“We’re going to need a lot more iron fowl,” Zibya declared, peering through her spyglass at the *Iron Serpent*’s formidable silhouette. The dreadnought, a leviathan of riveted plating and burnished brass, was berthed beside their smoldering ruins. Its main turbine block, the very core of its drive system, gleamed in the early light. Bodasht, ever practical, clicked his stylus against a datapad. “Quantifying ‘a lot.’ The perimeter defenses of Hadraba’s yard consist of three concentric rings of sonic emitters, four thermal-scan tripwires, and six patrol automatons programmed for avian recognition. A single, standard-issue clockwork runner will trigger a localized disorienting pulse, alerting the nearest patrol unit.” “Exactly,” Zibya grinned, tapping the brass tube against her palm. She pulled a tattered schematic from her belt pouch, unfurling a hastily drawn diagram. “But a flock of *hundreds*? All synchronized to mimic a stampede, specifically tuned to overload the avian recognition protocols. Their combined sonic signature will blanket the entire perimeter, frying the emitters and creating a window in the thermal scans.” “A logical, if highly explosive, approach,” Bodasht conceded, already calculating optimal launch vectors. “It will, however, require a minimum of 473 modified mechanical runners. Our current operational inventory stands at seventeen.” Zibya gestured to the heap of discarded gears, coiled springs, and half-assembled airframes that formed a small mountain in the corner of their partially demolished shop. “Then we build. And Tzik-Tzik,” she added, turning to the brass iguana who was currently gnawing on a stray bearing, “you have a special assignment.” Tzik-Tzik paused, a tiny brass pellet dropping from its jaws. Its six optical sensors swiveled, focusing on Zibya with an unnerving intensity. It understood. Or at least, it understood that it was about to eat something shiny. “You’re going to find the Golden Screw,” Zibya whispered, leaning close. “It’s a rumor, a legend, said to be the crucial fastener in Hadraba’s turbine, the one that holds the entire drive together. If it exists, it’s going to be in the main engine chamber. You get in, you find it, and you bring it back.” The iguana’s tail gave a single, excited twitch. Its mission was clear: acquire the ultimate snack. Hours later, under the guise of the pre-dawn gloom, a mechanical stampede erupted from the Magan workshop’s charred ruins. Hundreds of spring-wound striders, each leg a whirring piston, each neck a bobbing coil-spring, surged across the uneven stone. Their metallic squawks, amplified and distorted, became a cacophony that drowned out the hum of the shipyard. As predicted, the perimeter defenses of Hadraba’s private yard went into immediate, catastrophic overload. Sonic emitters shrieked and then died, showering sparks. Thermal scanners flickered into incoherent static. The avian recognition automatons, overwhelmed by the sheer number of false positives, began to spin in dizzying circles, their internal gears grinding against each other until they seized up, puffing smoke. Zibya and Bodasht moved with practiced efficiency, slipping through the now-inert defenses. Tzik-Tzik, a tiny brass shadow, vanished into the *Iron Serpent*’s cavernous engine vents. They were halfway across the main apron, a vast expanse of reinforced plating, when a familiar, saccharine voice echoed through the dim light. “Oh, Zibya! I knew you’d fall back on your old habits.” Yisharra, resplendent in a shimmering gown that seemed utterly out of place amidst the grease and grit, emerged from behind a towering static capacitor. Her eyes, still bearing a faint pink tinge from the dye-pack incident, welled up with performative tears. “You’re trying to steal from poor Lord Hadraba! After all he’s done to help me… I just can’t let you destroy his research.” She sniffled dramatically, reaching for a prominent, glowing red button on a nearby control panel, labeled ‘ALL-HAZARD ALERT.’ Bodasht’s calculations were instantaneous. “The 'All-Hazard Alert' system is not a standard siren. It initiates a localized electromagnetic pulse, followed by a high-pressure sonic burst, capable of disabling unshielded clockwork mechanisms within a thirty-meter radius. Simultaneously, it triggers a full lockdown of the slipway, sealing all exits.” Yisharra’s finger hovered over the button, her smile widening. “And I’ll be perfectly safe in here, dear. You, on the other hand…” Before her finger could descend, Bodasht acted. He didn't speak, didn't move towards her. Instead, his fingers flew across his datapad. A low hum vibrated through the floor. With a series of hydraulic groans, a reinforced, transparent cylinder of Galax-Glass, previously hidden beneath the platform, rose from the floor. It enveloped Yisharra, sealing her inside with a soft, airtight hiss. Yisharra blinked, her fake tears abruptly forgotten. She slammed her hands against the glass, the soundproofing absolute. Her mouth opened, a silent scream distorting her features. Her cries for help were swallowed by the impervious material, utterly unheard. She pounded again, her face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury, but the glass was designed to withstand the stress of experimental explosions. Her frantic efforts were futile. No one heard her. No one would. “The Galax-Glass isolation cylinder has a 0.003% chance of structural failure under sustained vocal resonance exceeding 140 decibels,” Bodasht stated, adjusting his spectacles. “Her current output is negligible.” Zibya gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Excellent work, Bodasht. Now, where’s that turbine assembly?” They located it deep within the slipway: the *Iron Serpent*'s experimental turbine block, a massive, teardrop-shaped marvel of polished brass and pulsing conduits, suspended in a levitation cradle. It hummed with latent power, dwarfing them both. It was far larger than Zibya had anticipated, too big to simply carry. “It’s integrated with a direct-thrust field generator,” Bodasht observed, scrutinizing the intricate array of coils. “Disengaging it from the cradle will require bypassing three separate energy conduits simultaneously without causing a feedback loop.” Zibya, however, had a different idea. She spotted a prominent, unshielded conduit leading directly to the turbine's main thrust array. “No time for finesse. We’ll rip it right out.” With a powerful heave, she yanked the heavy-gauge power cable free from its housing. Sparks showered. The cradle shrieked, its field collapsing. The housing dropped a foot, then shuddered. Suddenly, the entire structure pulsed with a deep, resonant hum. The raw thrust coils, now directly energized, flared to life, a blue-white blaze erupting from the undercarriage. The flagstones beneath them buckled. A concussive blast slammed into Zibya, sending her sprawling, but her fingers snagged a protruding bronze strut. Bodasht, ever agile, leapt, gripping another part of the colossal engine. The hijacked core, now an untamed beast of raw power, surged upwards. The dock stones became a rapidly shrinking blur. The last thing Zibya saw was Yisharra, still trapped in the soundproof tube, pounding her fists in soundless outrage, before the rig rocketed into the sky, carrying them both, completely lacking a steering wheel.

Decoy Ostriches and Soundproof Tears