DAY 72 — 06:10 (SHIPTIME)
Morning on the Union wasn't sunrise.
It was procedure.
Lyra ran the ship like a living thing that could be wounded by laziness—heat discipline, comm discipline, route discipline. The last few days had been a quiet window, and she used it the way Dack used a clean firing lane: to build advantage before the next shot.
The new hires made the Union feel less like a drifting knife and more like a machine with gears that actually meshed.
Iona set up a burn-rate ledger that didn't lie. She didn't smile about it. She didn't celebrate. She just kept pointing at the numbers until the numbers became law.
Elin took comm watch like it was a religion. She still talked too much when she was nervous, but when Lyra told her to go dark she went dark—mouth shut, hands moving, ears open. Listening like it might save her life.
Sera ran deck like she was terrified of one mistake turning the whole ship into a coffin. It made her careful. It made her sharp. Fuel lines checked twice. Locks verified by touch and eye. Leopard procedures drilled until they were muscle memory instead of hope.
Dack watched all of it from the only place he truly counted time.
Inside his Dire Wolf cockpit, systems idling, reactors in low hum, the world narrowed to metal and calm.
He stared at the tactical overlay and said the number once, under his breath.
"Seventy-two."
Then he swallowed the rest and keyed Lyra.
"Talk."
Lyra's voice came back smooth, clipped, awake. "Contract is lined up. It's official enough to count, quiet enough not to invite a parade. Groundside convoy protection plus a short sweep if contact is confirmed."
"Employer," Dack said.
"Ravelin Agricultural Exchange—fronted by their refinery partner," Lyra replied. "They've been losing fuel and machinery shipments on the southern haul road. Local militia is under-strength. They want a deterrent with teeth."
"Payment."
"Enough to matter. Plus salvage rights on confirmed hostile mechs that engage the convoy." A beat. "Iona pushed for a clause that prevents 'disputes' after."
Dack's mouth tightened. "Good."
Lyra continued. "A militia liaison is attached. Their signature validates the report. It'll travel. Quietly, but it'll travel."
Dack didn't like being seen. But he understood the math.
"Nobody hires rookies," he said.
Lyra didn't argue. "Not for real money."
Dack looked at the schedule slate reflected in his HUD. "Who's hitting them."
Lyra paused half a second. "We have a name from local chatter. Raiders calling themselves the Cinder Jackals."
Jinx's voice cut into the crew channel instantly, bright and amused. "That's a stupid name. I love it."
Morrigan replied, flat. "Shut up."
Taila didn't joke. "Do we know what they run?"
Lyra answered. "Mixed. They don't have a single pattern. Desert ambush doctrine. Smoke pots. They cut convoys and drag salvage away. They don't fight fair."
Dack's answer was simple. "Neither do we."
Quill's voice came in calm and controlled from the Awesome's berth. "They'll try to split us from the convoy and force a chase. They'll want us strung out."
Dack didn't praise. "Then we don't chase."
Lyra added, "Leopard will insert you ahead of the convoy line, set overwatch. Union stays cold and out of sight."
Dack keyed the crew channel. "Mount up. We're earning our name."
---
Perdition's Reach wasn't the only dead place in the Periphery.
This world—Damaris Ridge on the contract slate—wasn't dead, but it felt like something that had learned to survive without expecting mercy. Wide yellow plains broken by black stone ridges. Dry riverbeds turned into hauling roads. Low refinery stacks that bled faint smoke into a pale sky.
The convoy crawled like a wounded animal: fuel tankers, flatbed machinery haulers, a pair of armored crawlers with corporate logos, and militia "escort" that looked like it had been pieced together from whatever still moved.
A Vedette tank. A battered Striker. Two industrial trucks with gun mounts and men who held rifles like they were praying.
Dack didn't waste time judging them. He just placed himself between them and death.
The Leopard set down behind a ridge two klicks ahead of the convoy, ramp dropping into dust.
Dack's Dire Wolf stepped out first, heavy feet sinking slightly into dry soil. Jinx's Highlander followed, angular and eager. Taila's Griffin came third, more confident now, posture tighter, lanes already in her mind. Morrigan's Marauder walked out like a predator bored with everything. Quill's Awesome came last, broad as a wall, PPC housings quiet but ready.
The militia liaison waited in a cheap armored car that looked too small to be anywhere near this kind of steel. He stood when Dack approached, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes wide like he was staring at monsters that had decided to be useful.
"Dack Jarn?" he asked.
Dack didn't correct him. Didn't confirm either. He just said, "You're the witness."
The liaison swallowed. "Lieutenant Varris. Local militia. We—uh—appreciate your… prompt response."
Dack looked past him to the road. "Where were they hit."
Varris cleared his throat. "Southern haul road. Dry gulch called Crow's Cut. Two hits in ten days. They hit the middle, smoke out the escorts, take the rear haulers."
Dack keyed Lyra. "Crow's Cut."
Lyra's reply came immediate. "Map matches. Tight lanes. Ridge lines. Ideal for smoke and flankers."
Dack's voice stayed blunt. "Then we make it their grave."
Jinx laughed into the crew channel. "That's romantic."
Taila muttered, "Jinx…"
Morrigan's reply was a low, pleased sound. "Finally."
Quill didn't speak. She just adjusted her Awesome's stance and watched the ridge line like it had teeth.
Dack set the formation.
"Quill, anchor mouth of the cut," he said. "You're the wall."
"Copy," Quill replied.
"Taila, right ridge. Screen lanes. Don't chase."
"Copy," Taila said, voice tight but steady.
"Jinx, left ridge, long sightline. Don't get cute."
Jinx gasped theatrically. "You wound me."
Dack didn't react. "Morrigan, flank lane behind them. You're the knife."
Morrigan answered like she'd been waiting. "Finally."
Dack took the Dire Wolf center-rear, positioned so he could see both ridges and the convoy line below. The convoy rolled closer, engines whining, drivers unaware they were being measured like prey.
The first sign of the Cinder Jackals wasn't a sensor hit.
It was smoke.
Small canisters popped along the ridge line in a staggered pattern—gray-brown curtains blooming into the air, heat-baffling, thick enough to make targeting solutions stutter.
Then a voice cut across open-band comms, cocky and rough.
"Convoy's ours. Drop your guns and roll the locks. Jackals don't wanna spill extra."
The militia liaison's voice cracked. "They're— they're talking."
Dack said, "They always talk."
And then the ridges moved.
A Locust sprinted first—tiny, fast, darting through smoke like a knifefish. A Firestarter followed, jump jets coughing as it crested the ridge, flamers already spitting in short bursts to scare the convoy into panic.
Two mediums stepped into visibility behind them:
A Wolverine, broad-shouldered and ugly, running a bully's angle.
An Enforcer, steady and conservative, autocannon held like a promise.
And then the heavies appeared like the real threat arriving after the distraction:
A Trebuchet took position high, missile doors cracking open.
And a Guillotine—fast heavy, aggressive posture—stepped out of smoke with scorched orange markings across its chest plating like claw marks.
The raider voice returned, louder now, proud.
"Cinder Jackals on grid. Don't make it expensive."
Jinx purred. "Oh, I'm gonna make it expensive."
Dack's voice cut through the channel. "Now."
---
The first exchange was organized brutality.
Quill fired the Awesome's PPCs in a controlled rhythm—one, then a second—blue-white bolts punching through smoke gaps. One hit splashed across the Locust's flank, stripping armor and forcing it to veer. Another struck the Wolverine's shoulder, making it twist away.
The Trebuchet answered with missiles—LRMs arcing high, then dropping into the convoy line like rain that exploded. One flatbed erupted into sparks and shredded steel. Men scattered, some slipping in dust, some screaming.
Taila's Griffin fired its PPC once—clean bolt into the Firestarter as it tried to drop into the convoy lane. The Firestarter stumbled, flamers sputtering, and its pilot boosted sideways to avoid being pinned.
Dack fired his LRMs in a tight volley through the smoke, aiming not for kills—aiming for pressure. The missiles hammered the Trebuchet's upper torso plating and forced it to step back from its perfect firing spot.
Jinx's Highlander answered with her gauss rifle—one heavy, thunderous shot. The slug tore into the Enforcer's center torso and caved armor inward. The Enforcer staggered, but stayed up.
Jinx laughed like she'd just been given a toy. "Stay there. I like you."
The Guillotine didn't hesitate. It surged forward in a fast, predatory run, using smoke and terrain to cut the distance toward Quill's Awesome.
Quill held her ground.
The Guillotine fired—autocannon bursts and lasers raking—trying to build heat and panic, trying to force Quill to step back into the convoy.
Quill didn't step back.
She pivoted the Awesome slightly, angled her armor, and fired again—PPC bolt striking the Guillotine's torso plating. The heavy mech rocked but kept coming.
Dack saw the pattern.
They were trying to draw Quill into a duel while the Firestarter and Locust hit the convoy and the Trebuchet rained missiles.
He refused.
"Taila," Dack said. "Firestarter. Keep it off the trucks."
"Copy," Taila replied, and her Griffin shifted down the right ridge line, holding a controlled angle. She didn't chase the Firestarter into smoke. She forced it to come to her.
The Firestarter tried anyway—boosting toward the convoy with jump jets coughing.
Taila fired her LRMs, then followed with her PPC when the Firestarter tried to land. Explosions rocked its legs, and the PPC bolt hit hard enough to make it stumble into the dirt.
The Firestarter's flamers spat once, washing a convoy truck in fire. Men screamed, one caught full in the spray—he ran two steps before he collapsed, still burning.
Taila's breathing hitched over comms.
She didn't freeze.
She fired again.
The Firestarter's center torso took the hit and its pilot made the smart decision: break off or die.
Jinx's voice crackled. "Taila's learning."
Morrigan cut in from the left flank lane, Marauder moving like a shadow that had decided to kill. She fired her PPC into the Wolverine's side, then raked with lasers. The Wolverine turned toward her instinctively—angry, insulted—exactly as she wanted.
"Look at me," Morrigan murmured, and sounded satisfied when it did.
The Locust tried to dart in behind the convoy, weaving between smoke curtains.
Dack tracked it for half a second and fired his AC/10.
The shell hit the ground just ahead of the Locust and exploded, throwing dirt and shrapnel into its legs. The Locust stumbled, lost momentum, and for the first time the light mech looked less like a threat and more like an accident waiting to happen.
Quill capitalized immediately.
PPC bolt—clean—into the Locust's torso.
The light mech folded in half and crashed into the dirt like it had been unplugged.
No ejection.
Just silence.
The militia liaison made a strangled sound over his open comm line.
Dack ignored it.
The Trebuchet launched another missile spread, trying to make the convoy panic itself to death.
Dack stepped the Dire Wolf forward into the mouth of Crow's Cut and fired his gauss rifle—one brutal shot timed between missile cycles. The slug tore into the Trebuchet's chest plating and exposed internal structure. The heavy lurched back, missiles launching late and sloppy.
Jinx took advantage of the Enforcer's stagger and fired again—gauss slug into the same torn armor. The Enforcer's center torso failed. It collapsed forward into dust with a grinding scream of tearing metal.
The convoy drivers cheered on open comms like idiots who didn't understand the fight wasn't over yet.
The Guillotine was still coming.
Fast. Close. Aggressive.
Its pilot wanted a headline—wanted to say they'd taken down an Awesome and looted the convoy anyway.
Quill held.
Dack called it bluntly. "Quill, don't duel. You're the wall."
Quill replied, tight, "Understood."
But the Guillotine pressed into her space, forcing the issue.
It fired again, autocannon and lasers chewing into the Awesome's plating. Alarms would be ticking in Quill's cockpit now—heat, impact, structural warnings.
Quill didn't back off.
She fired all three PPCs in a staggered burst—one after another—aimed not at the Guillotine's torso, but down the line.
Legs.
The first bolt struck the Guillotine's knee plating and blew armor away. The second hit the other leg and made it buckle. The third slammed into the damaged joint again, and the Guillotine stumbled hard, momentum breaking.
Dack saw his chance.
He fired his LRMs in a tight ripple into the Guillotine's weakened leg assemblies, then followed with a gauss shot aimed low.
The gauss slug punched through damaged plating and sheared internal structure.
The Guillotine dropped to one knee in the dust.
Not dead.
Disabled.
Salvageable.
The raider pilot's voice came over comms, suddenly less cocky. "Jackals—pull back—"
Morrigan didn't let them pull back clean.
Her Marauder pivoted, PPC striking the Wolverine's rear torso as it tried to disengage. The Wolverine stumbled and turned to fight her out of pure rage.
Morrigan smiled without showing teeth. Then she carved.
Taila kept the Firestarter off the convoy, forcing it into a lane where it could either run or die.
It chose to run.
Dack didn't chase it.
Jinx wanted to. He heard it in her voice—bright, hungry.
"Let me—"
"No," Dack said. "We hold."
The Trebuchet, badly hit, tried to retreat into smoke.
Dack fired his AC/10 once—shell punching into its leg plating, forcing it to limp. Then Quill fired a PPC bolt into its torso, and the Trebuchet stumbled, missile doors hanging open like broken ribs.
The Trebuchet pilot ejected.
The seat rocketed up, canopy blowing out.
The pilot cleared the mech and drifted down under a ragged chute.
Alive.
Dack didn't shoot him.
The convoy was the contract. The record was the contract. The salvage was the contract.
Killing ejected pilots wasn't profit. It was noise.
The Cinder Jackals broke.
The Firestarter vanished into smoke. The Wolverine, burning and furious, jumped back into the ridge line and disappeared behind dust curtains. The remaining raider comm chatter turned into panicked half-sentences.
They were gone before the militia's weak guns could even track them.
Silence returned in fragments again—fires, cooling metal, and the sound of men realizing they were still breathing.
---
Dack held position until Lyra confirmed the ridge line was clean.
"Contacts pulling out," Lyra said from overwatch. "No secondary lance. No aerospace signature. Just raiders running."
Dack keyed the convoy admin channel again. "Convoy moves now."
The admin's voice came back shaky, euphoric. "We—yes—yes, moving—thank you—"
Dack didn't want thanks. He wanted time.
The convoy crawled past the disabled Guillotine and the collapsed Enforcer, drivers staring like they were looking at gods.
Lieutenant Varris's voice came over a secure band now, steadier than before. "This will be recorded. Full credit. We'll—"
Dack cut him off. "Record what you saw. Nothing else."
A pause. "Understood."
Dack turned his Dire Wolf toward the Guillotine, watching its crippled posture.
"Rook. Rafe," he said. "Tag it. Make sure it's safe. We take it."
The twins answered immediately, separate voices but the same certainty.
"Copy."
They didn't run onto the battlefield. They didn't do anything stupid. They moved when Dack's mechs held the lanes, when the smoke settled, when it was safe enough that their work didn't become a funeral.
That was the difference between scavengers and a unit.
Behind Dack, Quill held her Awesome steady. She didn't chase. She didn't posture. She didn't try to make this her personal win.
She fought like Moonjaw now—discipline supporting the pack.
Jinx's Highlander shifted closer to Dack's line, gauss rifle still warm. Her voice came bright again. "That counted, right?"
Lyra replied, calm and satisfied. "It counted."
Taila's voice was quieter. "We actually… did it."
Morrigan's response was a low snort. "Of course we did."
Dack watched the convoy disappear toward the refinery yard. Then he looked at the disabled Guillotine again.
He didn't smile.
But his voice carried a weight it hadn't before.
"Good work," he said.
It was only two words.
It hit the channel like a medal.
Taila went still for a half second, like she'd been punched in the chest. Jinx went quiet in a way that didn't happen often. Morrigan didn't respond—but her posture eased. Quill's breathing steadied.
Dack didn't add more.
He didn't need to.
---
They lifted off Damaris Ridge clean.
Payment cleared. Salvage rights logged. Lieutenant Varris signed the report and watched it route through channels that mattered—not loud, not glamorous, but real.
Back in the Union's mech bay, the Guillotine salvage was being staged—parts tagged, plates stacked, internal components logged.
Iona's voice carried down the corridor like she was trying to convince herself she belonged here. "This actuator assembly alone could offset—no, not offset, but reduce—our burn rate. If we sell the missile rack—assuming it's intact—"
Elin answered too quickly, as if silence hurt. "And the report is clean. I triple-checked the routing. No extra metadata. No weird handshake pings. It's just a report. Normal. Boring. Which is good. Boring is good."
Sera's voice was sharper. "Deck logs are done. Leopard's fuel balance is stable. We can do this again. We can—" She stopped like she realized she was talking like someone who was proud and didn't know how to be proud. "We can run it."
Jinx walked past them in black-and-red, hair loose, blue eyes bright. She reached out and flicked Elin's sleeve lightly as she passed like a cat batting at something.
Elin froze, face flushing.
Jinx grinned. "You're doing great, sweetie."
Elin made a noise somewhere between a thank you and a panic.
Taila followed behind Jinx, cheeks warm, trying not to look like she liked being part of this chaos.
Dack noticed it all.
He also noticed Jinx pause near the Highlander's leg armor, one hand pressing lightly to her abdomen for a second—absent-minded, almost unconscious. Her face tightened just a fraction, then she smoothed it away and kept walking.
Dack didn't say anything.
He stored it.
Lyra met his eyes from across the bay for half a heartbeat.
She didn't speak either.
But her look said: I see it too. Not today.
Dack accepted that.
He didn't like unknowns.
But he didn't interrogate his crew like enemies.
Not unless he had to.
---
Later, when the ship quieted, Dack went to the prisoner cabin.
Lyra's cams were live. Audio open. Door locked behind him.
Helena Lark sat on the bed like she'd been waiting—composed, clean, eyes bright with that same predatory calm.
"You've started building your legend," she said softly.
Dack didn't react to the bait. "You watched."
Helena smiled. "I listened. Walls carry sound on ships like yours."
Dack's voice stayed blunt. "You got a name. Now you give me something usable."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You think because I gave you my name I owe you the world."
"I think because you're alive you owe me honesty," Dack said. "Pieces. Small ones. Verifiable."
Helena leaned back, studying him like a knife studies flesh.
"What do you want," she asked.
"A handler alias," Dack said. "Or a drop phrase. Or a system. Something I can put in Lyra's hands that turns into a thread."
Helena's smile sharpened. "You want to pull the machine apart."
"I want to know where it bites," Dack replied.
Helena was quiet for a long moment.
Then she sighed, like she was bored of pretending she didn't care.
"The people who handled my leash didn't use names," she said. "They used roles. Titles. Disposable masks."
Dack didn't blink. "Masks still have shapes."
Helena's eyes glittered.
"The one who spoke to me most," she said slowly, "called himself Scribe."
Lyra's voice in Dack's earpiece went almost silent. "Copy."
Helena continued. "His dead-drop phrase… was stupid. Poetry for people who think they're clever."
Dack waited.
Helena smiled. "'The moon drinks first.' That's what he'd say when he wanted me to obey."
Dack's jaw tightened. He didn't like hearing that kind of phrase. It sounded like control dressed up like ritual.
"And where," Dack asked.
Helena's smile faded just slightly—like the location carried weight even for her.
"Gallowmere," she said. "A system with a yard that pretends it's private. A place where men sell loyalty in sealed rooms."
Lyra's voice, tight but controlled: "That's real. I've heard the name in old freight chatter."
Dack stared at Helena.
"You're giving me this because," he said.
Helena's mouth curved again. "Because you're going to chase it anyway. And because if you survive long enough… you might make the world uglier for the people who deserve it."
Dack didn't thank her.
He didn't threaten her either.
He simply said, "You don't talk to my crew. You don't leave that room unless I say."
Helena's eyes gleamed. "Of course."
Dack turned to leave.
Helena's voice followed him, soft and poisonous. "Your women are loyal."
Dack didn't look back. "They're mine."
Helena laughed quietly. "So was Ronan."
The laugh died behind him as the door locked again.
---
Dack walked back toward the mech bay, feeling the ship's hum under his boots and the new shape of his crew settling into place.
They had a recorded win.
They had salvage.
They had a name spreading through channels that mattered.
And they had a thread—Scribe, "the moon drinks first," Gallowmere—something real enough to chase later, when they were ready.
Not today.
Today was for c-bills.
Today was for building Moonjaw into something people paid real money to hire.
Inside the Dire Wolf cockpit that night, the day count would rise again in the only place he let it live.
But out here, walking among his crew and their machines, Dack didn't speak the number.
He spoke the only thing that mattered now.
"Prep the mechs," he said. "We take the next contract."