Dez ambled down the Bruckhaven docks, on the hunt for some assistance. His repairs on the Redland Runner had hit a bit of a snag. While the ship was technically up and running, the pirate attack had done a number on the secondary water pump, burning out a good portion of its electrical wiring. An easy enough fix, were it not for the fact that Dez was plumb out of replacement cabling. He knew from experience that it was best to sort the issue early, before things got worse and the ship was left without a working shower. Again.

  Trident Station was in a tizzy that afternoon, and not in the usual way. Gone were the flocks of travelers and sightseers, replaced instead by a platoon of Verloren Industries guards. They patrolled in pairs up and down the platform, keeping a watchful eye on the Union ships and their crews. While a Verloren envoy had assured Dez that the sentries were simply there as a precautionary measure, and that he and the rest of the expeditioners should go about their business as normal, he knew better than to trust the word of the corporations. How they convinced Union leadership to allow this, Dez was still puzzled over, but he trusted President Grietz just barely enough to not fret about it for the time being. Whatever his reasons, they must have been good.

  Making his way to the last dock in the row, Dez came to an ample, artistically-customized landship. As always, he took a moment to admire it, taking in the matte-black finish wrapped in decals of cobalt thunderbolts, which surged from the bow and spelled out the name of the ship in stylized voltaic lettering: CHAINED LIGHTNING. Peering up at the ship’s hull, Dez spotted a twitchy, graying man with wild, gravity-defying hair dangling haphazardly off the side of the ship from a scaffold. He was busily welding a seam in the hull, unbothered by the shower of sparks bouncing off his goggles.

  “Hey there, Jym,” greeted Dez as he approached his old colleague.

  “Hm? Huh—what?” Jym craned his neck around like a quizzical bird. “Ah, hey hey, Dez!” he said with a toothy grin, his goggles making him appear just that much more unhinged. “What can I do ya for?”

  “Ya got any spare copperhead I can borrow?” asked Dez. “Pirate attack left the ship in a hell of a state.”

  “Sure thing. Help yourself.” Jym gestured down to a box of copper cables sitting uncomfortably close to the edge of the platform, wedged against a stack of rubber tubing.

  “Thanks!” said Dez. “Yer a lifesaver.” He ambled over to the box and began to coil a length of wire around his arm. “Some morning, eh?”

  “You can say that again,” Jym said, putting the finishing touches on his weld. “This is even crazier than that thing back in '37. Not only do we got Verloren suits bargin’ into all our ships in the dead of night, but now I’m hearin’ everyone’s been grounded for the time bein’—only corpo vessels allowed in or out.”

  “Yeah, the company convinced the station officials to put a freeze on the docks,” said Dez, eying the packs of viridian uniforms prowling the platform. “They say they’re lookin’ fer somethin’, but I couldn’t tell ya what.”

  “Ain’t like Verloren to lose a thing. I betcha a hundred saebs the Thieves Union pinched one of their hauls, and the corps is just usin’ it as an excuse to harass us. Still, I ain’t complainin’—gives me a chance to finally catch up on some repairs.” Jym swung his legs over to the other edge of the scaffold and watched Dez spool his cable. “So, uh, Jira ain’t with ya this morning?”

  “Naw,” Dez replied. “With all that’s goin’ on she said she needed to head out for some guidance.”

  “Ah, that’s nice. A good, strong woman like Jira shouldn’t let no corporate suits keep her from livin’ her life.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  Just then, a wave of commotion swept its way up the platform. All of the Verloren personnel seemed to drop their tasks at once. They rushed off, heading straight towards a fixed point in the distance, hooting and hollering as they did. Dez kept his head down and paid it no mind—whatever they were up to, it was no concern of his.

  Jym pulled off his goggles and squinted quizzically, tracking the movement of the guards. “Hey, Dez?”

  “Yeah?” said Dez, glancing up from his spooling.

  Jym pointed down the platform. “Ain’t that your ship?”

  “What’s that?” Dez followed Jym’s lingering finger towards the source of the sudden hubbub.

  Halfway up the platform, at the Redland Runner’s port, the horde of Verloren personnel were amassing, descending on the ship from all directions. Using hooks and ladders, they began swarming up its hull like ants.

  “Hey now!” Dez leaped to his feet, dumping the cable on the ground. He raced back towards the ship without a second thought.

  “Give my best to Jira!” called Jym. He swung back around to resume his work.

  As Dez neared the Redland Runner’s port, he found himself slowing, a few rational thoughts poking holes in his panic. Rushing in would only bring him trouble—he’d be much better off playing this one on the sly. Slapping on a calm face, he casually integrated himself into the sparse afternoon crowd, flowing with it the rest of the way.

  Arriving at the scene, Dez moved in for a closer look. He was able to count around a dozen Verloren personnel poring over the ins-and-outs of the Redland Runner, searching its every crevice and corner, touching all sorts of things that didn’t belong to them. Posted in the surrounding port was a squad of corporate guards. They scanned the dockyards around them, hands resting on their swords, on the lookout for any suspicious characters.

  Dez’s eye was then drawn towards the bow. Standing before it was a peacock of a man clad in a molded muscle breastplate, a plumed helm slicked over his head. Dez recognized the man at once, having seen his photo on the radio a dozen times throughout the years—he was definitely one of Verloren’s Executive Agents. With his mouth stretched in a wide smile, the agent was spending his energies attempting to wave away any onlookers trying to get ahead of the latest gossip.

  “Move it along, good people, nothing at all to see,” the agent proclaimed, exchanging eyes with a pair of fawning women. “Yes, yes, I know—‘Tis I, Rohas Undali in the flesh. Please, feel free to view me from afar. Thank you.”

  Slipping from the crowd, Dez nonchalantly sidled up to the agent—it was a risk, but maybe he could get some answers. “Hey there, fella,” he greeted with amicable aplomb. “What’s all the fracas about?”

  “Oh, simply some Verloren company business,” the agent rotely answered. “Now, if you would please be on your way.”

  “Aw, c’mon,” Dez moaned, trying to look past the man’s tasseled shoulder. “What’s the rumble? I gotta know.”

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, the agent unleashed a light sigh. “Well, if you simply must,” he said. “The owner of this vessel and whatever thugs she’s running with are guilty of conspiring with a rogue broker in order to steal valuable Verloren property. We have come here to recover our assets, and to ensure that these thieves face due justice.”

  “Steal?” said Dez, his brows shooting up. “Uh, wow, that sounds pretty serious! You round any of ‘em up yet?”

  “We have posted a bulletin for the ringleader and are working to identify her cohorts—but rest assured, we will find them.” The agent crossed his arms, smirking with pride. “And now we have their ship. They won’t be getting very far.”

  “Gotcha,” said Dez, putting on a pleasant smile. “Well, thanks fer the scoop. I’ll let ya get back to it. Hope ya catch those rat bastards!” He gave the agent a nice, hard slap on the back before casually sauntering down the platform towards the terminal.

  Once out of sight of the agent and the ship, Dez dropped his calm charade. He pursed his lip, his mustache bristling with dread. The situation with the broker and the dirty job had turned out to be so much worse than he could’ve ever imagined—not only had they apparently undercut Verloren Industries of all people, but now the company was spinning lies, saying that he and his team had deliberately stolen from them. He’d have to pull every string he had at the Union to get them out of this mess.

  That said, if there was a paper-thin silver lining to all this, it was that Verloren Industries was after them, and not some band of mercenaries or pirates—at least the companies didn’t have people killed, Dez was sure of that. Still, he needed to find the others and get to Union HQ before Verloren could drown them all in barristers. Where Kaelis and Sheah could be he had no idea, so he’d have to collect Jira first.

  Looking at the massive clock affixed above the terminal’s grand entrance, Dez took note of the time—15:47. He had less than thirteen minutes to reach Jira before her service got out, and nearly a mile of ground to cover to get there. There was no time to wait for the trolley—he was going to have to run for it, the thought of which caused him to break into a preemptive sweat. Peering down Trident Station’s main platform and the city blocks beyond, Dez drew in deep, preparatory breaths and hiked up his pants. Once clear of the crowd, he lurched into a jog and then a full run, huffing and puffing his way out of the docks and into the thick of the city.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Jira sat purposefully alone in the back of the only Varian sanctum in Bruckhaven, her head bowed in deep contemplation. Kneeling on an embroidered cushion, she fretfully pressed her palms together, her mind disquieted by a tempest of thoughts and pains and hopes. Ama-Lasria, the Dead City—it was no longer just a dream. Was it fate that brought her to these crossroads? Was this her chance to finally surmount the terrible things she had caused? Silently, she prayed to the Ehrla Var, asking for a sign—something, anything—to set her on the proper path.

  Between her prayers, Jira let the familiar words of the Channeler soothe her troubled mind. The elderly Varian Channeler, draped head to toe in intricate tattoos and muted robes, stood atop a short stage at the back of the sanctum, preaching her weekly sermon to the scant congregation. The entirety of the assembly were fellow Dierrosi—immigrants to the Empire from the Republic to the east, typified by their hardy features and bodies inked with the yearly stories of their lives. They sat peppered throughout the rows of ragged prayer cushions, listening attentively as the Channeler’s voice reverberated across the barren walls.

  The Bruckhaven sanctum was a far cry from those of Jira’s birthplace: sparse and cramped, bereft of every elegance. Its traditionally radial layout had been straightened and squeezed to fit inside the oblong building, while its wood-veneered walls and flooring had begun to peel away, exposing the craggy brick beneath. Only one precious object existed to give the space a touch of the divine: a solid gold statuette placed upon the central altar, depicting four semicircular arms around a central spike—the holy symbol of Varicism, representing the elements of creation and the cosmic gods that seeded them.

  Presiding over the statuette, standing pressed against the far wall, was the resident Sanctumkeeper, garbed in his ceremonial tunic. His hood drawn low, he kept an especially close watch on the altar, all the while nodding along to the Channeler’s ongoing sermon.

  “This week, the Gods’ song came to me as a mesh of tones,” spoke the Channeler, her Dierrosi accent, much like Jira’s, softened by years of living away from the homeland. “They were woven tight together, all of them low, all of them somber. But then they grew, ever slowly, swelling and slurring before all at once bursting apart into a dozen dazzling harmonies. And that music carried on, until I could hear it no longer.”

  The Channeler smiled. “The shape of this motif serves to remind us of the true nature of creation: that from the Ehrla Var, one note became several. The fathomless beasts soared across the empty plane, and in their wake arose the planets, the stars, and the very seeds of the Life Trees themselves. Remember, my Diema, we must not heed the myths of Anjalatry: the Anja Rai did not forge the Archmother’s seed, they merely found it, planted it. They are not our true creators. The Imperials call them Angels, but they are not divine. They are but another race, all of us bound together by the same fabric, all of us born equal under the Ehrla Var’s boundless grace and wisdom. And when we pass on from this plane, our souls will all be judged alike. But only those of us who opened their hearts to the Gods, who lived a life worthy of their gifts, will find purchase within the Dream—”

  “Captain, there you are!” shouted Sheah as she and Kaelis stumbled into the sanctum. “Thank goodness!”

  At once, Jira hunched her shoulders, shrinking herself low, beyond humiliated. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room as the Channeler and the crowd all turned towards Sheah and glared at her with righteous outrage.

  A look of profound embarrassment fell over Sheah’s face as she realized just what she had walked into. “Angel’s light, I am so sorry!” she sputtered. “I mean, not the Angels, um, because you don’t worship, uh…” She quickly threw herself onto a cushion behind Jira and buried her face in her hands.

  Kaelis scooted in next to Sheah. “Very smooth,” she teased.

  “Shut. Up.”

  Jira massaged her temples, fighting with every last ounce of her willpower to not break the sanctum’s sacred laws and throttle her companions in the aisle.

  Kaelis leaned in and whispered in Jira’s ear. “Captain, we need to talk.”

  “Not now,” she grumbled back, barely containing her temper. She forced a calming breath, attempting to regain her concentration as the Channeler cleared her throat and resumed her sermon.

  “But Captain, we’re in deep trouble,” said Kaelis.

  “I said hush!” Jira scowled. “The service is nearly over.”

  “We’re very sorry, Captain,” Sheah apologized. “But this cannot wait.”

  “Okay, what?!” Jira whispered at the top of her lungs, wheeling around and staring daggers at the two women. “What could possibly be so important?”

  “You tell her,” said Kaelis, ceding the floor to Sheah.

  “Yes, I was going to.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “I am,” snapped Sheah indignantly. She cleared her throat and looked Jira in the eyes. “When we arrived at my uncle’s brokerage shortly after this morning’s interruption, I was first tipped off to something being amiss by the presence of poli—”

  “You don’t need to paint us a picture. Just tell her the important part.”

  “It is all important. She has to know the details.”

  “You’re wasting time. Look, let me—”

  Jira crushed her brows together, unable to stomach their inane babble for a second longer. “Enough!” she growled. “It can wait. Get out.”

  Kaelis leaned in, taking the lead. “But, Captain—”

  “I said ‘out’.”

  “Captain,” said Kaelis, striking a somber tone. “The broker is dead.”

  Shutting her eyes, Jira shook her head. Surely this was some kind of elaborate joke. “…Dead?” she asked.

  “Verloren Industries had him killed!” added Sheah.

  Jira rubbed her eyelids, trying and failing to follow this sudden development. “…What?”

  As if that wasn’t confusing enough, Dez suddenly burst in through the sanctum doorway. He wildly scanned the congregation, gasping for air, reeling as if he were about to pass out or vomit or both. Finally, he spotted Jira and the girls, his worried look melting to relief.

  “Thank—thank the Angels I found ya!” he quietly huffed. Quickly catching his blasphemy, he cast his gaze to the heavens. “All due respect,” he offered before politely sliding onto the cushion next to Jira. “I’m so—I’m so glad yer all safe.”

  “Dez!” smiled Kaelis.

  Sheah placed an allayed hand on her heart. “Thank goodness,” she breathed.

  Jira furrowed her brow even deeper. “What do you mean, ‘safe’?”

  “Listen… Verloren…” wheezed Dez excitedly, fighting to find the words. “I was reparin’ the ship… and then I left… and when I came back… They’ve taken over the Red!”

  “WHAT?!!” cried Sheah at the top of her lungs. A round of intense shushing bellowed from the congregation, forcing her to shrink into her seat.

  A look of dread poured into Kaelis’s eyes. “Oh, shit…”

  Jira stared at her teammates, utterly lost and bewildered. “What is going o—”

  “What are they doing to my ship?” Sheah sharply asked.

  “I didn’t get a good look, but I—”

  “Verloren is trying to kill us!” Kaelis blurted out, cutting him off.

  “What?” gasped Dez. “Wait. Kill us? No. They wouldn’t. Why?”

  “Uncle Karsten was unaware that he was crossing Verloren when he gave me the information, and when they found out… they…”

  “They did him in,” said Kaelis bluntly, “and now they’re coming for us!”

  “Hold on a minute,” insisted Dez, waving his hands around. “Verloren are a lot of things, but they ain’t no killers.”

  “Tell that to the agent that was just shooting at us,” replied Kaelis.

  Dez frowned. “S—shooting?”

  “And now without the Redland Runner we are trapped!” grieved Sheah. “What are we going to do?”

  The three crewmates all looked at each other before slowly drifting their attention towards Jira. They stared at her like sad, lost puppies, begging for an answer.

  “…I don’t know,” said Jira, dumbfounded.

  “Let us pray,” called the Channeler to the crowd. The congregation bowed their heads.

  Jira shot her companions a pleading look. “Silence. Please.”

  “We raise our spirits to the Ehrla Var—creators of all that is known,” spoke the Channeler, lifting her arms to the heavens. “May you hear our silent song and shepherd our souls to the Dream Eternal when we reach the journey’s end. As it was, as it is, and as it shall ever be.”

  “Itziah Da,” responded the crowd.

  “Itziah Da,” said Jira in tandem.

  The Channeler lowered her head and shut her eyes. Jira and the congregation followed suit, bowing their heads to the floor. The room calmed to a gentle, meditative silence.

  Jira pushed against the torrent of troubles seeping into the mind and reached out with her soul, attempting to feel the presence of the Ehrla Var. If she could only wipe away her thoughts, if she could let it all fade away, then she might finally hear the distant, ephemeral music of the Gods. And then maybe, just maybe, she could finally feel the guidance she so desperately sought.

  “Psst. Captain,” whispered Kaelis, jabbing her finger into Jira’s shoulder.

  Jira’s eyes snapped open, her concentration shattered to pieces. She whipped around, nostrils flaring, face glowing red, and glared straight at Kaelis with murderous intent.

  “Ah, I’m sorry, Captain,” Kaelis timidly apologized, waving her hands. She pointed towards the back of the sanctum. “But, uh, is that part of the ceremony?”

  Silently, Jira followed Kaelis’s pointing finger. Standing at the altar was the hooded Sanctumkeeper, his hands hovering over the golden statuette. With all eyes in the room lowered to the ground, the man performed a curt, prayer-adjacent gesture, bowing deeply. Suddenly satisfied with his piety, he silently swiveled around and scurried down the aisle towards the exit.

  Jira’s anger transformed into confusion as she and her comrades watched the man slink past them with unusual grace. A deep unease abruptly shivered through her—she did not know the keeper personally, but she knew he would never act so profanely as to leave in the middle of a service, doubly so during a call to prayer. Baffled, she turned her head back towards the front of the room, casting her gaze over to the altar where the man had once stood. Her heart skipped at the sight.

  The sacred Varian relic was gone. That was definitely not part of the ceremony—and that man was definitely no Sanctumkeeper.

  “Eiz!” Jira shouted, shooting up from her cushion and swinging around to face the impostrous thief. The congregation stirred at her outburst. They broke from their prayer, gradually becoming aware of the missing statuette. A wave of shocked murmurs washed over the room.

  “Zehr Varro!” cried the Channeler.

  Jira threw a damning finger at the man, now halfway out the door. “You, deceiver! Stop!”

  The man turned, the glint of the golden relic visible behind his arms. He stuffed the statuette into his robes and took off running, dashing out of the sanctum courtyard and down the road.

  Jira threw herself over Dez and out of the row. “Move!” she shouted back at her visibly bemused teammates.

  No time for questions, the crew sprang into action, swiftly flopping off of their cushions and into the aisle. Jira sprinted out the door, hot on the trail of the thief, as her team scrambled to their feet and followed at her heels.