Downpour lashed the reinforced glass of Kasen’s penthouse, a heavy rhythm over the click of keys. Neva leaned forward in her mobility chair, the dull ache along her spine a sharp souvenir of Phelan’s nerve-block sabotage. Her lower legs remained half-numb, yet her thoughts cut through the schematics with clinical clarity. “The manifest specifies Pier 7, loading bay Gamma,” she stated, voice level. “The Cerulean Accord transport is the *Aethelgard*. Standard cargo shells, but the hardware rests in Dassein-spec hardened units nested in industrial freight. Tamsin, you have thirty seconds once mooring locks engage. Kasen jams local comms for ten of those.” Kasen, his gaze locked on a satellite feed displaying the storm-tossed Prynth Bay, nodded. “It’s narrow, Neva. Low visibility obscures the perimeter, but dampens optics. My team is looping the harbor feed along the crane line. Tamsin, verify the Dassein seal on the inner casing before touching the latch.” “Understood,” Tamsin replied over the comm, salt spray hissing through the receiver. “Keep Phelan’s security detail blind.” Neva tightened her grip on the chair’s carbon arms. “Phelan expects retaliation, but his vanity blinds him to our timeline. He assumes I’m still bedridden.” Hours later along the Prynth docks, harbor wind sheared across Tamsin’s wet storm jacket. The *Aethelgard*, a leviathan against the churning dark water, was indeed at Pier 7. Yellow gantries ground along their tracks, hauling freight boxes toward the slipway. Tamsin, a shadow among shadows, slipped past a lone security patrol, her specialized scanner already identifying the Dassein-specific resonant frequencies emanating from one particular, nondescript crate being loaded onto the ship. The casing was deliberately plain, an industrial decoy. “Got it,” she whispered into her mic, her breath misting. “Marking target. Kasen, now.” Static tore through the yard’s floodlights. Surveillance flickered, then died. Tamsin moved. She tripped the outer bolt assembly, exposing the smaller Dassein chassis. With surgical economy, she swapped the neural-interface cores for inert ballast modules. She slotted the latch back into its housing until the indicator turned green. The thirty-second window was closing. She was almost clear. Then, the dull thud of heavy boots on the soaked concrete behind her. Three hulking figures, clad in dark, unbranded tactical gear, emerged from the rain. Matte-black visors hid their faces. Phelan’s personal enforcers. They had pinpointed her. Tamsin cursed under her breath, dropping into a defensive crouch, a compact stun-baton extending with a click. “Dr. Cress,” the point guard said through a vocal synthesizer. “Step away from the freight.” Just as Tamsin braced for the inevitable clash, a sudden, blinding flash of headlights cut through the gloom. A low black sedan tore across the wet apron. Gerrick’s Valerion Maelstrom skidded broadside, exhaust screaming over the spray. The rear bumper swung in a vicious arc directly toward the line of guards. Impact smashed two men into the tarmac, the quarter-panel crushing one against an anchor bollard. The third guard rolled clear, raking the sedan’s driver door with automatic fire. The Maelstrom pinned itself against a tier of cedar pallets, steam hissing from the radiator. Gerrick slammed his shoulder against the dented frame, his hands spastic against the wheel. “Tamsin! Run!” he yelled, voice breaking through a fit of ragged tremors. His tremors worsened, the strain destroying what little motor control he had left. Tamsin hesitated for a split second. “Gerrick—” “Get the tech out!” he shouted, eyes fixed on hers. The remaining mercenary was already advancing, weapon raised. Tamsin hesitated no longer, disappearing into the maze of shipping containers as the sounds of struggle erupted behind her. She sprinted down the alley between container rows to Kasen’s idling utility van. She vaulted through the sliding door. “Gerrick intercepted them,” she panted, wiping grease and water from her cheek. “He took the hit.” “It’s on the harbor feed,” Kasen replied, dropping the clutch. “We pull out now.” Before the van could lurch forward, a silhouette blocked the driver’s side. A steel muzzle tapped twice against the glass. Phelan Gault stood under the halogens, silver hair soaked flat to his temples, his mouth curved in an icy smirk. He aimed a suppressed sidearm straight through the safety glass at Kasen’s head. “Evening, Kasen,” Phelan’s voice came over the speaker pinned to his lapel. “And Neva, I know you’re listening. Did you truly think I wouldn’t anticipate such a childish gambit? The decoy crate was a lovely touch, but entirely predictable.” He pressed the cold metal harder against Kasen’s skin. “Ten seconds, Neva. Deliver the Dassein master cipher, or Kasen stays on this dock permanently. Starting now.” A digital countdown began, cold and merciless, in Neva’s ear. “Ten.”

The Docks Interception