Noble dug the cutter into the cannon’s support and pulled the torch’s trigger. Concentrated heat flared a bright purple as it melted the bolts.

If he stood the torch upright, it would have been as tall as him, yet it weighed little more than a tree branch. Arksteel—when forged correctly—was lighter than most materials. Not even the Arksmiths knew how the Firsts made it so.

The Firsts. The name was one of the greatest ironies Noble’s people uttered. The Firsts were the invading humans from the seven Ark kingdoms and were not the first humans to arrive on Kefoine. The shipbreakers held that claim, and no one would take that away from them.

“Last one!” Noble called.

He glanced downwards and saw the beach more than a hundred meters below. The other shipbreakers in his crew of seven were there, the oldest a decade younger than he. They stood in corrosion-colored water.

Further down to where the ground sunk and the jagged spikes of scrap disappeared, a wooden skiff bobbed on the water. Men sat atop it and talked among themselves. The tallest and oldest stood at the bow, one foot on the edge overlooking Noble’s men wading in the water. Marick Bon was his name and the oldest shipbreaker Noble had met. He must have had Thorteyan blood within him—the result of secretive breeding between the shipbreakers and the Firsts. The result could have extended his life by at least another century.

His age, however, was less of a point than the rifle in his hands. He wandered it back and forth from the shipbreakers to Noble.

“Keep cutting!” Marick Bon yelled, eyeing each of Noble’s men through the weapon’s scope. “Clear the beach, or I’ll put this through the lot of ya and leave ya here. And you, you worm!” Marick pointed his rifle to Noble. “Cut that thing down, or you’ll be swimming back with a bullet in your leg!”

The taskmaster cocked the gun, and Noble got back to his work.

Minutes later, a green fire ignited below. The smashing hammers and steel cutting drained out most noises in the yards, so the shipbreakers had found ways to communicate without speaking. Signal flares marked directions and dangers, and Noble welcomed the green flares when he saw them.

He raised his hand to show he had seen the flare and the breakers spread out below them. Two men in the skiff started paddling backward.

Noble gripped the restraints hard and pushed off with his feet as a groan-like thunder ran up the length of the Ark’s hull. The cannon tilted and hung limp before separating from its restraints and peeling off a piece of the ship’s steel skin. The weapon made a sound like a falling boulder. Noble’s crew ran behind steel debris, but their eyes never left the falling cannon.

The splash sent the dirty water as high as Noble’s boots. Steel clunked against steel as the cannon hit the base of the Ark, where most splendors waited in the ship’s holds. His mind, however, was not on profit—it was on home.

Noble’s team emerged from their cover, bearing their torches and surrounding the cannon. Ropes hung from their backs. One by one, they found holes inside the downed weapons and tied them. Their lines now taught, the shipbreakers pulled the cannon through the water towards the skiff.

“Easy does it, lads,” Marick Bon said. “Easy. If the inside is damaged, I’ll let the Ongiarans themselves send you back to the Head.”

A shiver ran through Noble as he descended. Most of his friends had traveled to the Head, opting for a shipbreaking life away from the Firsts. Most of his friends had also died in the yards. Noble had done his time at the Head decades ago and hoped he would never see that place—wherever it was now.

On the ground, a boy waded over to Noble. Almost half his height and approaching a quarter of his age, Lessel had been the youngest of Noble’s cutting apprentices.

“How are the openings coming?” Noble asked as he met Lessel’s pace. “Marick’s going to want inside the ship by sundown.”

Lessel’s face was focused on the water. “I thought he said by tomorrow night.”

“He did, but you know Marick. He pushes the young ones like you too hard, hoping you’ll crumble and surrender to the minor crews.”

A memory leaped into Noble’s vision: the dozens of young apprentices he had enlisted before finding Lessel. There was little worse than seeing men young enough to be your children die under your hands. Noble reminded himself daily that he only followed Marick’s orders, which still did not help him sleep.

Yet, today, Marick would not claim this child’s life.

Noble knelt. “You’re coming with us,” he told Lessel. “I can find you another crew—far from Marick Bon, that tyrant.” He tried to make the sentiment optimistic, but both knew there was always a Marick Bon in every crew.

“So you’re doing it?” Lessel asked.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Noble nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. If you were my age, you wouldn’t hesitate.”

Lessel still looked sunken, as if losing a father. “The others are talking about it, but I think they’re unsure. They don’t want you to go.”

Noble was about to respond when the prow of another vessel poked out from behind the column of a broken Ark. If Marick’s skiff was a plank of wood, this was a tree. It was a carrier, and it could swallow Marick’s skiff in its hull and still have room for more things, like the cannon. A crane stood on the carrier’s deck, as tall as some derelict ships surrounding them. A form stood on the ledge of that crane, arms still and head turned to the sky.

“Ladders!” The man’s voice echoed across the waters. “Ladders overboard, men. Bring up our guests. I’ll take the cannon!”

Heads of crewmen emerged from the deck. Together, they threw a dozen rope ladders over the carrier’s side.

When all the shipbreakers were on the skiff, Marick ordered his craft closer to the carrier. Its shadow feigned nightfall as it submerged their tiny world in darkness.

Marick was the first out of the boat, climbing a rope ladder with his rifle swinging at his back. Noble followed, and during the ascent, he wondered what would happen if he grabbed Marick’s boots and sent him into the murk below.

Atop the carrier, Noble could see the Ongiaran shipbreaking yards extending beyond the horizon. Crushed Arks lay waste over the land here, their hulls jutting like trees toward the sky. Dark smoke rose from fires, where shipbreakers burned what waste they could not salvage. Men scaled the great Arks and hefted steel slabs and chunks to piles while guards watched from towers carved from the ships.

The land was flat and lifeless here since nothing could grow among the wreckage. Even at the farthest reaches to the west—where most of the yards had been cleared—stood tall fences guarding shanties of mismatched hull fragments. Leaning on each other, they formed tiny homes. Noble’s own was somewhere inside.

“I heard you’ll be looking at selling your crew.” Marick Bon’s voice was unwelcome as much as it was loud.

Noble would rather have this discussion in private instead of a score of soldiers, crewmen, and shipbreakers overhearing. “You heard right.”

The taskmaster humphed. “I doubt the Ongiarans will be taking more men, especially ones better suited for the minor crews.” He motioned to Lessel. “No, man, you’ll be back in the yards by tomorrow once you sell this thing, leading these men like you always have.”

Marick stepped forward and poked Noble’s chest as if his finger were a sword.

Noble said nothing as the taskmaster walked away. He did not need to say anything. The cannon was the prize of that Ark, and Noble could sell it and his crew for an amount that even Marick could not deny. The taskmaster knew it, too; he had stayed up longer during the nights and drilled them harder during the days leading up to this one. Replacing a crew of shipbreakers was easy, but the market between taskmasters was fierce. Noble would be thankful never to see it again.

Finally, he could retire in peace.

When the carrier began to move, its navigator took a place at the stern. Like all navigators, the man exuded an aura of power that Noble could not describe. He could move this vessel using his mind, steering it through the waters with the power of a hundred oars. Not all navigators were affiliated with the Firsts, but they were undoubtedly tied to them by blood. It is what granted them their abilities, after all.

Noble sat closest to the stern, where there were fewer people. He waited for his crew to assemble, forming a crescent moon shape with him in the middle.

The first one to speak was Mesh. His thick body and height were part of his heritage in the Ark kingdom of Minessono, but he often denied it. He was the crew’s longest-surviving member, having cleared hundreds of yards alongside Noble. Noble would miss him the most.

“So it’s true,” Mesh said, cutting the silence. “You’re going to see Cici and the little ones again.” His voice was full of the warmth of seeing an old friend depart. “Why did you not tell us sooner?”

“It would not have made much of a difference,” Noble said, trying to sound like he believed it all himself.

The men grunted and nodded. They didn’t talk about their feelings often—there wasn’t much to do in the yards besides work and survive. Now, faced with this sorrowful eventuality, they found it hard to express their feelings.

“I don’t know where you will all end up after today,” Noble continued. “You are already used to the dangers here. Perhaps you’ll have a better leader. I hope you will. I know I’m too old to be reliable anymore.”

The crew dipped their heads at the words, focusing on the steel deck.

Like any shipbreaker, Noble had learned at an early age that it was best not to make friends with anyone in the yards. He could not count the faces he had seen one day, only to learn that they had fallen from an Ark or been crushed when a hull had collapsed on top of them. He knew the names of the men before him, which was too many. Anything more, and he would have found a different crew.

“But I’m sure your next crew will treat you well,” Noble told them, watching their heads rise. “The Ongiarans will take you. You could be placed with the undercrews, making reefs, or spending your days in the ocean. How would that sound? To get away from the land?”

The crew looked at each other’s necks in confirmation. They each lowered the scarves that had been covering the tanned skin, and on the flesh were slits that fanned in and out as they breathed. The gills marked their heritage to the Ongiarans. Mesh did not have any—his roots in Minessono—but gazed in recognition at his peers.

“I’ve heard they eat fish all day,” Lessel said. The others turned to him. “That is, I don’t care much for fish. Smells awful.”

A few barked laughs, but most looked absently in contemplation.

“Fish will be a fine price if we join the undercrews.” Mesh leaned back as he spoke. “I hear some of the taskmasters aren’t even Ongiarans themselves; they can’t follow you under. You could do anything you want down there. Maybe swim away.”

The others murmured among themselves, playing with the idea.

“That’s optimistic,” Noble said, “but there are dangers beyond the yards, too.”

“Like sharks,” Mesh said.

“And whales,” another crew said.

“And stingrays,” another said, and another and another until the entire circle was in retort.

“But it will be sad to see you go,” Mesh said, not looking directly at Noble. “But I can’t blame you. None of us can.” He put a hand on Noble’s shoulder. “We’ll miss you, man.”

The ocean lapped around them as the shipbreaking yards became tiny dark specks in the distance.