One month after waking, Doctor Attacus Sommers was able to walk the length of the gantry without collapsing. He did not consider this a triumph. At first, he required motorized help to get around but had reduced that to the aid of a simple cane. The doctor didn’t push himself too hard as he knew that a slow routine was best and that doing things right was more important than doing them fast. With time and practice, speed would naturally come back to him, so he focused on doing things properly first. Shortly after coming back to the land of the living, it was suggested that Doctor Sommers move to a secondary location for his protection. Since the medical machines were not longer necessary to keep him alive, it was best for the doctor to resume his work and continue his rehab at a new location. It was important to keep him away from certain enemies who would not hesitate to search for him should the rumor of his death was suddenly debunked.

  After a little debate the decision was made to move Doctor Sommers to a remote planet that was used for gathering materials for his work. A near abandoned planet where mines and plantations were handled by local workers that were paid well enough to not question their benefactors. The headquarters where he would be residing in had a decent lab, so he would be able to get some serious work finished and have ample supplies on had should his work ever require them.

  The mine groaned beneath his feet like a wounded leviathan. Steam elevators clanked in their shafts. Conveyor chains rattled while far below charges thudded in carefully measured detonations. Each one loosening veins of iron and rare cobalt from the mountain’s ribcage. The air was a constant haze of coal smoke and metallic dust, caught in the amber glow of arc lamps strung along the cavern ceiling. This base, which was designated as “Foundry Eleven” had been one his most productive.

  The massive facility actually financed a quarter of his empire all on its own, which is what caught the doctor’s attention. Ore in, weaponized innovation out. Precision instruments. Sky-rail disruptors. Autonomous artillery rigs. Patents sold to governments who publicly condemned him while privately wiring funds through shell consortiums in return for his unique services. The mine was not merely a source of material; it was liquidity in geological form, and it had carried on working in his absence. It was this detail that rattled Sommer more than his injuries ever could.

  It had been so long since he last visited he infamous foundry, that the doctor couldn’t help but insist on looking around days after he arrived. He wanted to inspect the facility himself and see for himself how productive this place was despite his absence. Sommers paused at the railing overlooking the central smelting pit, as molten metal churned in vast crucibles, stirred by mechanical paddles the size of carriage wheels. The heat radiated upward, warping the air around him. His organic side perspired, while his mechanical leg adjusted its internal coolant flow automatically. Sommers despised the asymmetry as his fleshy right arm still trembled under the constant strain. The musculature had atrophied a fair bit during his coma, and the nerve repair along his shoulder was yet to be completed. Fine motor control required concentration, as the strength of the doctor’s grip had not yet fully returned to operational thresholds. His left arm, which was now made of brass and composite steel, functioned at ninety-seven percent efficiency. The doctor flexed both hands and observed the difference with his own eyes. The mechanical fingers closed with crisp certainty, while the human fingers hesitated a fraction of a second behind intention. Imprecision, which to him was unacceptable.

  “Doctor,” said the base’s chief engineer, a square-jawed woman, “You have exceeded today’s tolerance.”

  The doctor ignored her and resumed walking, despite each step being a strict negotiation between flesh and machine. While the prosthetic leg absorbed impact flawlessly with micro-servos compensating for imbalance, the organic leg lagged, as his hip stiffened, and his ligaments still knitting. Each flare of pain that he endured were sharp, stabbing reminders that bone remembered being shattered. He did not request analgesics, as his pain was data.

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  At the end of the gantry, Sommers stopped and turned with a very slow deliberance. It was a controlled pivot. During his first week at the new location, Sommers had only required a cane. The second, only a brace. Now he required neither, but he felt the phantom urge to reach for support. He resisted it and made the pivot without incident. He turned back to face the sturdy woman that was still following him.

  “I will not build from weakness,” Sommers quietly whispered, more to himself than to the woman watching. “Not again.”

  “I didn’t suggest anything like…” the woman tried to explain, afraid that she had offended him.

  “I implied no such thing,” the doctor replied, “What is your name?”

  “Havel,” the woman answered, “Victoria Havel.”

  “Well, Ms. Havel,” Sommers said, taking a confident step closer. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, especially considering you are one of the foremen of this overachieving facility. I can assure your that the work of yourself and your comrades has not gone unnoticed.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” Havel said, taking a slight bow.

  Despite the marvels about him, the memory of the Skybridge lingered on in memory, as the failure was hard to get off his mind. He came to a quick conclusion that the project failed because he had been present, and that conclusion had taken weeks to realize. He had designed it brilliantly, over-engineered the redundancies, and even anticipated every possible angle of sabotage… calculating load tolerances down to six decimal points. Yet Sommers chose to engage the Rocket Patrol personally, allowing himself to be drawn into spectacle by his ego. The doctor had acted like a man, and men were vulnerable, while engines were not.

  Deep below where Sommers stood, a blast rippled through the mine. Dust drifted from the rafters as Sommers’ mechanical eye adjusted his focus automatically. As it did so a thin overlay of data shimmered across his vision: structural integrity stable. Heat output nominal. Workforce productivity within acceptable range. As his organic eye watered from the smoke, the doctor blinked it clear. It was right here where the doctor had concluded that his recovery could not be measured in days or even months. The regrowth of his nerves alone would require at least a year. Muscular rebuilding would take even longer. There would also always be phantom pain, instability, and fatigue.

  The temptation to upgrade more of himself had been immediate as the doctor had already drafted schematics for a full skeletal reinforcement, bilateral arm conversion, and subdermal plating. It would be a body optimized for war, and the mathematics were elegant. Yet the concept of total mechanization carried a heavy cost. There would be signal lag, maintenance cycles, and the annoying reliance on power cores. Flesh, however inefficient it appeared to be, self-repaired. Sommers was determined not to become dependent on his mechanical replacements at the expense of his original parts. Patience, he reminded himself, was also a weapon.

  Havel stepped closer, as she appeared less afraid to express herself.

  “Production has increased twelve percent since your… return,” she reported carefully. “The markets also believe you’re still dead, and because of that demand for confiscated Sommers-tech has never been higher.”

  “That’s fascinating,” Sommers noted, as the idea provoked ideas.

  “That is something we can exploit,” Havel added. She appeared determined to prove her worth to the doctor as early as possible.

  Sommers allowed himself the faintest smile.

  “Of course we can,” Sommers replied, as the very same thought had also crossed his brilliant mind. The Rocket Patrol had no doubt paraded the ruins of his Skybridge as a symbol of their justice. Confiscating prototypes so that the Patrol could reverse-engineer, study, and exhibit them as trophies.

  Let them, the doctor thought to himself. Every system they touched contained proprietary complexities they did not yet understand. Sommers had designed his inventions with contingencies, even the ones thought to have been seized by the Rocket Patrol. He resumed walking, this time without hesitation. The organic leg protested, but less than before as muscle fibers were finally reawakening. The tremor in his right hand slowly diminished whenever the doctor focused. It would take a lot more to regain full control.

  “I miscalculated once,” Sommers declared, “I will not miscalculate again.”

  The doctor reached the elevator platform and stepped aboard. As it descended toward the lower fabrication levels, he watched as sparks cascaded from welding rigs like inverted constellations. A long road laid ahead, he had admitted to himself, deep within in the quiet hours of his many sleepless nights. A long, meticulous road back to full strength. Yet iron was never forged with a single strike, and neither would his vengeance.