DAY 62 — 11:26 (SHIPTIME)
The Union stayed buried in shadow and discipline.
No broadcast. No casual pings. No heat signatures higher than they needed to be. The dead moon outside the ramp was the same gray silence it had been for centuries—dust, broken industry, and emptiness pretending it was harmless.
Inside the ship, the work never stopped.
Dack stood in the sim bay doorway and watched his crew the way he watched a battlefield: not for comfort, not for vibes—just for tells. Posture. Attention. Who looked at exits. Who looked at him. Who looked at the problem they didn't want to admit existed.
Jinx sat on the edge of a sim pod bench, boot bouncing, long dirty-blonde hair tied back messily like she'd done it with impatience. Her tight black-and-red top clung to her shoulders and collarbone. She looked energized—too energized for someone who'd spent the last hours on cold-rations and adrenaline.
Taila stood with arms folded, black halter top and red-striped combat leggings fitting like a uniform she'd chosen instead of been forced into. She tried to look calm, but the tension in her jaw gave her away. She hated waiting. Waiting felt like helplessness.
Morrigan leaned against a bulkhead like she was daring it to judge her—gothic attitude poured into black-and-red combat fabric, arms crossed, eyes sharp and unamused. She looked like she'd rather fight than breathe.
Rook and Rafe occupied the far end of the sim bay where a telemetry station had been set up—two stools, two slates, one shared screen. They moved and spoke like a synchronized mechanism.
"Data—" Rafe said.
"—clean," Rook finished.
Lyra stood behind them, calm as ever, flight suit zipped, hair neat, the kind of composure that didn't waste energy. Her eyes flicked between screens like she was tracking a storm.
And Quill waited by the last pod.
Pressure suit replaced by a simple undersuit and a worn jacket that didn't fit the Union's colors yet. Helmet tucked under her arm out of habit—she held it like an anchor. Her face was controlled, but there was a tightness under it that said she understood exactly how close she'd come to being erased.
She looked at Dack like she expected him to make this hard.
Dack did make it hard—just not in the way she expected.
He walked to the center of the sim bay and spoke once, loud enough that nobody could pretend they didn't hear.
"Quill stays," he said.
Jinx grinned immediately. "Yes. Collecting women continues."
Taila's eyes narrowed. Morrigan's glare sharpened.
Dack lifted a hand—minimal, but it stopped the noise.
"She stays because she's useful," Dack continued. "She knows how the people hunting us think. She knows their procedures. She knows their hardware habits. And she can pilot an assault frame clean enough to keep it intact."
Quill didn't flinch at "useful." If anything, she looked relieved that he wasn't pretending.
Dack's gaze swept the room. "If you don't like it, say it now."
Morrigan spoke first. "She tried to kill us."
Quill's jaw tightened, but she didn't argue. She'd earned that sentence.
Taila's voice came quieter. "She did."
Jinx shrugged, cheerful and cruel. "So did I, technically. That was the point of the duel."
Taila shot her a look. Jinx winked back.
Dack kept his voice blunt. "Quill tried to kill us. Then she flipped when she saw the truth. Now she's burned. She can't go home. She can't go back to her handlers. If she leaves us, she dies. If she stays and breaks rules, she dies."
Quill finally spoke, controlled. "Yes."
Dack nodded once. "That's the logic."
Lyra added, calm and practical, "And if we ever need to prove what happened—Quill's testimony plus the ledger trail matters."
Dack didn't say he cared about courts. He cared about leverage. Proof was leverage.
He looked at Quill. "You want in, you sign on."
Quill's eyes tightened. "To what."
"To Moonjaw," Jinx supplied brightly, like it was a club.
Dack ignored the tone. "You're not my friend. You're not my prisoner either. You're a contractor under restriction."
Quill held still, listening.
Dack continued. "Terms: you follow my calls in sim and live. You don't touch the prisoner. You don't speak to her. You don't use external comms without Lyra's approval. You don't leave the ship alone. You don't bring my crew problems. You earn your place."
Quill swallowed once. "And if I do."
"Then you get paid," Dack said. "And you get a cockpit."
Jinx perked up. "Ooh. That cockpit."
Lyra's eyes flicked toward the mech bay bulkhead beyond the sim bay—where the Awesome sat red-tagged, half-opened, stripped and checked like a corpse on a table.
Quill followed the glance without meaning to.
Dack saw it. "That cockpit," he said.
Quill's voice came quieter than the rest of her. "I can fly it."
"I know," Dack replied. "That's why you're still breathing."
It wasn't kindness.
It was clarity.
Quill nodded once. "Understood."
Dack turned to the sim pods. "Get in."
---
The first run was a simple drill that didn't look simple once you were inside it.
A mock industrial yard. Low visibility. Wrecked structures. Heat traps. A simulated pirate lance approaching with sloppy comms and too much confidence.
Dack didn't put himself in the sim first.
He watched the others. He wanted to see what they did when they thought he wasn't carrying them.
Taila and Jinx went in together. Morrigan took the opposing pod. Quill took the fourth.
Rook and Rafe fed the scenario and started logging like they were recording a murder trial.
"Lane—" Rafe murmured.
"—discipline," Rook finished.
Lyra's eyes stayed on the telemetry.
The sim started.
On the screen, the four icons moved—mechs represented by simplified silhouettes: Highlander, Griffin, Marauder, and the sim-assigned assault chassis placeholder for Quill until the Awesome was cleared.
Jinx immediately pushed the pace—aggressive angles, baiting shots, trying to make it exciting.
Taila held tighter than before, staying in supportive arcs, screening lanes, moving like someone who had learned not to chase glory.
Morrigan went ugly and effective—hard flanks, disciplined heat management, no wasted exposure.
Quill… fought like a professional contractor.
No emotion. No flourish. Just clean movements and controlled aggression, always angling for capture opportunities—disabling legs, cutting escape routes, forcing the enemy to choose between retreat and surrender.
It was good.
It was also a problem.
Because it didn't match Moonjaw's rhythm yet.
In Moonjaw, Jinx would do something insane and expect Taila to cover it.
Taila would cover it because she cared.
Morrigan would pretend she didn't care while still covering both of them.
Dack had built a pack out of dysfunction and discipline.
Quill didn't know how to sit inside that without trying to straighten it into something sterile.
The first run ended with a clean win.
And with three near-collisions where Quill's "correct" lanes crossed Jinx's "fun" lanes.
The sim dropped them out.
Jinx ripped her helmet off with a grin. "That was—"
Dack cut in from the doorway. "Bad."
The room went quieter.
Jinx blinked. "Excuse you?"
Dack walked in, eyes on the telemetry. "You're moving like you're solo. You're forcing Taila to chase you. Taila is overcorrecting. Morrigan is compensating. Quill is trying to make you obey her geometry."
Quill stiffened. "I wasn't—"
Dack looked at her. "You were."
Quill's jaw tightened. She didn't deny it.
Dack pointed at the replay. "We don't win by being right. We win by being together."
Jinx's grin softened. Taila stared at the floor for a second, then back up—taking it in, not flinching away. Morrigan rolled her eyes like she already knew this and hated that she agreed.
Dack tapped the screen again. "Run two. Mixed pairs."
Jinx brightened. "Oh. Spicy."
Taila muttered, embarrassed, "Jinx…"
Dack ignored both. "Taila with Quill. Jinx with Morrigan."
Morrigan's glare turned lethal. "No."
"Yes," Dack said.
Morrigan's mouth tightened. She complied anyway.
Quill's eyes flicked to Taila—measuring, cautious. Taila didn't look away. She was still figuring out what she felt about Quill, but she wasn't weak anymore.
They strapped in.
Run two loaded.
This time the scenario was nastier: an opposing "raider" lance with heavier elements—named silhouettes on the threat overlay: Hunchback, Centurion, Vindicator, and a fast nuisance Jenner.
Jinx, paired with Morrigan, immediately tried to do something reckless.
Morrigan shut it down with a brutal, clipped call that made even Dack blink.
"Stop drifting," Morrigan snapped over sim comms. "Hold the lane."
Jinx's reply was laughing, but she actually listened.
On the other side, Quill tried to "optimize" Taila's movement.
Taila didn't argue. She adapted.
But she also didn't become Quill's wingman.
She made Quill become hers, just a little—drawing Quill into Taila's discipline instead of being dragged by Quill's precision.
The run ended cleaner.
Not perfect.
Better.
They dropped out of the sim again, helmets coming off, sweat and adrenaline in their eyes.
Rook spoke softly. "Improving—"
Rafe finished. "—measurable."
Lyra nodded once. "It's working."
Dack watched Quill closely.
Quill's breathing was controlled. Her posture was disciplined. But there was a crack in her composure now—not weakness. Shift. Like she was realizing this crew didn't run on manuals. It ran on trust earned through repetition.
Dack pointed at her. "Again."
Quill didn't protest. "Yes."
---
Between runs, Dack crossed into the mech bay.
The Awesome sat there like a sleeping monolith—broad-shouldered assault mech with an ugly, purposeful shape. It wasn't painted in Moonjaw colors yet. Not fully. Bare metal showed where plates had been removed. The chest cavity was open, wiring exposed, coolant lines disconnected and then reconnected, everything under scrutiny.
Rook and Rafe had already been in here earlier. Now they were here again, tools in hand, heads tilted the same way as they studied the Awesome's guts.
Lyra stood at a console nearby.
Dack stopped at the edge of their workspace. "Status."
Rafe answered first. "IFF—"
Rook finished. "—scrubbed."
Rafe: "Heat—"
Rook: "—calibration ongoing."
Lyra added, "We found a nonstandard board in the comms assembly. Not factory. Not militia. It matched the style of that drone's beacon spike—same micro-pin layout."
Dack's stomach tightened. "So it was tagged."
"Could've been," Lyra said. "Or it could've been built to be tagged later. Either way, we pulled it."
Rook held up a small component—flat, black, ugly. "This—"
Rafe finished, "—goes nowhere."
Dack nodded once. "Good."
Lyra's eyes met his. "If the hunter was patient, they may be waiting for us to bring the Awesome online and light our signature by mistake."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "We don't."
Lyra nodded. "We don't."
Dack looked at the Awesome again and felt the weight of the decision. An assault mech wasn't just firepower. It was presence. It was confidence. It was something that made smaller threats think twice.
It was also a lighthouse if you used it wrong.
He keyed internal comm. "Sim bay. One more run."
---
The third run was not a drill.
It was an evaluation.
All four together now—Taila, Jinx, Morrigan, Quill—versus an AI "contractor" lance built to punish sloppy teamwork. Heavy mechs. Clean comm discipline. No panic. No mercy.
Dack didn't tell them that part.
He just watched.
This time, Jinx didn't sprint into stupidity right away. She still pushed, but she did it with purpose—baiting lines and pulling back into coverage instead of expecting rescue.
Taila stayed in her lane, voice tighter but steadier. She called targets, warned about flanks, and didn't let her emotions drive her positioning.
Morrigan did what Morrigan did best—made the enemy regret existing. She was efficient, nasty, and she didn't waste heat or ammo.
Quill… changed.
Not dramatically.
But enough that Dack saw it.
She stopped trying to force the crew into her style and instead used her discipline to support theirs. She anchored lanes. She called clean ranges. She held angles that made Jinx's chaos survivable and Taila's caution dangerous to the enemy.
When the run ended, the AI lance was wreckage.
Rook and Rafe's telemetry screen was a block of green indicators with a few yellow spikes—manageable.
Lyra looked satisfied, which for her was practically a celebration.
Dack stepped into the sim bay and looked at Quill.
"Good," he said.
Quill held his gaze. "That's the point."
Dack nodded once. "You're learning."
Jinx grinned and leaned into Taila, elbowing her lightly. "See? She's housebroken."
Taila sputtered, embarrassed. "Jinx—"
Morrigan muttered, "You're all disgusting."
Quill didn't smile. But her shoulders eased a fraction.
Dack's voice cut through them. "Quill. You're taking the Awesome."
The sim bay went quiet for half a second.
Then Jinx made a delighted sound. "YES."
Taila's eyes widened—part excitement, part fear. "Already?"
Lyra's tone stayed calm. "We still need a live shakedown. Minimal output. No emissions mistakes."
Dack nodded. "We do it downrange. Now."
Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "Here."
"Here," Dack confirmed. "Short walk. No shooting unless we have to."
Jinx's grin turned sharp. "If we have to, can I—"
"No," Dack said.
Jinx pouted instantly. "You hate me."
Dack didn't bother answering. He walked out.
---
The mech bay ramp opened to the dead moon again.
Gray dust drifted in slow motion beyond the threshold, disturbed by the Union's quiet systems and the faint warmth bleeding out of the hull.
Dack climbed into the Dire Wolf first. The cockpit sealed, the world narrowed, and the familiar hum of the reactor rising made his spine settle into the shape it preferred.
He keyed Lyra. "Open bay clamps for Awesome."
"Copy," Lyra replied.
The Awesome's clamps released with heavy clicks.
Quill climbed into the Awesome cockpit without ceremony. No hesitation, no reverence—just professional movement. Hatch sealed. Systems came online in a controlled sequence.
Rook and Rafe stood beneath it like proud mechanics who didn't know how to look proud.
"Heat—" Rafe said.
"—stable," Rook finished.
Lyra's voice came over comms, crisp. "Quill, keep output low. No radar sweeps. No broad comms. Dack will call it."
Quill's reply was immediate. "Understood."
The Awesome took its first steps down the ramp.
Its feet hit the moon dust with a dull, heavy thud that sent gray powder puffing outward in slow sheets. The mech moved like a boulder deciding to walk—stable, inevitable, controlled.
Behind Dack, the Highlander powered up—Jinx humming something obscene over comms. The Griffin came alive—Taila breathing steady. The Marauder rose into readiness—Morrigan quiet and ugly in the best way.
Four mechs and one new assault frame.
A pack.
Dack guided them away from the Union's shadow, out into the yard bowl where old wreckage made cover lanes and sensor clutter. He didn't want to be close to the ship if something went wrong.
He brought the Dire Wolf to a stop behind a broken DropShip rib and keyed the crew channel.
"Formation," he said. "Quill center. Taila right. Jinx left. Morrigan rear."
Quill complied instantly, Awesome stepping into the center like it had always been there.
Dack watched her movement carefully.
No stutter.
No overcompensation.
No ego.
Just control.
Lyra's voice came in, quiet. "External… still quiet."
Dack didn't relax. "Good."
A minute passed.
Then another.
Quill's Awesome shifted once, adjusting footing in low gravity with careful micro-motions.
Dack watched the horizon.
And far, far out—on the edge of their passive sensor band—Lyra's earlier pattern changed.
Not closer. Not louder.
Just… adjusting.
Like something had felt the shape of the Awesome coming online and turned its head.
Lyra's voice came tight, controlled. "Dack. The distant sweep just rotated. Same discipline."
Dack's eyes narrowed. "So it noticed."
Jinx's voice went excited. "Oh, I hope it comes closer."
Taila's voice was quieter. "I don't."
Morrigan muttered, "Idiots."
Quill didn't speak at all. But her Awesome's posture sharpened, like her body had remembered what it meant to be hunted.
Dack stared into the dark distance and let the cockpit swallow him fully.
He breathed once, slow.
Then, because he needed the anchor and because this was where he allowed it—
inside steel, inside the only place that never lied—
he said the number again, just under his breath.
"Sixty-two."
He keyed the crew channel, voice blunt and cold.
"Shakedown's done," he said. "Awesome is live. We go back inside. We stay cold."
A pause.
Then, quieter, his next order carried the real shape of their future.
"And we find what's following us—before it decides to bite."