It was deep night, but the Sand Isle Armory blazed with light.
Machines roared. Transport ships rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The whole place looked like a city that didn’t sleep—because it didn’t need to.
In that noise, we slipped through the perimeter the same way we had before. The laser-grating fence flickered out for seconds, just long enough for us to pass, then returned as if nothing had happened.
Hours earlier, when we’d breached the factory core, we’d avoided making any changes that might alert Phantom Forge. The only exception was Dorian-2. He’d upgraded his permissions. Inside the armory, he could walk almost anywhere without being questioned.
Almost.
He couldn’t act too strangely. If Phantom Forge became suspicious, none of this mattered.
Dorian-2 played patrol. He fed me his viewpoint over the common channel. I stayed in stealth mode, moving through shadow and structure, drifting toward the plaza where the transport ships waited.
We reached it without trouble. There were more ships than when we’d passed earlier, and they were loading in an orderly flow. Engineering robots and cargo haulers shuttled between warehouses and open holds until each ship was packed, then moved on to the next.
Dawn was more than an hour away. We had time.
“Dorian-2,” I said on the common channel. “Which ship is headed for the Hope? Find the one lifting off first.”
“Stand by. Querying.”
A moment later, he marked a vessel in my view.
Mid-sized. Over a hundred meters long. Old enough to look tired. The thermal tiles along its hull were worn down to the bone—proof it went up and down from orbit on a regular schedule.
Dorian-2 walked to the rear hatch. Through his optics I saw the interior crawling with engineering units. The hold was already close to full, stacked with missile crates.
He pulled up the ship’s structural diagram. I ran a quick analysis and found the cleanest entry point. When I passed the plan to Dorian-2, we moved immediately.
I slipped beneath rows of transport ships, reached the target, and crouched behind one of its massive landing struts. There were four of them. Once the ship lifted, the struts would retract into the hull.
I looked up and measured the cavity.
Enough room for me.
I climbed the strut and tucked myself into the gear bay. A minute later, Dorian-2 reached the inspection hatch, opened it, and pulled me up into the cargo hold.
Crates were stacked in tight layers. We opened one at random.
Sixty-four Wraith Missiles, nested like teeth.
The plan was simple: hide inside a missile crate. Once we docked with the Hope, the crate would be shipped into the missile warehouses, and I could move when the timing was right.
There was a problem.
The crate was packed so tightly there was no empty space at all.
“Now what, Lord Wyatt?” Dorian-2 asked.
I ran the geometry again. “Pull two missiles out. That gives me enough volume to fit.”
“And where do we put them?” Dorian-2 asked. “If anyone sees loose missiles, they’ll suspect something.”
“There’s a small compartment under the deck near the forward section,” I said, highlighting it on the diagram. “A maintenance bay.”
“That’s for tools,” he protested. “What if someone opens it?”
“They won’t unless the ship breaks,” I said. “And if the ship breaks, our day is ruined anyway.”
“…All right. Following your lead.”
We slid two missiles free, wedged them into the maintenance bay, and braced them with whatever we could find. Then I climbed into the crate and folded my frame into the space we’d made.
Dorian-2 closed the lid and returned to his assigned position.
So far, everything was clean. Dorian-2 made this infiltration almost easy. Almost.
***
The transport ship flew steady.
Not long after launch, gravity thinned. In less than a minute I was floating inside the crate, fingers hooked into the crate’s recessed grips to keep myself from tumbling.
“I can’t feel my weight,” Dorian-2 said on the common channel. “Are we in space?”
“Yes.”
“This is my first time in orbit.”
“Mine too,” I said—because, technically, it was.
I could feel his excitement in the way his signal spiked. If the ship had windows, he would’ve glued himself to one.
Forty-three minutes later, the transport ship began to decelerate. Lights brightened. A message came through.
“K-142 Space Base reached. Docking in one minute!”
The ship slowed until it stopped. Metal clanged as the docking locks engaged. When the sound died, the indicator on the rear hatch shifted from red to green.
Gravity returned.
The massive rear doors slid open, and the air changed—colder, cleaner. Dorian-2 and the other robots released their clamps and moved to either side. Cargo vehicles swarmed in and began hauling missile crates out, with engineering bots assisting.
Through Dorian-2’s optics I saw the receiving bay beyond a short transfer tunnel: a vast interior space, patrolled at intervals by armed combat robots. Stealth detectors swept back and forth near the doors. Vehicles and work units flowed in every direction.
Then heavy footsteps boomed. A squad of Bloodthirsters marched past in formation.
“Don’t panic,” I told Dorian-2. “Keep your pace normal.”
“Do you think we can actually do this?” he asked.
“We’ve to,” I said. “Trust me.”
My crate rocked as it was loaded onto a hauler. From Dorian-2’s view I watched it leave the transport ship, cross the bay, and enter a wide corridor.
Dorian-2 followed at a distance, slow enough to look casual.
Then he stopped.
“What is it?” I asked.
Silence. A beat. Then his voice came back tight.
“This is bad. The armory just transferred my jurisdiction. I’m now under Phantom Forge’s direct control.”