DAY 90 — 19:36 (LOCAL)
By the time the Union cleared atmosphere, the ridge fight was already turning into routine—damage reports, patch plates, coolant flushes, and the quiet understanding that nothing stayed fixed for long.
The mech bay was a furnace of work.
Grinders screamed. Rivet guns snapped. Fans pushed heat through the ribs of the ship. The Dire Wolf sat centered like the pack's spine, armor chewed and re-skinned in mismatched plates. Jinx's Highlander looked almost proud of its new scars. Quill's Awesome stood like a tower—simple, brutal, patient. Taila's Marauder wore fresh weld lines along the right side. Morrigan's Orion had a knee brace the twins had fabricated from salvage and stubbornness. Cassia's Griffin waited in the back like a shadow that had finally learned how to hold its ground.
On Lyra's table, the Sailhook haul was strapped down and spread out with surgical neatness:
the armored shipping core
a sealed case labeled CIPHER MATRIX — SAILHOOK
a spool of transponder chips that looked small for how many people would die for them
Lyra hadn't slept. She didn't pace or fidget. She just kept working, slate in hand, cameras feeding her angles, internal locks ready at her fingertips.
Rook and Rafe hovered close, grease-smudged and bright-eyed, hands moving in mirrored rhythms without trying to be cute about it.
Rafe: "Matrix—"
Rook: "—rolls—"
Rafe: "—every—"
Rook: "—hours."
Lyra didn't look up. "Window?"
Rook's fingers danced. "Eight—"
Rafe: "—minutes—"
Rook: "—twelve."
Dack stood at the edge of Lyra's work zone, helmet under one arm, pilot suit zipped high. He watched the table the same way he watched a battlefield: what mattered, what moved, what killed.
"Enough," he said.
Lyra finally lifted her eyes. "We can spoof a maintenance tender handshake. Sailhook's transponder identity plus rolling cipher. It'll get us close—close enough to dock before anyone decides to ask questions the right way."
Quill leaned on the bulkhead, pressure suit half on, posture tight as a blade. "And if they do?"
"We board," Dack said.
Jinx was near the Leopard hatch, black-and-red gear tight and messy in a way that looked intentional. She smiled like she was having fun—until her face tightened for a second and her hand drifted toward her stomach as if to steady something nobody else could feel.
Taila saw it. Lyra saw it. They said nothing.
Morrigan sat on a crate in front of her Orion's foot, arms crossed, expression sharp enough to cut steel. She watched Dack like she'd never admit she was relieved he was still standing.
Dack's gaze slid past them to the med-bay corner.
The captured Fire Moth pilot—male—was strapped to a gurney under a harsh light. Bruised face. Split lip. Eyes full of hatred and pride. He'd screamed when they dragged him in. Now he stared at the ceiling like he could burn through it by refusing to blink.
Quill had wanted him alive long enough to confirm what she already believed: Jade Shadow didn't clean up their messes with honor. They cleaned up with contracts and bodies.
Dack walked over. No theatrics.
"Name," he said.
The pilot's jaw tightened. "You have no—"
Dack didn't raise his voice. "Name."
Silence stretched.
Then the pilot spat, "Rook's dog," in Clan tongue—an insult. His eyes flicked toward the chained Timber Wolf, then back to Dack with venom.
Jinx strolled over and crouched beside the gurney, smiling sweetly. "He's spicy."
Taila didn't smile. She watched Dack instead.
Dack looked at the pilot like he was a tool, not a person. "You're a liability."
The pilot's nostrils flared. "Kill me, freebirth."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "No."
That hit harder than a threat.
The pilot's eyes narrowed. Confusion, then fury—because refusing to kill him was its own kind of control.
Lyra's voice came over ship net. "Dack. Approach window opens in forty. We move or we lose the cipher timing."
Dack nodded once, still looking at the pilot. "Prep a survival capsule."
Jinx blinked. "You're letting him go?"
"I'm letting him float," Dack said. "Different."
Quill's eyes narrowed. "He'll talk."
"He'll talk anyway if he dies," Dack replied. "And a corpse doesn't drift far enough to matter."
He looked down at the pilot. "You get air. Water. A beacon on civilian band. No suit data. No tracking. You make it or you don't. That's not my problem."
The pilot's mouth opened—then closed. He didn't have a script for mercy that wasn't mercy.
Jinx stood and dusted off her shorts like she'd finished a chore. "You're weird."
Dack didn't deny it. "Move."
---
The Union and Leopard slid into the outer moon's shadow like thieves slipping into a crowded room.
Lyra flew with her usual calm violence—tight angles, low emissions, all heat managed like a secret. The Leopard ranged ahead and wide to scout and screen. The Union stayed darker, heavier, committed.
The pilot capsule ejection happened minutes before they broke shadow: a quick cycle, a hard shove, a bright little speck drifting away into the dark with a weak civilian beacon blinking like a heartbeat nobody cared about.
Dack didn't watch it long.
He didn't like loose ends.
He liked clean lines.
When the moon's shadow peeled away, space opened—and the target filled their scopes.
Shrike's Step.
An Invader-class JumpShip, skeletal and vast, sail extended like a glittering net catching charged particles. Docking collars jutted from its spine like teeth.
One collar held an armed DropShip—compact and dangerous—an armed Leopard CV with bay doors sealed and weapon ports ready.
Collar Two—the one the Sailhook core referenced—sat open.
Waiting.
Lyra's voice stayed low. "There."
Jinx, strapped into the Leopard's secondary seat behind her, leaned forward like a kid at a window. "That's a lot of steel."
Taila sat opposite, hands clenched until she forced them open. "That's… ours?"
Lyra didn't answer with hope. She answered with procedure. "Handshake in thirty seconds."
Dack's voice came over comms from the Union, calm. "Do it."
Lyra pushed the cipher sequence—Sailhook identity, rolling matrix, transponder chip signature.
The JumpShip answered with a coded burst that made Lyra's slate chirp and flash.
A voice came over open comms—cool, bored, professional.
"Unscheduled docking request. Identify."
Lyra fed the chain again, crisp and confident. "Sailhook maintenance tender. Authorization attached. Collar Two requested. No deviation."
A pause—long enough to make air feel thin.
Then: "Authorization accepted. Docking clearance granted. Collar Two. Do not deviate."
Quill's voice, cold: "We're in."
Morrigan, rough: "We're in."
Dack didn't celebrate. "Dock."
The Union moved in, collar looming in the viewport.
Clamps engaged with a heavy THUNK that vibrated through the whole ship like a heartbeat.
They were attached.
Committed.
And now the war narrowed to corridors and seals.
Lyra's voice came tight. "I'm locking the Union down. Internal doors sealed. Cameras live. If anyone boards us, I'll see it."
"Copy," Dack said.
Jinx cracked her knuckles in her harness. "Permission to shoot a fighter?"
"Only if one launches," Lyra replied.
Almost like the universe took that as an invitation—
The Leopard CV's bay doors cracked open.
Two aerospace fighters slid out into the void.
Lyra swore softly. "There it is."
Jinx's grin went sharp. "Mine."
The Leopard launched its own pair—smaller, rougher, maintained by Lyra's skill and the twins' duct-tape miracles.
The fight was silent geometry and sudden death.
Missiles flashed. Autocannon tracers stitched the dark. One Jade Shadow fighter took a hit, wing shearing off, craft spinning end-over-end until its lights went out.
The second tried to line up on Collar Two.
Lyra rolled the Leopard, threw a burst into its approach, forced it to veer.
Jinx whooped behind her. "That's my pilot!"
Lyra didn't react to the touch of praise. She just flew harder.
While fighters traded lives in the dark, Dack led the boarding team through the collar throat.
---
The collar passage was narrow and mean.
Dack moved first in a pressure suit, rifle mag seated, visor reflecting thin corridor lights. Quill was at his shoulder, disciplined and quiet. Morrigan followed with a steady grip that didn't match her mouth. Vasha came last—eyes sharp, anger contained, reading everything for Clan patterns.
The air on the JumpShip side smelled expensive: filtered, dry, clean.
A hatch waited with a keypad.
"Cycle once," Dack said.
Lyra's voice in his ear: "On it."
The hatch clicked. The door slid open.
Two guards stood on the other side—helmets on, rifles up.
Not Clan. Not pirates.
Professional.
Their chest patches read: KEELWARD CONTRACT SECURITY.
One opened his mouth—
Dack fired.
Short burst. Center mass.
The first guard dropped hard. The second snapped her rifle up—
Quill put a round through her throat seal.
Blood floated in slow beads, glistening in corridor light.
They moved.
Bodies bumped the walls like meat in a narrow river.
Lyra's voice came tight. "You just tripped every alarm on this ship."
"Good," Dack said.
Quill's reply was calm. "Speed is protection."
They advanced.
A Keelward tech tried to run. Morrigan caught him with her rifle butt, snapping his nose and dropping him. Dack hauled him upright by the suit collar.
"Bridge," Dack said.
The tech sobbed. "Deck three—forward spine—through the comm hub—"
Dack shoved him down and kept moving. Not kindness. Efficiency.
The comm hub was already forming a barricade—three guards behind portable cover, rifles leveled.
"Stand down!" one shouted. "Unidentified boarders—"
Vasha's voice cut in, cold and formal. "Batchall."
The guards hesitated—just long enough to prove they didn't understand the word.
A different voice—deeper, sharper—came over ship intercom from somewhere hidden. "Ignore that. Kill them."
So much for honor.
Dack used the half-second anyway.
A flash charge rolled into the hub.
Light bloomed white-hot.
They pushed.
Quill fired through the glare, shots tight and efficient. Morrigan followed with short bursts that punched holes where people stood. Dack hit the portable wall, shoved it over, and stepped into the gap it made.
Low gravity made dying look wrong—slow, floating, wet.
Dack didn't watch.
He ripped open the comm hub panel and grabbed the internal console.
"Lyra," he said. "Lock them out."
"I'm in the hub," Lyra replied. "Layered permissions. Give me a minute."
"You have thirty seconds," Dack said.
"Copy," Lyra snapped.
Rook and Rafe hit the system from the Union node like synchronized knives.
Rafe: "We—"
Rook: "—see—"
Rafe: "—it—"
Rook: "—fighting."
Lyra didn't waste breath. "Help."
The hub console flickered.
Then stabilized.
INTERNAL DOORS — OVERRIDE: ACTIVE
COLLAR TWO — LOCK STATUS: PENDING
Quill's voice went colder. "They'll try to cut the collar."
"They won't," Dack said.
Morrigan muttered, "Hope you're right."
Dack didn't answer with hope. He answered with movement.
They pushed for the bridge.
---
The bridge door was a thick blast seal—built to keep pirates out and secrets in.
A voice came over intercom, calm and contemptuous. "You're brave. Or stupid."
Dack keyed his mic. "Open the door."
The voice laughed. "No."
Quill shifted. "We can breach."
Vasha's eyes narrowed. "They may vent the collar."
Dack's gaze stayed on the seam. "Lyra."
Lyra's voice went razor sharp. "I can spike pressure in that section. Pop seals. Risky."
"Do it," Dack said.
The bridge seal hissed. Pressure differential hit like a punch. The door flexed.
Quill placed a minimal shaped charge.
"Clear," she said.
They cleared.
The charge popped. The door buckled inward.
Dack pushed through first.
Two guards inside fired immediately—rounds snapping into his suit plating.
He returned fire and dropped one. Morrigan dropped the second with a shot that folded him like he'd been unplugged.
The JumpShip captain was strapped into the command chair—middle-aged woman, tired eyes, corporate haircut, hands trembling over controls.
"You can't—this ship—" she stammered.
Dack stepped close. "It's mine now."
Her eyes flicked to Vasha—panic spiking. "Jade Shadow will—"
"They're already trying," Dack said.
The captain swallowed hard. "If I set a jump, they'll see it."
"They see everything," Dack replied. "Do it anyway."
Quill leaned in, eyes scanning a display. "K-F drive charge."
The captain whispered, "Eighty-three percent."
Dack nodded once. "Finish. Retract sail."
"That takes time," she said, voice cracking.
"You have time," Dack said. No warmth. No cruelty. Just fact. "Or you die first."
Outside, comms erupted—Jade Shadow voices, clipped and furious.
A handler voice cut through, smooth and bored. "Captain. Initiate sanitize. Cut Collar Two. Vent boarders. Execute spine-denial."
The captain went gray.
Quill's voice turned cold enough to hurt. "They were going to kill her too."
Vasha's mouth curled in disgust. "Cowards."
Lyra's voice snapped in. "Collar locks are fighting me. Layered permissions—"
Rook: "We—"
Rafe: "—have—"
Rook: "—a—"
Rafe: "—path."
The collar lock status flickered.
Then turned green.
COLLAR TWO — LOCKED
Dack exhaled once.
On the Leopard feed, the armed Leopard CV tried to rotate and line up a shot on Collar Two.
Lyra's voice went sharp. "It's trying to fire on the docking line."
Jinx's voice was bright and vicious. "Not today."
A burst of comm static.
Then Lyra, tight and satisfied. "Jinx just hit its port engine. It's tumbling. It can't line up."
Taila's voice—quiet, proud—slipped through. "Good."
Lyra didn't answer. She kept flying.
On the bridge, Dack leaned close to the captain. "Tell your handler sanitize is acknowledged."
The captain blinked. "What?"
"Buy time," Dack said.
Her lips trembled. She keyed the mic. "Sanitize… acknowledged."
The handler's voice smoothed immediately. "Good. Execute."
The captain's eyes went wet.
Dack didn't soften. "Now jump."
The sail retraction began in earnest, the ship shuddering as the massive structure folded. Lights dimmed. The air felt tight.
Lyra's voice cut in. "New burn signatures—something heavier just entered the drift. They're coming for the spine."
Quill's voice was flat. "They're late."
Dack's voice didn't change. "Jump."
The captain slammed the final authorization.
Space folded.
Reality went thin.
Then snapped back into place with a silence so deep it felt wrong.
The stars were different.
The handler's voice was gone.
Everything chasing them was suddenly… elsewhere.
Lyra's voice came through, quiet and stunned. "We jumped."
Jinx's voice—breathless, delighted—answered. "We jumped."
Taila whispered, like she didn't believe it. "We have a JumpShip."
Morrigan let out a rough laugh. "Holy—"
Quill cut her off. "Not safe yet."
Dack didn't waste the moment.
"Sweep," he said. "Bridge to engineering. Lock compartments. No fires. No holes."
Lyra's voice turned cold and competent again. "I can seal compartments and isolate life support by section. I'm doing it now."
Keelward resistance lasted minutes.
A guard tried to ambush them in a junction. Quill shot her in the chest seal and she died choking, blood floating in slow beads.
Another tried to run for engineering. Morrigan slammed him into a bulkhead hard enough to crack something, then zip-tied him while he sobbed.
In engineering, the chief engineer raised both hands without being asked. Grease-stained. Hollow-eyed.
"I don't get paid enough to die," he said.
Dack nodded. "Smart."
Lyra's voice came over comms. "Engineering locked. Bridge locked. Ship's ours unless someone inside gets stupid."
Dack's answer was flat. "Then don't be stupid."
Hours later, with compartments secured and crew contained, Dack stood back at the collar hub where the Union was still locked to Collar Two like a clamp that refused to let go.
Lyra arrived with her slate, eyes sharp.
Taila followed, exhaustion in her posture, pride in her eyes.
Jinx came last, grinning like she'd stolen a god. She moved close to Dack and flicked the collar of his suit.
"You didn't let me board," she said.
"No," Dack replied.
Jinx's smile didn't move, but her eyes did. "You think I can't handle it."
"I think you matter," Dack said.
The corridor went quiet in a way that had nothing to do with airlocks.
Taila flushed. Lyra looked down at her slate like it suddenly demanded her entire attention. Morrigan stared at the bulkhead like she wanted to punch it.
Jinx blinked—wetness flashing in her eyes—then shoved it down under a grin. "Yeah. I know."
She kissed Dack—quick and possessive.
Taila hesitated, then stepped in and kissed him too—shy, real, grounding.
Morrigan watched from a few steps away, arms crossed, pretending she didn't care. Her eyes gave her away anyway.
Lyra cleared her throat. "We should talk logistics."
Dack nodded once. "We will."
Lyra turned the slate toward him. "Invader-class JumpShip. Three collars. One is ours. One is empty. One can be ours if we can afford another DropShip."
Dack stared at the numbers. "Crew."
The engineer answered quietly from under escort. "Twelve if you want to run and pray nothing breaks. Twenty if you want to live."
"We don't have twenty," Lyra said.
Dack nodded once. "Then we build it."
Jinx hummed. "More girls."
Taila nodded quickly. "More girls."
Lyra's mouth twitched. "Yes. More girls."
Morrigan muttered, "Of course."
Quill watched Dack like she was measuring him—what he'd become, and what he'd be willing to do to keep it.
Vasha stood near the collar hatch, silent, eyes fixed on the ship they'd ripped out of Jade Shadow's hands.
"You took a spine," she said finally.
Dack looked at her. "Yeah."
"Jade Shadow will come for it," Vasha said.
Dack's reply was simple. "Let them."
He looked to Lyra. "Helena."
Lyra answered immediately. "Her room is locked. Watched. No movement. Cameras confirm."
Dack nodded once. "Good."
Then he looked at his crew—tired, bruised, dangerous, and real. Women in black and red who'd stopped being passengers a long time ago.
He didn't do speeches.
He did promises.
"We pick the jobs now," he said. "We pick the worlds. We pick when we fight."
Jinx grinned. "And we pick the outfits."
"Later," Dack said.
Jinx pouted. "Coward."
Taila let out a quiet laugh—surprised by the sound.
Morrigan's mouth twitched like she might be laughing too if she let herself.
Dack turned back toward the Union and the mech bay beyond it—toward steel and work and the one ritual he kept private.
He climbed into the Dire Wolf cockpit, sealed the canopy, and let the world narrow into instruments and steady reactor hum.
Only then did he say it—quiet, for himself.
"Ninety."
And now the arc was closed: they had the key, they survived the counterpunch, and they'd stolen the spine.
The next war would be about holding it.