The electric lamps flickered on one by one down the row, decking the Bruckhaven Dockyards in a deceptive calm. Tycho poked his head out of the alleyway and darted his eyes back and forth, scanning the fringes of the platform. The coast was clear. He signaled to the crew. Moving fast, they sprung out of the alley behind him and crept across the platform towards a maintenance ladder leading down to the tarmac. Tycho stood by, casually keeping watch as the team mounted the ladder. One by one they descended, each throwing the thief one last fateful glance before dropping down into the docks’ darkened underbelly.

  With the team safely away, Tycho straightened his Verloren guard’s uniform and nonchalantly emerged from the alleyway. He strolled down the platform as if he belonged, moving past the grounded Redland Runner and the pair of sentries guarding its portside door. As he walked, Tycho greeted his ‘fellow’ Verloren workers with friendly evening pleasantries, all the while making his way towards a loading area in the distance, marked by rows of finely stacked steel drums. Removing his golden lighter from his pocket, he flicked back the base lid and ignited the flame.

  A devilish smile crept onto his face.

  Dozens of feet below, the crew slunk slowly across the tarmac. They clung to the shadows, weaving in and out of the rows of pillars holding up the docks, carefully eyeing the teams of Verloren engineers that busily worked only a few meters away. Harried shouts filled the air as the workers performed last-minute maintenance on the tires and undercarriages of their warships, ignorant to the four adventurers lurking in the shade behind them.

  The team pressed on in silence, creeping down the series of docks until finally reaching the Redland Runner’s port. They stepped out from the pillars and emerged into the dying sunlight. Pressing themselves against the ship’s hull near the cargo door, they looked around with vigilant trepidation, standing by for Tycho’s mysterious signal.

  “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?” whispered Kaelis.

  “Shh,” Sheah replied.

  A sound of footsteps rapped on the concrete platform above them. Cringing, the team flattened themselves further against the hull, trying their best to blend in with its darkened cracks and crevices. They angled their heads up to see one of the two portside door sentries unexpectedly break away from her post. She meandered over to the edge of the platform, a loose cigarette hanging from her mouth. Planting her feet, the guard began to fumble with a book of matches, oblivious to the group of adventurers nuzzled against the ship below.

  The crew held their breath, watching the guard in horror. They were now pinned, unable to move a muscle, their window to free the ship narrowing with every passing second. And worse yet, despite being obscured in the ship’s shadows, they weren’t invisible. An angling of the guard’s head, a closer inspection of the vessel below her, and the team’s entire scheme would crumble in an instant.

  The guard flicked a spent match down onto the tarmac and took a long draw from her cigarette. She stared off at the fading sun, weariness written on her face, and breathed in another deep puff. Suddenly she gagged, inhaling something foul. Her hacking swelled into a full-blown coughing spell. Eyes clenched shut, she wheezed over the edge of the dock, her nose pointed directly at the crew.

  The team stared up at the guard, their faces frozen, contorted into expressions of terror. Kaelis wrapped her fingers around her gun as the others tensed their legs, preparing to scuttle the operation and scatter at any moment.

  And then, suddenly, a shrill siren blared out from the far side of the docks. Its ringing echoed out across the yard, breaking any suggestion of peace. The guard jolted upright, her sleepy demeanor vanishing instantly. She whipped around to face the cause of the disturbance, clearing the last of the phlegm from her lungs.

  “The hell’s goin’ on?” shouted the guard’s partner as he trotted over to join her.

  A young dockhand abruptly appeared on the platform, sprinting up to the pair of sentries. “Fire!” he shouted, hectically beckoning for their assistance. “Fire at port twelve! We need to evacuate the cargo! Come on!” The dockhand then sped away as fast as he had arrived.

  The two guards exchanged bug-eyed glances. Leaping to action, the smoking guard flickered her cigarette over the edge of the platform before racing off after the dockhand. Her comrade swiftly followed at her heels.

  In unison, the crew all let out their muted breath.

  “Guess that’s the signal,” mused Dez, grimacing at the wailing sirens.

  Sheah nodded to the team—it was time to get to work.

  Jira promptly split from the group. She hustled over to the ship’s front wheel, its enormous height looming well over her head. Firmly fastened to the hubcap was the boot: a crusty claw of heavy iron slung around the treads, painted industrial orange. Squinting through the shadow, Jira could just make out a circular keyhole embedded in the center of the device. She pulled the large key from her jacket and jammed it into the lock. Grabbing hold of the key's handles, ignoring its label suggesting two or more people for the job, she flexed her bulky arms and forcefully began to twist. After a half-rotation the device lurched. The boot sprang open, dropping from the wheel and onto the ground with a mighty thud.

  The rest of the team zipped over to the cargo door. Sheah handed Dez a small, flat key.

  “Stand back,” Dez warned as he threw open a panel at the side of the ramp. He inserted the key into its slot and pressed down on a large red button. Bright orange siren lights flared to life on either side of the door, spinning dizzyingly. The cargo ramp heaved. Gradually it angled outward, the cacophonous grind of its hydraulics handily masked by the blaring alarms in the distance.

  Kaelis and Sheah stood idly by, their gaze anxiously fixed onto the landing above them. They eyed the tops of frenzied workers’ heads darting back and forth in hysterics. Kaelis held herself steady as she waited for the door, her grip tightening around her pistol.

  Finally, Dez released the button. The hydraulics hissed and the warning lights darkened. With the ramp angled open just enough to slip through, he stepped away from the panel. “Okay, go,” he said, directing his teammates. Moving single file, Sheah, Kaelis, and Jira all swiftly squeezed into the narrow gap, disappearing into the bowels of the ship. Dez took one last look around for safety before hoisting himself in behind them.

  Moving fast, Dez dashed over to the back of the cargo bay. He pried back a large wall panel and jammed himself into the crawlspace, wriggling his way from the hold to the engine room. Once inside, he quietly climbed up to the suspended platform and snuck over to the ignition key hanging on its wall hook.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim emergency lighting, he began to take in the state of the space around him. The engine room was a total sty. Verloren workers had rummaged through every drawer and cabinet, turning over anything not bolted to the ground. Surveying the damage, Dez glanced down to see his saxophone case carelessly tossed against the wall. He immediately let out a silent scream. Mission be damned, he rushed over without a second thought, throwing open the lid. Inside was his precious instrument, unharmed and in pristine condition, safely cradled in the case’s velvet lining.

  Dez expelled a relieved breath. Lifting his saxophone, he gently rocked it in his arms. “It’s okay,” he soothed. “Yer safe now.”

  Back in the cargo hold, the remaining three members of the team softly clambered up the stairway leading to the galley. Kaelis took the lead, gun drawn and at the ready. Stealthily, she lifted the hatch and stuck her eyes through the crack, peeking around the kitchen area.

  “All clear,” Kaelis reported. Throwing open the hatch, she and her two comrades emerged into the galley. They scurried across the room, heading for the stairs leading up to the deck.

  Just then, the sound of a flushing toilet murmured from down the hall. The trio abruptly stopped in their tracks. They swiveled their heads around just in time to catch the washroom door sliding open. Out stepped a Verloren guard, fresh-faced and youthful, adjusting his pants. He glanced down the corridor towards the three frozen women.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “…Ah!” the guard then yelped, reeling. Clumsily, he yanked his shortsword from his belt. “Help! Intruders! Helllp!” he squawked. His cries went unheard by absent ears.

  Jira scowled. Loosening her shoulders, she stepped to the head of the hall. “I’ll handle this,” she announced before throwing Sheah a decisive look. “Get to the bridge, take the helm.”

  “Me?” asked Sheah, somewhat alarmed. “Ar—are you certain?”

  Jira gave her a strong, affirmative grunt before returning her attention to the guard.

  “C’mon,” said Kaelis, yanking on Sheah’s sleeve. After a breath, Sheah staunchly nodded, and together they rushed up the stairs.

  The two women sprang onto the deck and slammed the hatch shut behind them. They stepped out into the open air, only to be greeted by the acrid smell of smoke and a gentle rain of ash. Turning to face the ship’s bow, they looked off towards the port at the end of the row, finally witnessing the true extent of Tycho’s great distraction.

  “Whoa…” breathed Kaelis, awestruck by the sight.

  Thick, black smoke was billowing up into the sky. A roaring hellfire danced along the concrete of the platform, its flames cresting over the numerous Verloren ships and cargo strewn about the middle distance. Dozens, if not hundreds, of panicked workers scurried about, desperately scrambling to quell the inferno, fighting a losing battle against the fire.

  Sheah slapped her forehead. “Oh, Lords…”

  Tycho peeked out from his hiding spot behind a steel shipping container, admiring his own handiwork. Safely removed from the blaze, he gleefully watched as the raging fire slowly inched its way down the platform, moving from the pile of oily rags where it started towards the stack of barrels a dozen meters downwind. Throngs of Verloren personnel scrambled around the stack, desperately trying to vacate the mess of cargo.

  A few paces away, Verloren Sub-Lieutenant Fahri anxiously scuttled back and forth, one worried hand permanently glued to the top of her head. She barked frantic orders at her workers as they moved in teams, attempting to hurriedly haul the barrels up the platform.

  “Keep those chemicals away from the flames!” she shouted. “The fire brigade is on its way!”

  Tycho dipped deeper into cover as the sound of clomping footsteps approached. A heavyset Verloren suit ran up to Tycho’s hiding spot and stopped to brace himself against the container, panting fervently and taking deep gulps of air. Working to steady his breath, he ripped a radio from his pocket and pressed it against his mouth. “We… have a situation down at the docks!” he squalled. “Send backup. Alert the brass!” With that, he collected himself and raced off again, huffing towards the terminal.

  Poking his head back out, Tycho tracked the suit as he toddled away. Again alone from prying eyes, he returned his attention to the chaos around him. He watched it all unfold like an uproarious play, a twisted grin smeared across his face.

  Sheah rubbed her temples. “This is not what I had in mind when I said ‘distraction’,” she grumbled.

  Kaelis stared out at the blaze with a bewildered smile. “This is incredible.”

  “Come on, we are wasting time,” said Sheah, grabbing Kaelis by the arm. Leading her comrade, she marched towards the bridge.

  Down in the galley, Jira calmly paced back and forth across the hardwood floor, diligently studying the simpering guard planted in the middle of the hall. She threw her jacket onto the table and tightened the straps on her headband.

  “Do you know who I am?” she asked. The young man stared back at her, his sword trembling in his hands.

  “Uh… I think so…” he squeaked. “You’re ‘The Knife’.”

  Jira gave him a small nod. “Surrender.”

  The boy raised his sword, his eyes swirling with fear. “I—I need this job.”

  Jira let out a sympathetic sigh. She pulled a small dagger from her belt and flowed into a fighting stance, raising her arms and jutting her knee forward. Breathing steadily, her body loose, she stared down the boy, waiting for him to make the first move.

  The boy suddenly bristled like a cornered animal. His every muscle taut to bursting, his eyes glossy and wide, he lunged, shrieking a shrill battle cry. He thrust his sword at Jira’s chest. She nimbly stepped aside. The guard’s momentum carried him forward. He slammed his stomach into the lip of the galley table, squeezing the air from his lungs. Panicking, he shook himself and whirled back around. Jira stood back, eyeing him up.

  The boy leapt towards Jira and slashed at her recklessly. She stayed on her toes, calmly keeping just out of range of his blade, occasionally deflecting a blow with the knife in her offhand.

  The boy began to slow, his energy already fading. The two combatants stepped apart. The young guard kept his sword raised and studied Jira up and down, desperately searching for an opening. Jira read his intentions.

  The thunderous sounds of shouts and engines emerged from outside the ship, passing by and growling on down the platform. At once, Jira saw the perfect ploy. Acting distracted by the noise, she took her eyes off the boy, subtly loosening her stance.

  The guard saw his opportunity. Rushing forward, sword raised, he screamed at the top of his lungs, ready to deliver his killing blow.

  Jira snapped her sights back on the boy and smirked.

  She had him.

  In a flash she shot up her foot and nailed it straight into the charging boy’s face. With an elegant twist she hooked his neck and slammed her leg down, driving the guard’s body onto the floor. He crumpled to the ground in a tangled mess, out cold in an instant.

  Jira exhaled. Just like that, it was over. She sheathed her knife and picked up the boy's limp body. He slowly stirred, eyes fluttering, mumbling incoherently, his nose gushing with a thick stream of blood.

  “Sorry, ume,” Jira apologized as she carried him out of the portside door.

  Tycho at last had his fill of the chaos. Satisfied that the docks were now in a sufficient state of frenzy, he slipped out of his hiding spot and integrated himself into the throngs of distraught workers, all of them far too preoccupied with the fire to notice his presence. He slithered his way through the crowd, retreating towards the city.

  As Tycho reached the fringes of the fracas, an oncoming fireship cut off his path. Stepping aside to let it pass, he watched as it pulled up to the blaze and a squad of fire brigadiers leapt from its back. At once, they began to temper the flames with military precision. The sirens whirred down moments later as the fire was swiftly contained.

  Tycho smiled to himself—his diversion was a rousing success, and best of all, nobody was seriously injured. Brimming with triumph, he moved to resume his exit.

  Swiveling back around, Tycho suddenly twitched. Standing before him were a familiar pair of sneering faces, blocking his escape.

  “Well look who it is!” said Corporal Reuf, her hands planted on her hips.

  “Hello there, friend,” added Private Tombal.

  “Mighty interesting runnin’ into you again.”

  “Mighty interestin’.”

  Tycho masked his surprise with a friendly grin. “Hey there again,” he said, attempting to sidestep the pair. “Listen, sorry I can’t chat, I gotta run. Got strict orders, ya see—”

  Tombal shoved his hand into Tycho’s chest, holding him back.

  “Ya know, it’d seem the maintenance shack was broken into right under our noses,” said Reuf, leaning in brashly. “Door came flyin’ off its hinges, it did. Ain’t that suspicious?”

  “Mighty suspicious,” Tombal added.

  “Not sure when that coulda happened.”

  “Maybe it were durin’ our inspection.”

  “Only, there weren’t no inspection, were there Tombal?”

  “Commander Schroder ain’t even here today.”

  “Seems to me like there’s a rabble rouser afoot. Could be an inside job.”

  “Or an outside job actin’ like an inside job,” said Tombal, leering at Tycho’s uniform suspiciously.

  “Hear that, friend? This job could be happenin’ from anywhere.”

  “Anywhere at all.”

  Tycho’s fake smile grew wider. He forced a chuckle and raised his hands defensively. “Look, I don't know what you’re thinkin’, but I assure you—Hey!”

  Reuf moved behind Tycho with alarming speed. She grabbed his arms and forced them behind his back.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” said Tycho, his calm veneer chipping slightly.

  Reuf slapped a set of steel cuffs over Tycho’s wrists, binding them together. “Can’t be takin’ no chances,” she huffed. “You best stick around while we figure some things out.”

  Tycho furrowed his brow, greatly unamused by this development. He took a brief glance towards the Redland Runner. “This is why we respect the craft…” he muttered.

  “What’s that?” said Tombal.

  “Nothing.”

  “C’mon, let’s bring him to the CO,” said Reuf as she lightly shoved Tycho between his shoulder blades.

  “Yeah. C’mon, Private.” Tombal moved next to Tycho and shoved him again.

  Tycho sighed, mortified, embarrassed. He began his indignant march down the platform, the pair of guards trailing vigilantly behind him, driving him towards the Verloren tents in the distance.