Heavy iron chains groaned as the dock winches dragged three dripping hulls into the sea-gate.
The massive bronze floodgates of Void Lotus Isle closed with a dull shudder. High-pressure pumps roared to life, churning thousands of gallons of foamy seawater back into the bay until the stone cradles ran dry.
Resting on the slick granite floor sat the three captured Blood-Star mother-submarines.
Their obsidian hull plates were crusted in salt, limp kelp, and severed siphon conduits. Disarmed Blood-Star sailors filed down iron gangways under the watchful spears of the continental guard. Their heads hung low, their hands bound securely behind their backs.
Deacon Vane stood on the drydock terrace, four jade abacuses tucked beneath his arms. Behind him marched twelve junior appraisers carrying cedar chests, weighing balances, and stacks of parchment.
“Move those scales to the main hatch,” Vane ordered, his voice squeaking with nervous excitement. “Every rivet must be inventoried. Elder Sterling, ensure the prisoners do not swallow suicide talismans.”
Sterling leaned against his broadsword at the base of the gantry. “They are too terrified to swallow anything. Their vessels were emptied by the reverse siphon.”
Barnaby Holt clattered down the metal steps, waving his wooden ladle at the submarine hulls.
