They called Marcus the Trainmaker, which he found singularly discouraging. He did not make trains. His factories forged the rails the trains ran on, the sheet metal for the carriages, the thick, heavy-hearted furnaces that powered the machines across the red earth. But he did not make trains.

His steel was solid. It didn’t move unless you pushed on it, you couldn’t bend it without being bent a little yourself. It never betrayed your trust, what you saw was what you got. And when you cut it, it bled neat little chips that could be dusted away.

He nudged the flesh at his feet with a boot. It made a small sound, like a bubbling rasp on dull steel. Flesh, well. You couldn’t say much for flesh.