When your ship approaches Iron City, it will take your breath away, every time. I can’t explain why—I’ve seen some marvels in my time. I’ve seen planets so blue that it will turn every other shade you see to gray. I’ve seen freighters that have carried literally generations of refugees from one end of the galaxy to the other, housed in a massive floating citadel. On and on, I can tell you wonders as long as you keep the drinks heading my way, but the Iron City—it’s like describing something not built with hands, but carved with a mind.
The first thing that gets you is how absolutely white it is—in stark comparison to space it can’t help but bring a sense of awe. The size then hits you—it’s the size of a large M Class planet. It’s called a “space port” in every index and chart there is, but that’s like calling a Groish Needle “poisonous” or our Emperor simply “corrupt.” Then you see the traffic of ships—thousands of ships going in and out with precision and order—because that’s what the Iron City demands.
By the time you remember to blink, it will call you to dock and then, and I hate it too, it takes your ship. It isn’t pulling you in with some kind of lazy tractor beam—it isn’t hacking your console so your ship lurches and obeys. Let me be clear—it takes your ship, in its entirety, brushes aside your AI like a spoiled child, and docks your ship. There’s no discussion—just two words across every screen in your ship: SIT BACK. When your ship docks, it’s done with such precision you barely feel it, you are met with a careful whisper instead of a bumbling clang. As Iron City’s nanobots run across your ship, examining it for contraband and necessary repairs, you wait for the airlock to open, like it’s the start of a race—and that’s because it is—everyone only has 48 hours to stay on Iron City—and then it will remove you one way or another.
When you enter, you are struck with how clean everything is—not a smudge, not a stain. No political posters hang on the wall, tattered with defeat. There isn’t a single advertisement for a holodeck or a new drug to cure your space sickness. The only noise you’ll hear is the moving of your fellow visitors, and even they talk in a civilized tone. Because instinctively, no one wants the AI’s attention. Even though you know if you throw a ration bar wrapper on the ground, the nanobots will devour it and repurpose it before you can blink, but you don’t. You simply get what you came for: sit at the bar where you are rationed to one alcoholic drink per two hours depending on your size, eat at the restaurant with your crew, head to the spa, take in holo, and take the edge off of space for a bit. And if you see someone you hate, who maybe gave you the shit end of a deal at some point, you simply raise your glass or even make peace, because the Iron City isn’t the place for airing out your grievances. Let me be clear—there is no brig here, nowhere you can bail your mates out, or send an apology. You misbehave and well, there you are—or aren’t—as soon as the nanobots swarm your foolish heart.
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