We tag the river mouth before anyone can tell us not to.
We slap the placard: UNDER-CONDUIT INSPECTION — SAFETY PRIORITY. That flips the zone. Inside the chain, Ken-touch is legal. Outside, it's a felony. Juno makes the boundary bright because rules keep you alive when the phones come out.
The river mouth is a concrete throat under the old bridge. Flow is slow at low tide; it'll reverse in forty. The decommissioned power conduit—service tunnel that once carried cable under the river—runs along the north wall. Supposedly dead. Nothing dies here; it's just forgotten.
Mia drops a hard case. "Meet Minnow," she says, like she brought a pet. A tethered ROV the size of a lunchbox with thrusters, low-light, sonar, and a tiny gripper. "It can fetch a bolt, not fight a man."
"Good," Juno says. "We have a man."
"Probably," I say.
Ariad pulls chalk and tape—real chalk—and an aluminum clipboard. "Plan," she fires. "Check the conduit wall for non-spec bracing, trace load paths. Kanon, give me Kein Chalk where I call. Mia, geophones every five meters. Juno, you and I torque bolts; if the wrench lies, Ken them until they tell the truth."
Juno cracks a small smile. "Copy."
We drop down. Tunnel air smells like river and batteries. The hum is in the concrete now, not wood. My teeth vibrate low and steady. I pull a thin blue line—Kein Chalk—along the seam Ariad points to. It shows up bold in our visors.
"Three-one-three notch code again," Ariad says, tapping a brace spike. "Same signature as the docks."
"So, same crew," Mia says, setting a geophone puck. "Recording baseline."
"Or they share a playbook," Ariad says. "Don't assume one brain."
Juno checks our clip lines and anchors like a parent at a theme park gate. "Window?"
"Thirty-four minutes before the push," Mia says. "Fifty-five to full reversal."
I drag a hair-thin Kein Thread down the right wall, our private guide. Cheap to maintain if I don't layer too much.
Minnow slips into the water with a small burp. Mia's screen shows cloudy green, silt, then more. Old brackets. Pipes. A cable tangle that should've been pulled a decade ago and wasn't.
"Left," Mia says. "Something geometric."
Minnow's lights find it: a lattice like under the pier, thicker here, wrapped around conduit supports. It shimmers heat-on-road when lit, then plays dead when Minnow moves.
"Same material," Ariad says, squinting at the portable spectro. "Same response band. Whoever's doing this is tying the conduit to the river wall. Illegal and also…clever."
"Clever keeps the city standing," Juno says, neutral.
"Until clever fails," Ariad says. "Then it fails big."
Minnow noses closer. Brace spikes with neat notch code: three, one, three. The gripper can't pry a flake; the lattice refuses to exist for the claw.
"Walk the load," Ariad says. "From the conduit to where?"
"Out," I say. "Into the river."
"Past the mouth," Mia says. "Minnow sees wraps on outer pylons."
I mark arrows with Kein Chalk—direction-of-pull, what sane people draw on whiteboards. The wall turns into a war map that only we can see.
"Company," Juno murmurs.
Boot echoes. Not cops. Too quiet. I shift left, blade down.
Rao walks in like tunnels know him. Two with him: the hammer woman from Dry Dock Three and a tall, calm man with eyes that never land. Tool rolls, not rifles.
Juno doesn't give him "hi." "You're late."
"We like an audience," Rao says. "And a tagged zone." He nods at our placard. "Thank you."
"Drop the tools," Juno says.
"We're here to keep the river from eating your city," hammer woman says. "If we walk out, your wall groans later."
Ariad glances at Juno. Juno gives a millimeter. "You talk. We watch hands."
Rao shows palms. The thin silver ring is still thumb-to-index. Pellet clicker; Kein Smoke. I file it.
"We had a collapse upriver yesterday," the hammer woman says, ignoring the ring. "Not ours. City spec failed. This conduit picked up extra load when that went. Not in the plan."
"You have a plan?" Ariad's tone is ice.
Hammer woman nods at my Chalk map. "Like that, but underwater and in my head. We were going to fix it at low tide."
"Then fix it with witnesses," Juno says.
Rao smiles small. "Perfect."
Mia whispers in my visor: Three heat signatures staging outside the mouth. Truck, tarp, tube. Gel boys again. Second line: Board ping en route. Kade and enemies, same clock.
"Do it," Juno tells Ariad. "You call; they move; we monitor."
Ariad squats at the center post, pressing the concrete with the heel of her hand like a doctor checks a knee. "Take tension off the south seam," she says. "Add two braces here and here. Anchor Gun."
I pass it. She fires spikes into specific voids, odd angles. Rao's man clips high-tensile line with a diver's hands; knots from people who actually build.
"Not city pattern," Ariad says. "Better. Who taught you?"
"Old men under new names," the hammer woman says.
"Names," Juno says.
Hammer woman ignores it. "Light, please."
I throw a Phantom Steel scrape left to test Rao. He's tuned to me now; he steps out of range without thinking. It annoys me enough to smile.
"Boat," Mia says. "Same crew. Gel rounds. They're at the mouth."
"Lark?" Juno asks.
"Battery edge," Mia says. "I can blind once."
Ariad: "On my call."
They tighten lines and set wedges. "Chalk the stress path," Ariad says. "Big arrows."
I draw boldly. It costs nothing if I don't keep everything alive. Water shifts. Hum climbs. Load slides from brace to brace like a slow shrug. The wall settles into our plan.
"Now," Ariad says into comms.
Lark dumps strobes at the mouth. White heat blooms. Tube man pukes—same guy, every time. Driver fumbles; a gel round splats the bridge underside, runs like slime, eats an old bolt, drops hissing.
"Board in thirty," Mia says. "Kade himself. Already annoyed."
"Of course," I say.
Rao watches my mouth, then me, like he can feel my weight. "Stop chasing me," he says quietly. "Walk the load."
"I am," I say.
He tips his head. "Good."
Hammer woman sets the last brace and taps the lattice with her wrench. The shimmer gives a tight quiver like a tuned wire, then calms. The hum drops a notch.
"Hold," Ariad says, and the wall obeys.
For a breath, it works.
Then the floor shifts under our boots, and the hum spikes like a second voice cutting in.