The blockade fills the lane mouth, black hulls stacked in the flicker like a steel wall. Tressa stands at the console while the Dockmaster’s fingers hover over the detonation panel, and every ship in the bay idles hot, waiting.

Red markers swarm across Tressa’s wrist display, clustering tight around the exit route. The fuel locker sits open, one spill away from disaster.

Across the bay, crews scramble into launch positions as the first skiff-bombs drop into the launch lane. The cruisers outside hold steady, waiting to crush anything that comes through.

For one brutal beat, the escape route is clear, narrow, and burning. One command from Tressa decides whether the fleet punches through or dies in the dock.

Tressa throws the command across the bay, and the dock answers. Scouts peel out first, skiff-bombs tucked under their wings, while heavier boats swing in behind them and lock into a kill line around her cruiser.

The Dockmaster snaps the detonation panel alive. On her wrist display, the blockade markers bunch, then split as the explosive boats rush the lane mouth.

A bloom of fire flares beyond the bay, bright enough to paint the hulls outside red. The first Noble House ship yaws off line, and the opening tears wider for a heartbeat.

Tressa’s cruiser surges with the gunboats tight beside it, escort ships fanning to cover the flank. The fleet punches through the smoke and starts laying a ruthless broadside into the staggered formation.

Cables snap, debris spins past the lane lights, and the blockade line buckles as the pirate column drives out into open air. The Dockmaster’s display flashes a clean corridor ahead, but enemy fire is already walking back toward the dock.