DAY 77 — 16:11 (SHIPTIME)
By late afternoon, Garrison Pump Complex 12 had stopped trembling.
Not because it was safe—places like this never were—but because the people who survived had accepted the world wasn't ending today. Foam crusted the south corridor in pale scabs. Burnt fuel stink settled into the background, replaced by hot metal, dust, and the refinery hiss that never stopped.
Moonjaw's machines still stood watch anyway.
The Dire Wolf held near the Union's ramp, positioned so Dack could see the pad lanes and both road approaches. Quill's Awesome anchored the yard spine like a wall that breathed. Jinx's Highlander sat up on a low rise with its gauss rifle lowered but never truly relaxed—Jinx herself lounging in that easy, predatory way of hers, long dirty-blonde hair loose over one shoulder, blue eyes tracking everything and everyone like she was deciding what deserved to live. Taila's Griffin sat in the right approach lane—tidy posture, sensors awake—Taila down on the ground now, black-and-red clothes hugging a frame that still carried a little of that bondsman shyness in the shoulders even when she tried to stand tall. Morrigan's Marauder waited in pipe shadows angled like it preferred to be a threat you noticed too late; Morrigan herself leaned against a cargo crate with arms crossed, gothic sharpness in every line of her, expression set to don't talk to me unless it's important.
Lyra moved the real fight to a folding table under a portable awning: three slates, a contract holo, a portable recorder, and a camera pointed straight at the signature field.
People lied less when you could replay the lie.
Dack stood in the Union's ramp shadow with his helmet under one arm. Average height, lean, face plain enough that you wouldn't pick him out in a crowd—until you saw his eyes. Those didn't wander. They didn't plead. They didn't apologize.
They waited for the world to finish talking so he could decide what to do about it.
The corporate manager arrived with two militia escorts and a legal drone that looked like it had never been this close to grit in its entire manufactured life. His helmet was finally dusty. His eyes were still the eyes of a man who wanted to believe the universe ran on policy.
"Captain Jarn," he began, voice careful, "we've prepared closeout forms and—"
Lyra slid a slate across the table before he could build momentum. "Already prepared. Payment release. Bonus confirmation for sustained defense. Salvage chain-of-custody. Camera links embedded. Sign in order."
The manager blinked at the slate as if the text might rearrange itself into something kinder. "Right. Yes. Of course."
He signed.
Then signed again.
Then hesitated at the salvage acknowledgement like the word itself hurt.
"The Hatchetman—" he started.
Lyra didn't let him build. "Separate transaction. No impact to your contract."
"It's… an expensive machine," the manager said weakly.
Lyra's tone stayed level. "So is your refinery. You still paid us to keep it from becoming a crater."
The legal drone chirped and projected the clause in sterile corporate font. The manager swallowed and signed.
Lyra checked the time stamps, then nodded once. "Funds clear."
Dack spoke once, flat. "Done."
That ended it. No arguing. No begging.
Over the crew channel, Jinx sounded delighted at the finality. "He said 'done' like he just buried a problem."
Morrigan's voice snapped back immediately. "Stop talking."
Jinx replied, cheerful. "No."
Dack didn't look away from the manager's retreating back. "If you two keep doing this, I'll assign you both to repaint armor plates."
A beat of silence—actual silence.
Taila blinked like she'd misheard.
Lyra's eyes flicked up for half a second, a tiny spark of interest, then returned to her slate.
Quill's voice came clipped and faintly confused. "Was that humor."
Dack answered without turning his head. "It's a threat."
Jinx made an appreciative noise. "Hot."
Taila hissed, embarrassed. "Jinx—"
Morrigan muttered, "Disgusting."
Dack let it die there. He didn't feed it. He didn't need to. The yard did what yards always did after a near-death: people scattered back to work and pretended they hadn't been praying.
---
The Mule DropShip arrived an hour later, settling on the far pad with dirty thruster wash and the posture of a craft that had landed on too many worlds for too little profit. Its ramp lowered, and a broker in a patched jacket stepped out holding a slate like it was authority.
Lyra didn't go greet him.
She made him come to her.
He walked the distance, eyes flicking constantly to Moonjaw's mechs like he was calculating how fast he could die if he got clever.
"Lyra Sato?" he asked.
Lyra didn't correct him. She didn't smile. "Confirm escrow credentials."
He held up his slate. She scanned it, cross-checked the escrow lock, and nodded once.
"Hatchetman chassis," Lyra said. "Condition confirmed on transfer. Payment releases on confirmation."
The broker's smile was practiced. "Reasonable."
Lyra's voice stayed level. "So are we."
The Hatchetman sat on a reinforced pad—washed down, stabilized, presentable enough for someone to pretend it hadn't tried to murder them yesterday. Axe arm bent wrong. Cockpit sealed. Armor plates cracked in places where missiles and shells had hammered it and made its pilot rethink life choices.
Rook and Rafe had done careful work already. Panels reseated. Intact heat sinks tagged. Ammo bins made safe. Anything removed was logged, timed, photographed—because paperwork could turn salvage into theft if you got lazy.
The broker circled the chassis with a flashlight like he was inspecting livestock. "Actuator housings… decent. Myomer… surprisingly intact. Who dropped this?"
Jinx, lounging against the Highlander's leg like she owned the planet, called out, "We did."
The broker's flashlight hand twitched. "Uh-huh."
Lyra slid the confirmation slate across. "Thumbprint."
He hesitated, then pressed.
A chime hit Lyra's slate. Escrow released. Numbers appeared clean and final.
Dack saw it without needing to look hard. It wasn't wealth. It was breathing room.
Jinx made a satisfied hum. "C-bills."
Morrigan muttered, "You're disgusting."
Jinx winked. "I'm motivated."
Taila looked relieved in a quieter way. She'd learned what debt did to choices.
Lyra's voice came over internal comms. "Triplets, status."
Sera answered immediately. "Ramp lane locked. No yard access without log and escort."
Elin: "No unusual traffic. Militia chatter is climbing, but nobody's pointing at us."
Iona: "Inventory secured. Nothing missing. I checked twice."
Lyra replied, "Good."
Iona stiffened like praise was a trap.
As the Mule's crew began preparing to tow the Hatchetman chassis, Jinx hopped down from the Highlander ladder. Her hand brushed her lower stomach for half a second—absent, quick—and she made a small face like something in the air tasted wrong.
Dack's eyes flicked to her. "You sick."
Jinx lifted her chin. "No."
Dack's tone stayed deadpan. "Convincing."
Jinx's grin flashed. "Don't worry about me, boss."
Dack didn't argue. He just stored it.
---
With the Hatchetman gone, attention snapped to the real prize.
The Orion sat braced in the gravel, leg assembly locked in a temporary immobilizer, shoulder plating scarred. Cockpit intact. Wide shoulders. Heavy lines. A machine built to keep walking even after it shouldn't.
Rook and Rafe rolled a tool cart out of the Union and stopped in front of it, heads tilted at the same angle as they assessed the damage.
Rafe: "Joint's—"
Rook: "—stressed."
Rafe: "But not—"
Rook: "—ruined."
Lyra watched them. "Stabilize for transport?"
Rook nodded. "Yes."
Rafe added, "We can make it safe."
Dack stepped closer to the Orion. He didn't touch it. He didn't need to. He looked at it like he looked at contracts—something that could keep people alive if used correctly, or kill them if used stupidly.
"Morrigan," he said.
Morrigan's head snapped toward him, eyes sharp, arms crossed like she was bracing for insult. "What."
"You're in it," Dack said.
No ceremony. No speech. Just assignment.
Morrigan's throat bobbed once. She tried to hide it by scowling harder. "Obviously."
Dack continued, blunt. "Refit it. Make it yours."
Morrigan's voice softened by the smallest crack. "You're not completely stupid."
Jinx clapped once, delighted. "She said something nice! Quick, someone carve it into the hull."
Morrigan hissed, "Shut up."
Dack's gaze shifted toward the Marauder waiting near the bay doors—sleek, predatory posture, long-armed silhouette made to punish people who thought they were safe at medium range.
"Taila," Dack said.
Taila straightened instantly. "Yeah?"
"You take the Marauder," Dack said. "Starting now."
Taila's breath caught. "I—okay."
Quill's voice came calm from near the Awesome's bay position. "Platform change. Different engagement rhythm. Heat management is less forgiving."
Dack answered, "She'll learn."
Morrigan cut in immediately, territorial. "If she fights it like a Griffin pilot, she'll die."
Dack didn't blink. "Then teach her."
Morrigan paused.
It wasn't agreement in words.
It was agreement in the fact she didn't argue.
"Fine," she said, like it cost her.
Taila's cheeks warmed, but she didn't look away. "I'll learn."
Jinx leaned close to Dack, voice bright with mischief. "Look at you. Promoting people."
Dack replied without looking at her, deadpan. "Don't make me regret it."
Jinx's grin widened. "Too late."
Quill sounded faintly offended. "This is not a comedy."
Dack answered, flat. "It's maintenance."
For once, nobody had a comeback ready.
The roster shift tightened the company into something more dangerous:
Dack: Dire Wolf
Jinx: Highlander
Quill: Awesome
Morrigan: Orion (refit begins)
Taila: Marauder (transition starts)
Griffin: reserve seat, spare, training platform
Stronger meant better contracts.
Stronger also meant someone would notice.
Dack didn't like being noticed.
But he liked losing people even less.
---
He didn't go straight back into the mech bay.
He went down a deck along the corridor where the Union's hum changed pitch, toward the reinforced door with the dual lock and the hardwired camera feed. Lyra's security cams fed her station. She watched every second.
This wasn't about names. That was settled.
Helena Varr sat behind that door, alive because killing her would've been easy—and easy didn't answer questions.
Dack keyed the intercom. "Open."
A click. The inner lock disengaged while the outer stayed engaged—Lyra's protocol. Controlled access. Controlled distance.
Dack stepped into the threshold.
The room was small. Clean. Controlled. Bed bolted down. Chair bolted down. Sink. No loose metal. No windows.
Helena sat in the chair like she owned it.
Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Calm posture. Not comfort—control. A woman who had lived in the spaces between laws long enough to stop believing laws mattered.
Her gaze lifted to Dack. "Back again."
Dack didn't sit. "Ronan."
Helena's mouth curved faintly. "Straight to it."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "You courted him."
Helena didn't deny it. "Yes."
"He chose Selena," Dack said.
Helena's eyes narrowed—old irritation, old pride. "Yes."
"Did she know," Dack asked, "about you."
Helena's smile thinned. "No."
The answer didn't surprise him. It did something else—shifted the shape of the story in his head.
Dack's tone stayed blunt. "You killed him."
Helena watched him for a long moment, measuring. Then she said, evenly, "I set the board. I didn't pull a trigger."
"Same thing," Dack said.
Helena's eyes flickered at that—approval or annoyance, it was hard to tell. "Not to people who know how the world works."
Dack leaned a fraction closer into the threshold. "Why."
Helena's smile showed a sliver of teeth. "Because he made me a promise and then he treated it like a toy. Because he looked at me like I was the plan—then he walked away with my sister and pretended it was fate."
Dack's jaw tightened. "You didn't touch her."
Helena's smile vanished. "No."
He watched her carefully. "You didn't try to kill Selena."
Helena's eyes held his, steady. "No."
Dack didn't flinch. "Then where is she."
Helena leaned back in the chair, the bolt squeaking. "Missing."
Dack's voice stayed controlled, but it went colder. "You expect me to believe you don't know."
Helena's gaze sharpened. "Believe what you want. I ignored her. That was my crime. Not murder."
Dack's mouth tightened. "I never knew her."
That surprised Helena. It shouldn't have—but it did. Her expression shifted by a fraction, the first honest crack Dack had ever seen in her armor.
"You never knew Selena," Helena repeated, softer.
Dack's voice was flat. "I assumed she ran. From him. From me."
Helena stared at him like she was trying to decide whether to mock him.
She didn't.
Not this time.
"She didn't run from you," Helena said finally.
Dack didn't move. "You're sure."
Helena exhaled slowly. "Selena… was the kind of woman who made decisions like they were prayers. Quiet. Certain. She wouldn't abandon a child to prove a point."
Dack's eyes narrowed. "Then what."
Helena's gaze drifted for a moment—not away from him, but inward. "After Ronan died… she disappeared. Not dramatically. No public funeral rage. No screaming. She just… stopped being where people expected her to be."
Dack's voice stayed level. "Did she know he was dead."
Helena's mouth tightened. "Yes."
"And she doesn't know you did it," Dack said.
Helena's eyes sharpened. "No. She doesn't."
Dack held silence long enough for the Union's hum to fill it like a heartbeat. "How does someone disappear that clean."
Helena looked at him again, and this time there was something almost… interested in her stare. Not predator interest. Not hatred.
Curiosity.
"She had access," Helena said. "Ronan kept multiple identities. Multiple routes. Multiple caches. Selena knew enough to vanish if she wanted. Or if she had to."
Dack's throat tightened. "Did she want."
Helena's voice went lower. "I don't know."
Dack's tone stayed blunt. "You didn't look."
Helena didn't deny it. "No."
"Why," Dack asked.
Helena's lips pressed together, then she said the first thing that sounded even remotely like truth without cruelty wrapped around it.
"Because if I looked," Helena said, "I'd have to care whether she lived."
Dack stared at her. "And now."
Helena's eyes held his. "Now you're asking."
Dack's expression didn't change. "You're warming up to me."
It was blunt enough to be rude. It also wasn't wrong.
Helena's mouth curved faintly, and this time it wasn't pure teeth. "You're not Ronan."
Dack waited.
Helena continued, voice softer than it had any right to be. "Ronan was a storm. He took and took and called it inevitability. You…" Her gaze flicked over Dack like she was noticing details she'd refused to notice before. "You're quiet. You don't beg. You don't posture. And you kept people alive who had no business being alive."
Dack's reply was deadpan. "Don't get sentimental."
Helena's smile returned—small, controlled. "That was almost a joke."
Dack didn't give her the satisfaction of confirming it.
He asked, "Last place she was seen."
Helena hesitated, then gave him something real—not enough, but more than she'd ever given before.
"Port registers," Helena said. "A charter out of a backwater terminal. She used a name that wasn't hers. I only learned it because I heard it in passing." A beat. "Sel."
Dack's eyes narrowed. "Sel."
Helena nodded once. "Not Selena. Just… Sel."
Dack stored it. Another sliver.
He kept his voice flat. "You're going to help me."
Helena's eyes glittered. "Why would I."
Dack answered simply. "Because you're trapped. Because you hate the people who used you. Because you like being near power."
Helena laughed quietly—almost approval. "You talk like a man who understands leverage."
Dack's tone stayed deadpan. "I'm learning."
Helena studied him for a long moment, then said, very softly, "If Selena is alive… she's going to hate you."
Dack didn't blink. "For what."
Helena's smile turned sad in a way that didn't look good on her. "For being Ronan's son. For surviving. For reminding her of a life she couldn't keep."
Dack's answer was simple. "Then I'll take it."
Helena's gaze held his, and something in it warmed by a degree—tiny, dangerous, real.
"You're not what I expected," she said.
Dack replied, deadpan. "Disappointing."
Helena's smile widened. "Maybe."
Dack thumbed his mic. "Lyra."
Her voice came instantly, calm. "I heard everything. Logged. Time-stamped."
"Keep her locked," Dack said.
Lyra replied, "Already."
Dack looked at Helena one last time. "You want to earn your way out of that room, you give me more than slivers."
Helena's eyes stayed on him. "And if I do."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "Then you live longer."
Helena's smile sharpened. "That's not an offer. That's a warning."
Dack's reply was deadpan. "Everything I say is."
He stepped back out of the threshold. The outer lock engaged with a heavy click.
In the corridor, he stood still for a moment, helmet under his arm, breathing slow.
He didn't feel empty.
He felt focused.
Selena wasn't a corpse now in his head.
She was a missing person.
And missing meant there was still a line he could chase.
---
Back in the mech bay, reality hit him in the form of tool clangs and coolant hose hiss.
Taila stood at the Marauder ladder with one hand on the rung, listening while Morrigan spoke in sharp, clipped sentences—heat rhythm, torso twist timing, how to hold lanes instead of chasing lights, how to punish without overcommitting.
Quill worked at the Awesome's open panel like maintenance was prayer, checking cabling around the PPC housings and heat sink lines with disciplined care.
Rook and Rafe were already mapping the Orion refit in low voices, pointing at actuator mounts and armor seams, talking about parts the way other people talked about food.
The triplets moved through edge tasks like they'd been born into logistics—Sera tracking access, Iona tracking inventory, Elin tracking comm and sensor chatter.
Jinx sat on a tool cart, legs swinging, watching Dack approach with bright eyes.
"You go talk to your aunt?" she asked, like she was asking if he'd checked fuel levels.
Dack didn't correct her. "Yes."
Taila's head snapped up. "Your—"
Dack cut it off with a look. "Later."
Jinx leaned in, voice lower. "And?"
Dack answered, deadpan. "She's still alive."
Jinx blinked. "That's… not helpful."
Dack's eyes flicked to her. "It is. Means we can ask again."
Morrigan snorted. "You're all insane."
Dack replied, flat. "It's working."
Jinx grinned. "That's the spirit."
Lyra's voice came over ship intercom, crisp. "Final contract payments confirmed. Departure window in two hours. Fuel intake complete. Cargo manifest updated."
Sera: "Ramp secure."
Elin: "No hostile traffic."
Iona: "No missing inventory."
Dack keyed the crew channel. "We lift. We refit. We train."
Jinx's voice came bright. "And we get paid again."
Morrigan muttered, "If you don't die."
Quill: "Understood."
Taila: "Okay."
Dack climbed into the Dire Wolf cockpit and sealed the hatch. The reactor hum steadied him—familiar, solid, honest.
He said the number once, for himself.
"Seventy-seven."
Then he stared at Lyra's nav route—fuel, parts, machine shops ahead.
A place to turn salvage into strength.
A place to build the pack bigger.
And now—with Selena no longer a ghost he blamed for leaving, but a missing line he could pursue—Dack understood the next stage wasn't just contracts.
It was preparation.
Because sooner or later, someone would come for them again.
And if they did, they'd find Moonjaw had stopped being a lone mech and a lucky crew.
They'd find a pack that knew what it was protecting.