DAY 86 — 05:41 (LOCAL) / 07:58 (SHIPTIME)
The mech bay was too quiet for the hour.
Not because there wasn't work—there was always work—but because everyone moved like they were saving their breath for later. Like the ship itself knew that whatever came next would cost metal and blood.
Dack walked the center lane between the Dire Wolf's berth and the Orion pad with Lyra's contract slate in one hand and a mug of bitter station coffee in the other. The slate's header hadn't changed since last night.
CLAN ELEMENTS CONFIRMED
PAY: HIGH
FIELD: PLANET-SIDE
TERMS: BATCHALL ACCEPTED
Rook and Rafe were already under the Orion's left knee housing, hands black with grease, hair tied back tight, faces set in the calm concentration of people who'd learned long ago that panic didn't fix machines.
Rafe glanced up first.
Rook followed a heartbeat later.
They stepped in without breaking stride, one on either side of Dack, as if the bay's center lane was their territory and he'd just entered it.
Two quick kisses—one on each cheek.
Rafe's lips were warm and quick.
Rook's were softer, lingering half a heartbeat longer like she couldn't help it.
Then both were gone, back under the Orion, tools in motion like nothing had happened.
Jinx, perched on the Highlander's ladder rail, made an approving noise that would've been obscene in a church. Her long dirty-blonde hair fell loose over one shoulder, and her blue eyes sparkled with the kind of excitement that meant she was either about to get paid or about to start a fire.
"The Ritual," she said, delighted. "It's official."
Taila, standing at the Marauder's pad with her helmet tucked under one arm, flushed and tried to pretend she didn't enjoy it. Tight black halter top, black leggings with red stripes, braid falling over her shoulder. She gave the twins a look like you're going to get him killed by distraction—but her mouth twitched.
Quill stood near the Awesome, quiet and composed, her uniform more practical than the others but still black-and-red. She watched the bay like she watched a battlefield: calm, cold, present.
Morrigan came down the Orion ladder, boots hitting deck with a controlled heaviness. She'd dressed like she was going to war and wanted everyone to know it—goth edge softened into functional gear, still fitted, still black and red. Her eyes flicked to Dack's face, then away fast like she hated that she'd checked.
"You're late," she said.
Dack took a sip of coffee. "No."
Morrigan scowled. "I was waiting."
"You're always waiting," Jinx said brightly. "Waiting to bite him."
Morrigan's glare cut toward Jinx. "Shut up."
Dack didn't look at either of them. He stared at the Orion's knee housing, at the fresh sealant lines and the painted torque marks. "Leg?"
Rafe's voice floated up from under the mech. "It holds."
Rook added immediately. "If she behaves."
Morrigan's shoulders tensed like she wanted to argue—then she didn't. She just looked at Dack's hand holding the slate.
"Clans," she said, low.
Dack nodded once.
Morrigan hesitated—then stepped closer and hooked two fingers around his wrist like she was testing whether she could claim steadiness without admitting she wanted it. Her touch was light, but it landed heavy.
"You'll call it," she said. Not a question.
Dack's eyes flicked down to her hand, then back up. "I always do."
Morrigan's jaw clenched like she didn't know what to do with the relief that gave her. She let go fast, arms crossing again.
Jinx slid down from the ladder rail and drifted toward Dack's side with an easy, practiced closeness. She looked bright, but Lyra could read her better than anyone now, and Taila could read her almost as well.
Jinx's grin faltered for a moment—just a moment—and her hand brushed her lower stomach under her jacket hem as if checking something that wasn't visible yet.
Taila saw.
Lyra saw.
Neither said a word.
Lyra simply walked past with her slate, paused at Jinx's shoulder, and pressed a small foil packet into her palm without looking like she'd done it.
Ginger chews. Quiet. Untraceable.
Jinx palmed it, lifted her chin, and became Jinx again.
"Alright," Dack said. "Helmets. We drop, we fight, we leave."
Taila's eyes locked on him. "Cassia?"
Dack's gaze slid to the far end of the bay.
Cassia Rell stood by the Griffin like she was trying to become part of the wall. Short dark hair. Old academy jacket with the insignia cut out, stitch scars still visible. She held her helmet too tight and her posture too straight.
"You do what you did in the badlands," Dack told her. "Stay back. Call targets. Shoot only if you must."
Cassia swallowed. "Yes, sir."
Quill's voice cut in, calm. "The Clan terms?"
Lyra answered before Dack could. "They accepted the batchall. One star versus one star. No aerospace. No outside interference. Battlefield designated by them: a slag canyon near the refinery node."
Jinx's smile sharpened. "Of course they picked a place that cooks you alive."
Lyra's eyes stayed flat. "They also demanded the defending militia stay clear. They want it clean."
Dack nodded once. "Fine."
Quill's gaze flicked to Dack. "And if it isn't clean?"
Dack's voice didn't change. "Then it isn't clean."
Rook and Rafe slid out from under the Orion together, faces smeared with grease.
Rafe: "We—"
Rook: "—tightened—"
Rafe: "—everything."
Rook: "We're ready."
Dack looked at them. "Good work."
Both twins went pink like he'd kissed them instead.
Then, because they couldn't help themselves, they stepped in again—two quick kisses to the cheeks.
"The Ritual," Jinx sang under her breath, like it was a spell.
Dack didn't stop them.
He just walked.
---
The refinery world was named Kestrel's Anvil on the contract packet—one of those border rocks that existed to be stripped for value and forgotten again. The refinery complex sat on the edge of a basalt badlands, pipelines running like veins across cracked ground, slag heaps rising like black hills.
Dawn came ugly and red.
The Union landed low in a basin beyond the refinery ridges, hidden from the main approach lanes. The Leopard stayed tethered and hot, ready to lift if the sky got hostile, though by terms it wasn't supposed to.
Lyra's voice came across comms as the mech bay ramp lowered. "Militia commander is holding his people back. He's terrified. He wants to intervene."
"Tell him no," Dack said.
Lyra didn't argue. "Already did."
The air outside smelled like sulfur and metal and old fire.
Dack sealed into the Dire Wolf, and the cockpit became his world—gauges, heat curves, weapon status, the steady thrum of a reactor that could turn anything into ash.
He let the hum settle him.
"Eighty-six," he murmured, then keyed the channel. "Move."
The Dire Wolf stepped onto basalt, heavy feet cracking brittle slag crust.
To his left, Jinx's Highlander came down the ramp with confidence that bordered on faith. To his right, Quill's Awesome moved like an anchor, steady and inevitable. Taila's Marauder followed slightly behind Dack's right rear quarter, posture cautious but committed. Morrigan's Orion came last, left knee moving with careful discipline, like a predator walking on a healing wound.
Cassia's Griffin took position on a ridge behind them, higher ground, sightlines wide. She didn't like being away from the group, but she obeyed.
The canyon approach was a long cut through basalt ridges and slag drifts, heat rising from vents that shimmered the air and made distances lie.
Lyra's voice stayed in their ears from the Union. "Clans are on approach. They're broadcasting."
Dack opened the channel.
A voice came through—clear, measured, almost calm enough to be polite.
"Mercenary commander," the Clanner said. "You answered our batchall. State your name."
Dack didn't embellish. "Dack Jarn."
A pause—interest hidden behind control.
"I am Star Captain Vasha, Clan Jade Falcon," the voice said. "You will face my star. Do you accept the field and the terms?"
Dack stared forward through heat shimmer and basalt shadow. "Yes."
"Good," Vasha said. "We will take your refinery node. You will attempt to stop us. Let your people keep their distance. If they interfere, we will treat them as dishonorable combatants."
Jinx's voice cut in, bright and dangerous. "We're mercs. Honor's not in the invoice."
Dack spoke over her, flat. "We fight. We leave."
Star Captain Vasha didn't respond to Jinx. Only to Dack. "Then begin."
The channel went dead.
And the canyon ahead started to move.
---
They came into view like ghosts made of metal.
Five machines cresting a basalt shelf, silhouettes sharp against the red dawn.
Dack's sensors tagged them fast.
Warhawk (Masakari) — heavy frame, broad shoulders, the kind of machine that didn't run because it didn't need to.
Timber Wolf (Mad Cat) — iconic, balanced, dangerous in any range band.
Stormcrow (Ryoken) — medium, fast, predatory lines.
Nova (Black Hawk) — squat and mean, a close-range knife that wanted heat and blood.
Adder (Puma) — light, but built like a punch you didn't see coming until it broke teeth.
Mixed.
And every one of them moved like the pilot inside had been born with a throttle in their hand.
Cassia's voice came tight over comms. "Contact confirmed. Clan star in lane. Warhawk center-left, Timber Wolf center-right, Stormcrow high right, Nova low center, Adder left probing."
Quill's voice was calm. "They're spacing for crossfire."
Jinx's tone sharpened. "They're spacing to kill."
Taila's breathing was audible for a moment, then she forced it down. "Copy."
Morrigan's voice came low. "I hate this."
Dack didn't answer with comfort. He answered with orders. "Hold lanes. No chasing. Make them cross into our kill angles."
The Warhawk fired first.
Two bright lances of energy—PPC bolts—hammered into the canyon floor ahead of Dack, detonating slag into vapor and shockwave dust. Not aimed to hit.
A warning.
A range test.
The Timber Wolf answered in a different language: a spread of LRMs that arced high and fell into their approach lane like rain made of warheads. Dack shifted the Dire Wolf behind a basalt outcrop, letting armor take what it had to. Explosions raked his upper plating and pinged warning chimes through his cockpit.
He sent an LRM ripple back—not full racks, just enough to force the Timber Wolf's torso twist—and followed with an AC/10 bark into the ridge line where the Timber Wolf had anchored.
The shell hit rock and slag instead of armor, but it did what Dack wanted.
It made them move.
The Stormcrow tried to exploit that movement, boosting along the high right ridge to angle behind Taila's Marauder.
Cassia's voice snapped. "Stormcrow flanking Taila's right high!"
Dack didn't turn his whole formation. He adjusted one piece. "Taila, stay. Quill, deny the ridge."
Quill's Awesome fired a measured PPC shot—then another—into the ridge lane the Stormcrow wanted. Not chasing the Stormcrow. Cutting its path.
The Stormcrow shifted mid-run, forced into a longer route.
And the Nova—low center—used that moment to surge forward through a heat shimmer pocket, closing distance like a knife sliding under a rib.
Jinx's laugh was tight and sharp. "Oh, you want to brawl?"
The Nova's pilot did.
The Nova came in hot, and when it entered Jinx's range, Jinx fired one gauss shot.
The round punched into the Nova's torso plating and tore armor away in a brutal crater.
The Nova didn't fall.
It kept coming.
Because Clan machines weren't pirates, and Clan pilots didn't flinch at pain the way raiders did. They treated damage like a price tag.
The Adder on the left probed for Morrigan's Orion, testing that repaired knee like it could smell weakness. It fired and moved, trying to make Morrigan pivot hard.
Morrigan didn't take the bait.
Not this time.
She held her lane and answered with LRMs to force the Adder to break its line.
Dack saw the Orion's left knee tremor spike on his sensors anyway—small, but present.
He keyed Morrigan. "Easy."
Morrigan's voice was strained. "I am."
He believed her.
He just didn't trust the universe.
The Warhawk fired again—this time aimed—and the PPC bolts slammed into Quill's Awesome and scorched across her left torso armor. Quill's heat rose, warnings blinking, but her voice didn't change.
"Under fire. Holding."
Dack's reply was simple. "Good."
The Timber Wolf fired again, missiles and lasers in controlled cadence, forcing Dack to keep moving instead of anchoring.
These weren't raiders.
These were professionals who treated the battlefield like geometry.
And the canyon made geometry lethal.
---
The first minute felt like an hour.
Basalt outcrops turned into cover, then into traps when the Warhawk's PPCs chewed them down. Slag drifts hid footing hazards. Heat vents punished anyone who fired too long and forgot the world around them was already hot.
Taila's Marauder drifted slightly too far into a vent pocket as she tried to keep sightlines on the Stormcrow.
Her heat curve spiked.
Her breathing hitched.
The Nova noticed.
It cut toward her, changing target without hesitation, because Taila looked like the softest edge in the star.
Cassia's voice rose. "Nova switching toward Taila low! It's going to close!"
Taila forced herself to steady. "Copy."
Dack shifted his Dire Wolf one step to block the Nova's clean lane, but the Timber Wolf punished him immediately—laser fire and missiles chewing into his side plating, warning chimes stacking up like teeth.
Jinx saw it too—saw the Nova aiming for Taila—and her voice went hard. "Not her."
She fired her LRMs to force the Nova's torso twist, then followed with another gauss shot, trying to take the Nova's leg.
The Nova's pilot sidestepped like they'd expected it, letting the shot clip armor instead of taking structure.
The Nova kept coming.
Taila's Marauder fired a PPC shot that landed, scorching armor, but her heat stayed high, her machine sluggish in the vent pocket.
Quill's Awesome anchored and fired both PPCs at the Nova—measured, precise—but the Warhawk punished Quill again, PPCs slamming into her right torso now, forcing her to manage heat and armor at once.
And the Stormcrow finally found an angle—high right—slipping around Quill's denial lane and aiming down onto Taila's rear quarter.
Cassia's voice went thin. "Stormcrow has angle on Taila!"
Dack snapped, "Taila, back out. Now."
Taila tried.
Her Marauder's feet caught on slag drift and vent-cracked basalt. She corrected, but the Nova was already inside her comfort zone, and the Stormcrow's lasers started to rake her armor from above.
Taila's voice tightened. "I'm—trying—"
The Nova closed.
And then it happened—the moment that made every cockpit go cold.
The Nova fired a concentrated burst at Taila's torso while the Stormcrow hit her rear armor.
Taila's armor warnings screamed.
Her heat hit the red.
For half a heartbeat, Taila froze.
Not because she was weak.
Because for the first time since joining Moonjaw, she felt the edge of dying close enough to smell.
Dack's hands tightened on the Dire Wolf's controls.
He could save her—he could push, overextend, take punishment—
—but if he did, the Warhawk and Timber Wolf would cut him apart.
Clans didn't miss.
This was the trap.
Cassia's Griffin perched on the ridge behind them—overwatch position by agreement, support only if needed.
Cassia's hands hovered over her triggers.
Her voice came out tight, almost pleading. "Captain—"
Dack's reply was a growl made calm. "Hold."
Cassia hesitated.
Taila's Marauder took another hit.
Taila's voice broke through, small and real. "Dack—"
That word—his name—hit harder than any PPC.
Cassia made her decision.
She fired.
One PPC bolt from the Griffin, clean and brutal, slammed into the Stormcrow's leg assembly mid-movement. The Stormcrow stumbled, lost its high angle, and slid down the ridge in a shower of slag.
The Clan channel lit instantly.
Star Captain Vasha's voice cut in—cold and sharp. "Your overwatch interfered."
Dack didn't deny it. He didn't apologize. He simply shifted the Dire Wolf forward and fired his AC/10 into the Nova's torso as it turned to reassess.
The shell hit where Jinx had already cratered armor.
Internal structure flashed on Dack's sensors.
The Nova staggered.
Jinx fired again—gauss—and this time the Nova's torso failed. The machine dropped hard, heat and smoke pouring out like breath leaving lungs.
Taila backed out of the vent pocket, shaking, and forced her heat down with a brutal discipline she hadn't had weeks ago.
Quill's voice stayed calm. "Taila is clear."
Morrigan's voice was tight. "Cassia—"
Cassia's voice came small. "I—had to."
Dack didn't look back at Cassia's ridge. He kept his eyes on the Warhawk and Timber Wolf ahead.
Because now the canyon felt different.
Not just dangerous.
Personal.
Star Captain Vasha's voice came again, colder. "You have broken the ritual."
Jinx's voice snapped, "You were about to kill her."
"Then she dies," Vasha replied, like it was weather. "That is war."
Dack's voice was flat. "Then war."
Silence on the channel for half a heartbeat.
Then Vasha said, "Continue."
The Warhawk and Timber Wolf surged their fire together, no longer testing, no longer measuring. PPC bolts and missiles came in like judgment.
The canyon erupted.
Basalt shattered.
Slag vaporized.
Dack's Dire Wolf took a hit that tore armor off his left torso and made the cockpit warning board light up like a festival.
His teeth clenched.
He kept moving.
He returned fire in controlled bursts—LRMs to force movement, AC/10 to punish openings, gauss when he had a lane clean enough to trust.
Jinx's Highlander anchored hard, taking punishment and returning it with gauss shots that didn't waste time.
Quill's Awesome stayed center and did what an Awesome did best—PPC cadence, heat discipline, denial of space.
Morrigan's Orion held its lane, fighting the Adder and now the limping Stormcrow that was trying to regain its feet.
And Taila—Taila kept moving.
Not panicking.
Not freezing.
She fired her PPC at the Stormcrow as it tried to climb back up the ridge, then shifted her Marauder to cover Jinx's flank without being told.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was a unit.
The Stormcrow, damaged, made a desperate push toward Morrigan, trying to finish her Orion and exploit the knee weakness.
Morrigan's voice went sharp. "Not today."
She fired her AC/10 into the Stormcrow's damaged leg, then followed with SRMs when it came into range. The Stormcrow's leg assembly failed.
The mech fell.
The pilot ejected.
Morrigan didn't cheer.
She just breathed.
The Adder tried to disengage—fast, smart—but Quill clipped it with a PPC shot that stripped its rear armor and forced it to stumble into a slag drift.
Jinx's gauss rifle spoke once more, and the Adder collapsed in a smoking heap.
That left the anchors.
Warhawk.
Timber Wolf.
And both of them were still deadly.
Still disciplined.
Still moving like they believed the world owed them victory.
Dack watched the Warhawk step into a firing lane, PPC housings glowing, and he knew—knew in the way pilots knew things without proof—that the next volley was meant to kill someone.
Maybe Quill.
Maybe Taila.
Maybe Jinx.
He didn't let it happen.
He forced the Warhawk's movement with LRMs, then shifted, then fired his gauss rifle when the Warhawk's torso turned and exposed a thin slice of center mass.
The gauss round hit.
Armor shattered.
The Warhawk staggered.
But it didn't fall.
The Timber Wolf used that moment—because a Timber Wolf always did—and pushed fire into Dack's Dire Wolf with lasers and missiles that made his cockpit shake.
Dack's warning board screamed.
His left torso was bleeding heat and alarms.
His hands stayed steady.
Because if he lost control, the universe would take everything.
Jinx's voice came tight now, jokes gone. "Dack, you're getting carved."
He answered, simple. "I know."
Taila's voice, softer, scared in a way she didn't like. "Don't—"
Dack didn't answer with comfort.
He answered with orders. "Press. Keep lanes. We finish one."
Quill understood instantly. "Warhawk first."
Morrigan's Orion shifted to support, careful with the knee, but present.
Cassia's Griffin stayed on overwatch ridge, hands shaking, knowing she'd already crossed a line and couldn't pretend she hadn't.
They focused fire—not constant chatter, not chaos. Measured brutality.
Quill's PPCs hit the Warhawk again, stripping more armor from the crater Dack had made.
Taila's Marauder added a PPC shot that landed clean, making the Warhawk's heat spike.
Jinx waited for the Warhawk to stagger into her gauss lane—and fired.
The gauss round punched through the Warhawk's already damaged torso.
Internal structure failed.
The Warhawk's reactor warning flared so bright on Dack's sensors it looked like a sun.
The Warhawk dropped to one knee.
Then collapsed.
Ejection seat launched.
The pilot cleared.
Barely.
The Timber Wolf didn't retreat.
It stepped forward, alone now, and the way it moved made it clear its pilot was deciding whether to die gloriously or win anyway.
Star Captain Vasha's voice came through, still controlled, but with a different edge. "You have skill, freebirth."
Jinx snarled, "Call him that again and I'll wear your cockpit."
Vasha ignored her. "But you have no honor."
Dack replied, "I don't sell honor."
A pause.
Then Vasha's voice, colder than basalt. "Then you will sell blood."
The Timber Wolf fired.
And the canyon lit up again.
---
They did not kill the Timber Wolf cleanly.
They survived it.
They pressured it.
They forced it back with fire lanes and denial angles, with Dack's Dire Wolf taking punishment that would've folded lesser machines, with Quill's Awesome keeping steady cadence even as armor burned, with Jinx's Highlander refusing to flinch, with Taila's Marauder fighting heat and fear at the same time, with Morrigan's Orion holding its lane despite the knee's ugly chatter.
And finally—finally—the Timber Wolf disengaged.
Not because it couldn't keep fighting.
Because the Clanner chose not to die here.
The Timber Wolf backed toward the ridge line, torso twisted to keep weapons on them as it retreated. Star Captain Vasha's voice came through one last time.
"This is not finished," she said. "You have broken the ritual. There will be consequence."
Dack didn't answer.
He watched the Timber Wolf vanish into heat shimmer and basalt shadow like a predator slipping back into tall grass.
Then he keyed Lyra. "Extract."
Lyra's voice was immediate. "Ramp is hot. Basin lane marked. Move now."
They moved.
Not running.
Not panicking.
A disciplined withdrawal—because if you celebrated too early, you died.
Cassia's Griffin stayed last on overwatch, scanning ridges with wide, frightened eyes.
Taila's voice came quietly, still shaking. "Cassia… thank you."
Cassia swallowed hard. "I… I'm sorry."
Dack's voice cut in, calm and final. "You did what you had to."
Cassia's breath hitched.
Jinx's voice softened just a fraction. "Welcome to being one of us."
Morrigan didn't speak, but when the Orion stepped into the basin lane, her voice came low and rough. "You saved her."
Cassia's reply was barely audible. "Yes."
Morrigan's tone stayed harsh, but the meaning wasn't. "Good."
They reached the Union's ramp.
Metal deck plating thudded under mech feet as Moonjaw returned home bruised and smoking.
Lyra sealed the bay doors the moment the last machine cleared the ramp.
The air inside changed—controlled, contained, heavy with heat and the stink of burned armor.
Dack powered down and sat in the Dire Wolf's cockpit for half a second longer than necessary, staring at his warning board and the heat curve still fading.
He said the number once, quiet, for himself.
"Eighty-six."
Then Lyra's voice snapped across internal comms, sharper than it had been all morning.
"Dack."
He keyed back. "What."
A pause—then:
"New contacts. Multiple."
Dack's eyes narrowed. "How many."
Lyra's answer came flat.
"Another star. At least. Maybe two."
Jinx's voice cut in, suddenly tight. "They're not letting this go."
Quill's voice was quiet and grim. "They won't. Not after a breach."
Taila swallowed. "We… we can't—"
Dack's voice stayed steady, but it carried something heavier now.
"We can," he said. "We have to."
Outside the Union, dawn over Kestrel's Anvil burned red on basalt and slag.
Inside, Moonjaw's mechs hissed and ticked as they cooled—wounded beasts resting between fights.
And somewhere out in the heat shimmer, Clan Jade Falcon was coming back with consequences.