The completion of the Grand Western Canal had solved the problem of bulk transport, but it had created a new bottleneck at the Oryn Estuary. The transfer from barge to warehouse was a slow, labor-intensive process that relied on the backs of men and the strength of horses. To Deacon, looking at the logistical maps, the canal was a high-capacity artery that ended in a stagnant pool. To truly move the output of the North, he needed the "Iron-Road."
The "Rail-Head" was established on a reclaimed salt marsh at the mouth of the canal. This was where the first miles of the Oakhaven & Western Railway would begin their trek inland. But as the first iron sleepers were laid into the crushed basalt ballast, the gritty reality of Imperial interference arrived in the form of a rival engineering corps from the Capital.
The Emperor had not sent soldiers this time; he had sent the Imperial Board of Works. Led by a man named Chief Engineer Sterling, they brought their own set of iron rails and a mandate to "integrate" Oakhaven's project into the Imperial network.
"The Empire uses a broad gauge of six feet," Sterling announced, standing on the partially finished embankment with a brass measuring rod. "It provides stability for the heavy troop transports. Your 'Oakhaven Gauge' of four feet, eight-and-a-half inches is a toy, Lord Cassian. It lacks the scale for true Imperial logistics."
Deacon stood over a section of his own track, his hands in his pockets. He knew the game Sterling was playing. A Standard Gauge was not just an engineering choice; it was a form of political control. If Oakhaven used the Imperial gauge, the Emperor could roll his own heavy armored trains directly into the heart of the valley. If Deacon used his own gauge, Oakhaven remained a separate, protected ecosystem.
"A six-foot gauge requires massive embankments and wider tunnels, Sterling," Deacon replied, his voice level. "It's too heavy for the mountain passes. My gauge is based on the optimal turning radius for high-pressure steam locomotives. It's about efficiency, not ego."
"Efficiency won't stop a rebellion, but a troop train will," Sterling countered. "The Board of Works is authorized to oversee the laying of all 'Permanent Way' on Imperial soil. If your rails don't match our wagons, your line will be declared a private work and subject to immediate seizure."
Deacon realized he couldn't win a direct argument with the Board. He had to use the "Logistical Insight" to out-engineer them. For three weeks, the two crews worked in a state of cold war, laying parallel tracks at the Rail-Head. Sterling's men laid massive, lumbering broad-gauge rails, while Miller's crew laid the narrower Oakhaven standard.
The "gritty" problem arose when they reached the Estuary Bridge. There was only enough structural support for one set of tracks. The Board of Works demanded the right of way.
"We're going to build a Dual-Gauge Track," Deacon proposed during a tense meeting in the marsh-office. "Three rails instead of four. The inner rail will serve my engines; the outer rail will serve the Imperial wagons. We share the bridge, and we share the cost."
It was a compromise that felt like a victory to Sterling, but Deacon knew the math favored the lighter gauge. To prove the superiority of the Oakhaven system, he introduced the Standardized Nut and Bolt.
Up until this point, every smith in the Empire made their own threads. If a bolt on an Imperial wagon snapped, you had to forge a new one to fit that specific hole. Deacon implemented the Whitworth Thread, a standardized pitch and angle for every fastener on the Oakhaven line.
"Your men spend four hours hand-filing a replacement bolt every time a rail-clip snaps," Deacon told Sterling as they watched the bridge construction. "My men carry a bag of pre-made bolts that fit every hole on the line. I can repair a mile of track in the time it takes you to repair a hundred yards."
The "Standardization War" was won in the mud of the salt marshes. During a sudden spring surge, a section of the Estuary Bridge settled unevenly, snapping several structural braces. Sterling's crew was paralyzed; their custom-forged parts were back in the Capital. Deacon's crew, using standardized components from the Oakhaven workshops, had the bridge braced and functional by dawn.
The Board of Works was forced to concede. They couldn't argue with a bridge that worked while theirs remained in pieces. Sterling signed the agreement: the Oakhaven Standard would be used for the mountain stretches, and the Imperial Broad Gauge would be relegated to the flatlands of the South.
As the first Oakhaven locomotive—the Mk I 'Pathfinder'—was craned onto the rails, Deacon felt the weight of the achievement. He hadn't just laid iron; he had enforced a system of measurement that the Empire was now forced to adopt.
"The rails are down," Miller said, watching the Pathfinder's boiler reach pressure. "But David, we're now connected to the world. That track goes both ways."
"I know," Deacon said. "But we have the faster engines and the standardized parts. If they want to come to Oakhaven, they'll have to do it on our terms."