to break the canal. We need to arm the barges, Julian. The next shipment won't be a race; it'll be a convoy."
The "Great Race" had proven the superiority of the screw and the steam, but it had also drawn a target on every mile of the Oakhaven infrastructure. Deacon had conquered the water; now he had to defend it.