The badlands didn't change.
They just went quiet.
After Gallows Run, quiet felt like a lie people told themselves so they could keep moving.
The convoy peeled south toward safety under militia escort—the battered Locust limping at point, the Valkyrie smoking but upright. A few drivers lifted hands from cabs. Most didn't. The ones who lived long stopped performing gratitude. They saved their breath for the next problem.
Dack watched the heat signatures slide away until rain and ash ate them.
Then the Dire Wolf turned north.
"Kappa-Seven," Dack said. "Finish it."
The Highlander shifted right to match his pace. The Centurion held a conservative trail behind and left, guarding the rear arc exactly the way he'd told Taila to—no wandering, no chasing, no drifting into dead ground. Above them, the Leopard stayed high and cold, Lyra bleeding emissions down until the DropShip was nearly invisible against the cloud deck.
They moved alone.
The basin ahead had been strip-mined into a scar. Black earth. Jagged cuts. Exposed ribs of mineral strata that threw sensor reflections like broken glass. Ash drifted down in slow sheets and stuck to armor seams. It wasn't romantic. It was suffocating.
Lyra's voice came through, steady. "Interference increasing. Power noise under the ash layer. Something big ahead."
"How big," Dack asked.
"Union-class big."
Jinx sounded amused in that sharp way she got when something was about to hurt. "Raiders got themselves a Union? That's either the luckiest pirates on the planet or the dumbest."
"They didn't get it," Dack said. "It's placed."
He didn't make it dramatic. Just certain.
The wreck showed itself ten minutes later.
A Union-class DropShip lay on its side in a shallow crater, hull split open like ribs pried apart. One engine nacelle was gone. The other was twisted and half-buried. Scorch marks ran outward from inside, like something had burned its way free.
The Dire Wolf slowed.
"That didn't crash," Dack said.
Taila's voice came quiet over comms from inside the Centurion. "It was opened."
She wasn't guessing. Her sensors and his said the same thing—fractures radiating from the interior, structural members bent the wrong direction. Force from inside out.
Jinx angled the Highlander to cover the left approach. "So what crawled out?"
"Or what crawled under," Dack said.
Lyra cut in. "Low-power cycling detected. Not ship systems. Something external. Buried."
Dack paused just long enough to let it settle.
"Pirate den," he said. "Stash. Bolt hole."
"Under a Union," Jinx muttered. "That's some bold stupidity."
"Pirates don't do subtle," Dack replied. "They do heavy."
He halted them a klick out.
"Formation," he said. "Jinx, right ridge. Taila, rear watch. Don't push."
"Copy," Taila answered immediately.
Jinx laughed. "I never push."
"You're loud," Dack said.
"Accurate."
They advanced.
First contact came from the rocks.
A Panther stepped out on the left ridge—black paint, faded markings, PPC already tracking. A second Panther mirrored it on the opposite ridge. Spacing clean. Timing clean. Not amateurs.
"Two Panthers," Jinx said. "Kurita-style."
"Stolen machines," Dack said.
"Stolen pilots too," Jinx added.
"Probably," Dack said. "Either way—don't take them lightly."
The Panthers fired once each—rangefinding. Blue-white PPC bolts cracked through ash-filled air and slammed short of the Dire Wolf and Highlander. Not close enough to kill. Close enough to say we can touch you whenever we want.
Jinx answered with a single gauss shot that shaved a boulder into gravel. Both Panthers slid back into partial cover.
Taila's voice came in, controlled. "Electronics spike. Short-range."
"Raven," Jinx said. "Spotter."
Dack found it a heartbeat later—sensor distortion moving too smoothly to be terrain, too deliberate to be wind. The Raven wasn't fighting. It was painting angles and feeding targeting solutions.
"Raven confirmed," Dack said. "It's painting targets."
Jinx snorted. "So Panthers are teeth, Raven is eyes."
"And the mouth is still closed," Dack said.
He didn't like being watched. He didn't like being measured. Not because it was personal—because it was dangerous.
"Taila," he said, "anything under the Union?"
A pause while the Centurion dug deeper through ash and stone.
"Yes," Taila said. "Cables. Power lines. They run into the ground. Something large is buried under the DropShip."
Dack's jaw tightened.
"Powered asset," he said. "Or generator feeding something worse."
Jinx's tone sharpened. "Which means they're not here to die. They're here to buy time while ground crews strip whatever's under there."
"Exactly," Dack said. "We don't let them get comfortable."
The Panthers fired again, coordinated. The Raven ghosted closer, electronic noise blooming across Dack's displays—static bursts, false range ticks, a smear over his targeting like a greasy hand.
Dack let it run for three seconds.
Then he got tired of it.
"Enough," he said.
The Dire Wolf fired.
LRMs arced out in a tight pattern—not at the Panthers, but at the ridgeline behind them. Explosions walked the rock line, chewing cover, forcing both Panthers to break concealment and jump downslope into worse positions.
Jinx took the opening. The Highlander shifted and fired—gauss punching through a Panther's shoulder, tearing armor and actuator apart. The machine stumbled but stayed upright.
The second Panther disengaged.
"Don't chase," Dack said.
"I know," Taila replied—and held her line, Centurion steady, covering the rear instead of lunging for a kill she didn't need.
That mattered more than a kill.
The Raven crested the ridge to reposition.
Dack tagged it with a short laser burst—enough to blind sensors and force it to break stealth.
The Raven bolted like it had been slapped.
Jinx gave one harsh laugh. "Run."
Dack didn't laugh. "It'll come back."
"Why," Taila asked, voice tight.
"Because they need eyes," Dack said. "And because they think we're going to do the dumb thing."
"Chase," Jinx said, eager.
"Yeah," Dack said. "We don't."
The ground shook.
Not weapons fire.
From below.
Ash slid down crater walls. The Union wreck shifted, metal screaming as buried supports failed.
Lyra's voice cut in sharp. "Massive reactor spike. Military-grade. Something's waking up under the DropShip."
"Back up," Dack said.
Too late.
Armored plating punched through ash and soil.
A Thunderbolt rose from the ground, half-buried, scarred and patched, armor layered like scar tissue. It came up firing—autocannon and lasers ripping into the Union's corpse to clear space like an animal tearing free of a trap.
Jinx whistled. "Okay. That's the mouth."
"Thunderbolt," Dack said, flat. "Pirate hammer."
Taila's voice came smaller. "It was under the ship."
"Yeah," Dack said. "They buried it. Means they've been here awhile."
The Thunderbolt locked onto the Dire Wolf immediately.
Not because it knew him.
Because the Dire Wolf was the biggest threat.
It fought like it owned the ground—because it did. It used the Union wreck as cover, kicked debris into the air to foul sightlines, stepped back into crater shadow whenever Dack tried to line up a clean shot.
Dack didn't chase it into the hole. He anchored the Dire Wolf where it mattered: between the Thunderbolt and his people.
"Taila," he said, "hold rear. Nothing gets behind us."
"Copy," she answered fast.
"Jinx," he said. "Don't overcommit."
"I'm offended," Jinx said.
"Good," Dack replied. "Stay alive anyway."
He didn't realize how much he meant it until the words were already out.
The Thunderbolt pushed hard, trying to shove the Dire Wolf into open ash where the Panthers could re-angle shots. The damaged Panther—still upright—fired opportunistically. The Raven returned, higher and farther out now, feeding partial solutions through the ash and interference.
Lyra's voice stayed controlled. "No clean shot from altitude. Terrain and ash are killing line-of-sight. I'm staying cold."
"Stay alive," Dack said. "We handle it."
Jinx flanked hard. The Highlander moved like a battering ram—aggressive, loud, but disciplined enough not to get baited into the crater. Gauss rounds hammered armor, forced the Thunderbolt to keep shifting. Every time it tried to square up on Dack, Jinx punished it. Every time it tried to square up on Jinx, Dack punished it.
Taila held lanes and called movement, voice tight but steady.
"Panther left ridge relocating," she said. "Raven is high—forty degrees off your right. Thunderbolt is trying to draw you forward."
"Let it try," Dack said. "We don't move where it wants."
The Thunderbolt stepped out from cover—just enough—trying to finish the Dire Wolf with a clean angle.
That was the mistake.
Dack hit it hard—gauss and autocannon in tight sequence, disciplined timing, chewing through stressed plating. Jinx followed with a brutal gauss shot that cracked the Thunderbolt's torso open like a can kicked apart.
The Thunderbolt staggered.
And then it did what pirates did when they weren't suicidal.
It disengaged.
Not routed. Not destroyed.
It backed away, firing to cover retreat, then turned and ran into the ash fields, vanishing into the terrain that had hidden it.
The Panthers didn't stay to die for it. The damaged Panther backed off. The other Panther faded into ridge shadow. The Raven vanished behind electronic noise.
Silence returned.
Not peaceful.
Just empty.
Lyra spoke first. "Contacts fading. I'm seeing small vehicles near the Union—heat signatures, likely pirate ground crew. They're pulling something out from beneath. Fast."
"So that's it," Jinx said. "They weren't defending the Union. They were defending time."
"Yeah," Dack said. "Pirate job. Buy minutes so the crew strips the stash and bounces."
Taila sounded angry. "They used a Union as a shield."
"They use anything," Dack replied. Blunt. Honest. "Bodies too."
Jinx's voice darkened. "So what now, boss."
Dack looked at the Union wreck. Looked at the crater. Looked at the ash fields where the Thunderbolt disappeared.
He didn't love the feeling in his chest. It wasn't fear. It wasn't adrenaline. It was a colder thing—awareness.
He cared.
Not about pirates.
About the voices in his ear.
"Now we confirm the contract object," Dack said. "We don't dismount. We don't chase. We don't give the Thunderbolt a tunnel fight."
"Copy," Taila said.
"Copy," Jinx said. "But I want to kill it."
"You'll get your chance," Dack replied. "Not on their ground."
They held position and scanned. No dismount. No cockpits open. Not out here.
"Taila," Dack said, "get visuals. Use Centurion hand. Slow."
"Copy."
The Centurion advanced carefully, actuators sinking into ash sludge. Taila extended the Centurion's manipulator and braced against the Union's torn hull edge—metal screeching. She pulled twisted plating aside a few inches, widening a gap.
Spotlights cut on.
Cockpit feeds filled with the inside of the Union: ripped corridors, shredded wiring, bodies where bodies shouldn't be.
Crew. Cargo techs. Security.
Some shot in harnesses. Some crushed under collapsed bulkheads. Some wired into consoles—used as living sensor nodes until their nervous systems failed. Dead eyes staring at nothing. Mouths open like they'd been trying to scream when the system finally stopped needing them.
Taila went quiet. Her breathing got loud in comms.
Jinx stopped joking entirely.
Dack stared at the feed longer than he should have.
"This was a pirate den," Dack said. "They killed the crew. Parked the Union. Buried the Thunderbolt under it. Used the wreck like a lid."
Jinx's voice was low. "And they're stripping whatever's under there right now."
Taila's voice wavered, then steadied. "They used those people."
"Yeah," Dack said. "That's what pirates do."
A beat.
Then Dack spoke again—more than he used to, still blunt.
"I was wrong," he said. "I thought Sable's hand was on this."
Jinx didn't interrupt. Taila didn't either.
Dack kept going. "It's not. This is just pirates doing pirate math. Defend stash, bleed anyone who walks up, run when it gets expensive."
Lyra's voice came quietly. "So Sable's gone."
"Yeah," Dack said. "He probably moved systems."
Jinx's tone sharpened. "And you're still set on him."
Dack's answer came fast, flat, and honest. "Yeah."
Another beat.
Then he said the part he hadn't planned on admitting out loud. "Not today. Not with what we've got."
He checked comm status like he was checking their pulse.
"Taila," he said. "You good."
"I'm here," she answered. A pause. "I'm good."
"Jinx."
"Still pretty," she said, then—quietly—"I'm fine."
Lyra. "Leopard is ready for fast load."
Dack didn't realize he'd started measuring his world by those three voices until it was already true.
He'd taken contracts to survive. To hunt. To keep moving.
Somewhere along the line, it changed.
He cared if Taila froze.
He cared if Jinx took a hit she couldn't walk away from.
He cared if Lyra's calm voice ever cracked.
That was dangerous.
That was leverage.
And it made him angry in a clean, focused way.
"We're leaving," Dack said. "Now."
Jinx's voice flashed with frustration. "We're letting them get away."
"We're not dying in ash for pirates," Dack replied. "We're getting paid and moving."
Taila's voice came softer. "And Sable."
Dack's answer was blunt. "Later."
Then he added—because he needed to say it, because the thought had been sitting in his chest like a weight. "When I've got a full lance. Maybe a star. When I can command it and not gamble your lives on a grudge."
Silence on comms. Heavy.
Dack finished it anyway.
"I'll find Sable," he said. "And I'll finish him. And whoever he's working for."
Jinx let out a slow breath. "Okay."
Taila's reply was small but steady. "Copy."
Lyra didn't comment. She just brought the Leopard down hard and fast on firm ground outside the crater, ramp yawning open like a mouth.
They didn't dismount. They didn't open cockpits. Not here.
They moved as a unit—Dire Wolf, Highlander, Centurion—backing into the Leopard's bay one at a time. Clamps locked onto armor. The ship swallowed them and closed.
Only when the ramp sealed and the Leopard lifted did the pressure ease slightly.
Not safety. Never that.
Just less exposed.
Inside their cockpits, strapped in, smelling hot metal and sweat, Dack listened to the other two breathe over comms.
Jinx spoke first, tired. "Boss. You're getting… human."
Dack's reply was blunt. "Don't get used to it."
Taila hesitated. "Did we do okay?"
Dack answered immediately. "Yeah."
Then, after a beat—because he couldn't pretend it didn't matter anymore—he added: "You did what I needed. You stayed steady."
Her breathing slowed. "Okay."
Lyra's voice came from up front, controlled again. "Route plotted. Next destination."
Dack stared at the HUD, at his own reflection faintly layered over targeting brackets and heat curves.
Kappa-Seven vanished under ash and fog below them—another ugly truth in a universe that ran on uglier ones.
He didn't say anything else.
He didn't need to.
The vow was already made.