DAY 76 — 17:26 (SHIPTIME)
The third day on contract worlds always felt the same.
Not because the scenery repeated—dust, steel, thin sky—but because the rhythm did. After the first night you knew the enemy's taste. After the second you knew their teeth. The third was where they either broke, or they tried to bite somewhere you hadn't armored.
Dack sat in the Dire Wolf cockpit while the sun dropped, reactor idling low, coolant loops cycling with a soft mechanical hush. Outside the canopy, the yard of Garrison Pump Complex 12 looked calm in a way that meant nothing.
Workers moved in tight groups now. Militia patrols doubled. Floodlights were fixed and reinforced. The corporate manager's clean helmet looked less clean. He'd watched enough death in two nights to learn what fragility felt like.
Moonjaw's mechs held their places while the site tried to pretend it was normal again.
The Hatchetman lay on its side beyond the berm, disabled, cockpit closed, axe arm twisted in the dirt like a broken promise. It was salvage. It was money. It was also bait—something the Knives of Acheron might try to drag away if they were desperate enough.
Dack didn't assume they would.
He assumed they would do something worse.
Lyra's voice came in over comms, steady. "Elin's getting a strange silence on local bands. Too quiet. It's not normal for raiders. It reads like coordination off-net."
Dack didn't look away from the yard. "They're planning."
"Also," Lyra added, "your employer is asking again about salvage percentages."
Dack exhaled once. "Bring him."
Lyra didn't argue. She knew the math better than anyone. The fight won you steel. The paperwork decided whether you kept it.
The corporate manager arrived ten minutes later with two militia escorts and the same brittle eyes. He looked up at the Dire Wolf as if the machine itself might answer him.
"Mr. Jarn," he began, voice too careful, "we're grateful, we are, but the Hatchetman—our legal team believes—"
Lyra stepped beside the Dire Wolf's massive foot, slate in hand, expression calm as a locked door. "Your legal team is wrong."
The manager blinked. "Excuse me?"
Lyra didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. "Clause seven. Salvage rights on disabled hostile mechs within the perimeter zone. Your cameras recorded the Hatchetman crossing the berm line and engaging Moonjaw. That qualifies it as hostile combatant salvage. There is no percentage split unless Moonjaw voluntarily offers it."
The manager's cheeks flushed. "But—this site's losses—"
Lyra's eyes didn't soften. "Moonjaw prevented additional losses. You paid for defense. We delivered. We're not funding your replacement inventory."
One of the militia escorts swallowed like he wanted to disappear.
The manager tried again, weaker. "We could… offer a finders fee?"
Lyra nodded once. "You already did. It's called the contract."
He looked at Dack like he expected sympathy from the man in the Dire Wolf.
Dack didn't give it. "We keep the Hatchetman."
The manager's shoulders slumped. He looked like a man realizing contracts weren't prayers.
Lyra added, almost polite, "If you'd like to negotiate for purchase later, we can discuss numbers. Not ownership."
The manager swallowed hard and nodded. "Understood."
When he left, Lyra remained near the Dire Wolf for a moment, eyes scanning the yard, the ridgelines, the service roads.
"You're going to pursue if they run," Lyra said quietly.
Dack's answer was simple. "If it pays."
Lyra didn't like that answer. But she understood it.
"We take a limited counterstrike if we do," she said. "No chasing into unknown terrain. I want extract routes mapped and clear."
Dack nodded once. "Good."
A few meters away, the triplets proved they weren't just extra mouths.
Iona stormed over from a supply container stack, face flushed, slate clutched hard. "They're trying to steal."
Lyra's eyes flicked. "Who."
"Site workers," Iona said, voice tight with outrage. "Ammo crates. Fuel line seals. Small parts. They think nobody will notice because it's chaos."
Lyra's jaw tightened. "Sera?"
Sera appeared instantly, like she'd been waiting to be told to be vicious. "Ramp stays locked. Yard access gets one controlled lane. Any worker caught taking parts gets removed from the perimeter."
Elin's voice cut in over comm, shaky but proud. "I have their names. I—uh—I pulled their badge pings when they passed the camera line."
Lyra's eyes sharpened. "Good work."
Elin made a small, shocked sound like praise was a weapon and she didn't know how to hold it.
Dack listened. Watched. Stored it.
His crew was becoming real.
That mattered more than steel.
---
Morrigan found him where she always found him—near his machine, near the quiet that wasn't quiet at all.
She walked up in black and red, miniskirt replaced today by something more practical but still sharp, hair in twin tails, pale face set in its usual tsundere scowl. Her eyes flicked toward the yard, then back to Dack.
"You're thinking about chasing," she said.
Dack didn't deny it. "Maybe."
Morrigan crossed her arms. "It's stupid."
Dack glanced at her. "Maybe."
Morrigan's scowl deepened. "You keep saying that like you're proud of it."
Dack stayed calm. "It's money."
Morrigan took a step closer, voice lowering. "And if you die?"
Dack didn't answer right away.
He looked at the refinery flare stack, the way it hissed into the evening like the planet was exhaling.
Then he said, blunt and honest. "Then you kill whoever did it."
Morrigan's eyes flashed. Not amused. Not angry exactly. Something else.
"Don't make me regret trusting you," she said.
It wasn't a confession.
It was worse.
Dack looked at her for a long beat. "I won't."
Morrigan stared like she wanted to call him a liar.
Then she looked away and muttered, "Idiot."
Dack didn't argue.
He understood her language now.
---
Night fell hard.
The lights came on and the complex turned into bright islands surrounded by dark.
Elin's voice came over comm again, quieter than before. "They're moving. Different pattern. Not like the first two nights."
Dack's posture tightened inside the Dire Wolf. "Where."
"Multiple small heat signatures," Elin said. "Infantry again. West ravine and south pipe corridor. They're splitting."
Sera's voice was sharp. "They're coming for the Leopard again."
Lyra cut in, controlled. "No. Ramp stays sealed. Security line is armed. They won't get close."
Iona's voice came clipped. "They're also targeting the fuel farm. I see a route map on the site cams—movement in the service trenches."
Dack felt the shift.
They weren't trying to win a mech fight.
They were trying to burn the job.
To force Moonjaw to choose.
A voice hit open-band comm—rough, confident, the same one as before, but colder now.
"Third night. Last chance. Knives of Acheron don't leave empty."
Dack answered once. "You will."
Then the fire started.
A pump line detonated in the south corridor—sharp blast, then a roaring fountain of flame. Pressure-fed fuel turned into a living wall that climbed into the night. Heat rolled across the yard like a slap.
The corporate manager screamed something over comms.
Workers panicked. Militia shouted. Vehicles started moving without orders.
Chaos.
That was the point.
Dack's voice stayed flat. "Hold lanes."
Jinx's Highlander shifted on its ridge, gauss rifle tracking through heat shimmer. "They're trying to make us run around like idiots."
Taila's Griffin held the tank farm approach, voice tight. "I can see the flames. They're—"
"Keep your lane," Dack said.
Quill's Awesome planted itself in the yard center like a fortress, PPC housings glowing faintly. "I have the main corridor. Let them come."
Morrigan's Marauder moved through shadow lanes toward the south flames, hunting the saboteur team like it was personal.
Dack moved the Dire Wolf forward just enough to cover both the burning corridor and the central yard.
Then the mechs arrived.
Out of smoke and heat shimmer, heavier silhouettes stepped into view—different from the previous night, as if the Knives had decided to show a new set of teeth.
A Jenner sprinted first, light mech darting between pipes, trying to bait Taila off her lane.
A Vindicator followed—steady, compact, holding a midrange firing line.
A Hunchback appeared behind them, bulky and ugly, autocannon hump aimed like it wanted to tear something apart at point blank.
Then the heavy lead emerged through the heat haze.
An Orion.
Broad shoulders. Missile rack doors flexing. Autocannon barrel steady. It walked through the edge of the burning corridor like it didn't care if the world was on fire.
The Knives' open-band voice came again, almost gleeful now.
"Moonjaw. Drop your guns. Drop your pride. We take the yard and we take the girl's dropship."
Jinx laughed. "No."
Dack's voice cut like steel. "Engage."
---
The Orion fired first—missiles and autocannon bursts punching into the berm near Quill's Awesome, trying to force her to step back into the open where the Hunchback could close.
Quill didn't move.
She fired a PPC bolt into the Orion's torso plating. The heavy rocked, armor flaring.
Dack fired LRMs in a tight ripple—not at the Orion's center, but at its missile rack housings, forcing it to manage impact and heat.
Jinx's Highlander fired her gauss rifle—one thunderous shot that struck the Orion's shoulder plating and tore armor away in a violent spray of ferro.
The Hunchback tried to advance anyway, using the Vindicator and Jenner as screen.
Taila held her lane and fired LRMs into the Jenner's path, forcing it to veer. She followed with her PPC into the Vindicator's torso, clean bolt that made it stagger.
The Hunchback pushed into the smoke gap, autocannon barking—
—and Morrigan hit it from the side.
Her Marauder's PPC bolt slammed into the Hunchback's flank and blew armor away. Lasers followed, raking the same wound.
The Hunchback turned toward her, angry, hungry—
"Look at me," Morrigan murmured, and her voice sounded satisfied when it did.
That was her gift. Making enemies stupid.
The Orion tried to shift its weight toward Quill's Awesome again, pressing the center, trying to force a break.
Dack stepped the Dire Wolf forward, heavy feet thudding on gravel, and fired the AC/10 into the Orion's knee plating.
The shell hit hard. The Orion stumbled a fraction.
Jinx immediately laughed, bright and vicious. "Legs are legs."
The Orion's pilot tried to compensate—turning its damaged knee away, angling armor.
Dack didn't give it time.
He fired another LRM spread low, aiming for actuator assemblies and joint plating, then followed with a gauss shot timed between its step cycle.
The gauss slug struck the damaged leg assembly and tore deeper into internal structure.
The Orion lurched.
Not down.
But compromised.
Quill fired again, PPC bolt punching into the Orion's torso. Heat rose. Night lit blue-white for a heartbeat.
The Orion answered with an autocannon burst into Quill's Awesome, forcing her to manage impact—
—and the Hunchback tried to exploit it, charging toward Quill's center line.
Taila didn't chase it.
She fired her PPC into the Hunchback's path, then launched LRMs into its damaged flank where Morrigan had already opened it up.
Explosions hammered the wound.
The Hunchback staggered, slowed.
Morrigan stepped forward and fired her PPC again into the same torn plating.
The Hunchback's center torso twisted, alarms screaming.
Its pilot made the only smart choice left.
Ejection.
The canopy blew. The seat rocketed up in a bright flare against the refinery firelight.
Dack didn't shoot it.
The Knives of Acheron were trying to run a salvage-and-burn op.
They didn't want to trade bodies.
Not if they didn't have to.
The Vindicator began pulling back. The Jenner sprinted away, fast and panicked.
The Orion tried to retreat too—but its damaged leg made it slower than it wanted to be.
Dack saw the opening.
He didn't chase into the ravine.
He held the perimeter line and worked the Orion down in place like it was a problem to be solved, not a beast to be hunted.
He fired his AC/10 again into the same leg joint.
The Orion's knee failed.
The heavy mech dropped to one knee in the gravel, torso twisting as its pilot fought to keep it upright.
Quill's next PPC bolt struck the Orion's shoulder, ripping more armor away.
Jinx's gauss rifle followed—slug smashing into the Orion's upper torso and carving deep.
The Orion stopped moving.
It wasn't dead.
But it was done.
The Knives of Acheron's open-band voice cut in, suddenly furious.
"Fall back! Leave it!"
They ran.
The Vindicator disappeared into smoke. The Jenner vanished into the pipe corridors. The Orion's escort broke and scattered, leaving their crippled heavy behind like a tooth knocked out of a mouth.
The fuel fire still raged in the south corridor, but site crews were already moving with suppression foam and valves—because Moonjaw had kept the mechs off them long enough to let them act.
Lyra's voice came calm. "We have a heavy disabled. Contract zone. Salvage rights are ours."
Dack watched the Orion kneeling in the gravel, smoke curling from its armor.
It would be expensive to move.
It would be worth more than expensive.
Morrigan's voice came low. "That one's mine."
It wasn't a request.
Dack didn't promise anything yet.
He just said, "We'll see."
---
The corporate manager came on comm, voice shaking with relief and fury. "You saved the site—again. We—We can't handle another night like this."
Dack answered, "You're done after tonight."
Lyra cut in, professional. "Contract terms fulfilled pending daylight confirmation of perimeter security and salvage chain-of-custody."
The manager swallowed. "Yes. Yes. Whatever you want."
Jinx laughed softly. "I like when they get like this."
Taila exhaled. "They… left the Orion."
Quill's voice came controlled, but there was a faint thread of satisfaction. "They didn't expect discipline."
Dack stared at the smoke line where the Knives had retreated.
He knew what came next.
They could take their win.
Get paid.
Leave at dawn with a clean report and two big salvage pieces—Hatchetman and Orion—plus whatever smaller parts they could legally strip.
Or they could do something mercs sometimes did when the math tempted them:
Hit the raider nest while the enemy was wounded.
Lyra's voice came over private comm, quiet. "They'll be regrouping in the west ravine. We can map their retreat path from camera angles. But if we pursue, I want strict limits."
Dack's reply was immediate. "Map it."
Lyra continued, "Limited counterstrike. In and out. No deep chase. If it smells wrong, you leave."
Dack stared at the ravine shadow.
Then he keyed the crew channel.
"We're not done," he said.
Jinx's voice turned bright. "Oh?"
Taila's stomach tightened. "Dack…"
Quill didn't hesitate. "If we pursue, we need a plan."
Morrigan's voice came low and hungry. "We finish it."
Dack's tone stayed blunt. "Limited. We hit their hideout only if Lyra confirms routes. We take salvage. We leave."
Lyra's calm voice slid in. "I'll have it before dawn."
Dack held the Dire Wolf steady in the yard, watching the fire die down, watching the smoke thin.
Moonjaw had just earned more than c-bills.
They'd earned fear.
And fear was currency too—if you spent it smart.
They'd get paid for this job.
They'd take their salvage.
And if the map was clean, they'd make sure the Knives of Acheron remembered this world as the one where their knives snapped.
Inside his cockpit, Dack didn't say the day number out loud.
Not now.
He watched the ravine and waited for Lyra's confirmation like a man waiting to see if the next step was profit or death.