DAY 96 — 21:08 (LOCAL)
The JumpShip made everything bigger.
Not just their reach—everything that could go wrong, too.
Shrike's Step sat quiet in the dark, sails retracted, collars locked down, lights dimmed to a miser's glow. It felt like living inside a stolen crown: heavy, valuable, and guaranteed to draw blades.
Down in the Union, the mech bay throbbed with the ship's usual heat and noise—welders, coolant pumps, the clank of tools on metal ribs. The pack's machines stood in their familiar places, each one carrying its own silhouette like a threat the universe had learned to recognize:
Dack's Dire Wolf, scarred and re-skinned, still the center of gravity.
Jinx's Highlander, bulk and swagger, gauss housing patched from three different plates.
Quill's Awesome, tall and patient, looking like it could outlast time.
Taila's Marauder, leaner, meaner, freshly refit and still unfamiliar in her hands.
Morrigan's Orion, newly claimed, knee braced and angry-looking.
Cassia's Griffin, kept back as a screen and a reminder that not everyone needed to be heavy to be useful.
The chained Timber Wolf in the far corner like a trophy nobody relaxed around.
Lyra had the ship's internal cameras watching everything that mattered. The feeds lived on her slate. The locks lived under her fingers. That was the only "security" she trusted—steel and sightlines. People got tired. Cameras didn't.
The new hires were already changing the feel of the ship.
Mina Vale hovered near the bay entrance with a slate hugged to her chest like a life jacket, trying not to be in anyone's way while still learning what "in the way" looked like on a mercenary DropShip. Elowen Pryde stood beside her, calm and pale, eyes flicking between the open bay and the comm panel mounted near the hatch, already building a mental map of signal paths and how quickly the ship could go dark if it needed to.
Down the corridor, Sera Kincaid and Rina Solace were running the same drill for the third time—seal this hatch, check that pressure door, confirm lock status, move to the next choke point. Sera's discipline was crisp enough to be comforting. Rina's speed was frantic enough to be useful.
Dack watched it all without praise.
He just stored it.
Jinx drifted into his space like she owned it, black-and-red gear half zipped, long dirty-blonde hair loose over one shoulder. She looked like she'd been built to cause trouble and get away with it. She bumped her hip into his thigh with casual possession.
"Lyra's turning us into a real ship," she said, blue eyes bright. "I'm almost offended."
"You should be offended," Morrigan muttered from her crate by the Orion's foot. She had her arms crossed, black-and-red outfit sharp on her like a threat—miniskirt, stockings, boots. She looked like she could bite someone and call it manners.
Jinx grinned. "You're just jealous you didn't think of the skirt first."
Morrigan's glare could have stripped paint. "I picked this because it's practical."
Taila, leaning against the Marauder's shin plating, hid a smile. Her outfit was tight and controlled—black halter top under a light jacket, long black combat leggings with red stripes down the sides, boots scuffed like she'd earned them. She'd started wearing the colors like she meant it now.
Dack's eyes flicked over them—quick, approving, then gone. He didn't make speeches about it. He didn't have to.
Lyra's voice came over the bay intercom. "Dack."
He answered without looking up. "Yeah."
"Come to the briefing table."
He moved.
The others followed like gravity.
Lyra had the slate open on the same clean table where she'd laid out the Sailhook core and the cipher matrix. Tonight the table held a different kind of problem: a sketched star map, a list of ports that didn't ask questions, and one line highlighted twice.
HELENA VARRIK — CHECK-IN PROTOCOL
Helena's real name sat there like a bruise.
Not "Mother Lark." Not "Lady Lark." Not the callsign she'd worn like perfume and poison.
Helena Varrik.
And her sister's name beneath it, burned into Dack's head the way missing things always were.
Selena Varrik.
Lyra's eyes were steady. "She asked to speak with you."
Quill stood off to the side, arms folded, face unreadable. Vasha lingered near the bay's far shadow, posture quiet, eyes sharp with Clan patience. The mech tech twins—Rook and Rafe—hovered near a tool cart like they wanted to listen and pretend they weren't listening.
Dack's voice stayed flat. "Bring her."
Lyra nodded once and tapped her slate.
A door down the corridor clicked.
Not opened—clicked. A layered lock sequence, controlled release.
Footsteps came.
Helena appeared in the bay threshold under two camera angles and three overhead lights. She wore simple ship clothes—no jewelry, no finery, nothing that looked like power. Her hair was dark, pulled back, her face composed in the way people learned when they'd survived court rooms and cockpits.
She looked at the mechs first.
At the Dire Wolf.
Then at Dack.
Her gaze didn't soften, but it didn't sharpen either. That was new.
"I'm not asking to be trusted," she said. Her voice was smooth, but there was fatigue under it now. "I'm asking to be… used properly."
Jinx made a pleased little sound. "Oh. She's learning."
Helena ignored her and looked only at Dack.
Dack didn't offer her a chair. "Talk."
Helena's mouth twitched faintly—half amusement, half acceptance. "There's a check-in protocol. It's old. It predates Kess. Predates Sable. It's how the people I dealt with confirm whether an asset is alive, controlled, and compliant."
Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "Asset."
Helena's gaze flicked to her. "That's what they call anyone they can throw away."
Dack's voice didn't change. "What happens if you don't check in."
"They assume I'm dead," Helena said. "Or captured. Either way, they switch to cleanup."
Lyra's fingers tightened on her slate. "Cleanup meaning?"
"Burn the chain," Helena said. "Erase names. Kill witnesses. Move money. Disappear anyone who might talk."
Taila's jaw tightened. She didn't look away.
Dack stared at Helena like he was measuring the space between truth and manipulation. "And if you do check in."
Helena exhaled slowly. "They come. They bring a retrieval team. They bring muscle. They bring someone with authority."
Quill's eyes went colder. "A handler."
"Yes," Helena said. Then, after a beat, "And lately… they've brought Clan observers."
The bay went still in a way that had nothing to do with engines.
Vasha's head tilted a fraction, like a wolf scenting blood.
Jinx's grin sharpened. "Jade Shadow."
Helena looked at Jinx for the first time. "They don't call themselves that to my face. But yes. Your Clan."
Vasha's voice was quiet. "Not my Clan."
Helena's gaze returned to Dack. "If you want to end my dealings cleanly, you don't swat raiders. You don't chase ghosts. You take the people who still believe they own me."
Lyra's tone stayed calm. "You're suggesting bait."
Helena's answer was immediate. "Yes."
Dack said, "Where."
Helena slid a small paper strip across the table—handwritten numbers like she didn't trust electronics for this.
"A world called Harrow's Wake," she said. "Industrial. Fuel depots. Small orbital station. Big enough to hide a retrieval team inside normal traffic. Small enough that locals can be paid to look away."
Lyra's eyes flicked across her slate and pulled up the system. "Harrow's Wake… outer trade lane. Cheap contracts. Pirates."
Helena nodded. "They'll use a local raider screen. They always do. Keeps their hands clean."
Dack's voice was flat. "Names."
Helena paused—just long enough to prove this mattered.
Then: "They call themselves the Silt Reavers. They operate out of the southern badlands, hit convoys, sell captured cargo back through the station's gray market."
Jinx's smile turned hungry. "Cute name. I want their stuff."
Dack didn't look at her. "What do the handlers call themselves."
Helena's jaw tightened like she tasted something bitter. "Featherline Compliance. It's an office name. A mask. The people behind it change, but the methods don't."
Dack's gaze stayed on her. "And Selena."
That name did something to Helena.
Not guilt like a dramatic confession.
Something quieter. Something older.
Helena's eyes flicked away for the first time. "I don't know where she is."
"Bullshit," Morrigan snapped.
Helena looked at Morrigan again—calm, almost tired. "If I knew, I wouldn't be sitting here."
Taila's voice was small but firm. "You ignored her."
Helena's mouth pressed into a line. "Yes."
Dack didn't raise his voice. "Why."
Helena's answer came slower. "Because the last time I looked at her, I saw what I lost." She swallowed once. "And because I convinced myself she deserved her happiness even if it was built on lies."
Lyra's eyes didn't soften. "She doesn't know you killed Ronan."
Helena's voice went flat. "No."
Jinx leaned in, tone too bright. "And she doesn't know you were courting him first."
Helena didn't react to the bait. "No."
Dack's hands stayed still on the table. He didn't shake. He didn't slam anything. He just looked at her like she was an equation that had ruined his life.
"You're my aunt," he said.
Helena nodded once. "Yes."
"You're the reason my father's dead," he said.
Helena's breath left her. "Yes."
"And my mother's missing," Dack said, and his voice changed just slightly—not softer. Heavier. "And you don't know where she is."
Helena didn't flinch. "No."
Silence stretched across the bay like a cable under tension.
Then Dack said, "We do the meet."
Lyra's eyes sharpened. "Dack—"
He cut in, still controlled. "We do it our way."
Quill said, "Define."
Dack tapped the map once. "We take a contract on Harrow's Wake. Legit cover. We go planetside. We make it look like we're there for money and nothing else."
Lyra nodded slowly, already building lists in her head. "Convoy defense. Depot security. Something that keeps us near infrastructure."
"Yeah," Dack said. Then he looked at Vasha. "Batchall."
Vasha's mouth barely moved. "They will offer one if they think they can win clean."
"And if they can't," Morrigan said, "they'll cheat."
Vasha's eyes were cold. "Yes."
Dack's gaze slid to Helena. "You send the check-in."
Helena nodded. "They'll ask for a phrase."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "You give it."
Helena hesitated. "They'll demand proof."
Lyra's tone sharpened. "Proof meaning video."
Helena nodded once. "Or voice."
Dack stared at her. "We control what they get."
Helena's mouth twitched. "That would be new."
"It is," Dack said. "Get used to it."
Jinx giggled. Taila looked down, cheeks warm for reasons she didn't admit. Lyra pretended she didn't notice any of it.
Morrigan muttered, "This is insane."
Quill replied quietly, "This is war."
Lyra looked at Dack. "I can stage the comms. Elowen can help. Mina can keep schedule discipline. Sera and Rina can run lockdown during the meet so we don't get boarded while you're fighting."
Dack nodded once. "Good."
Jinx leaned closer, eyes bright. "And I get to shoot the Silt Reavers."
Dack's eyes flicked to her—quick. "Yes."
Jinx beamed like a kid handed candy, then her expression flickered for a heartbeat—hand drifting toward her stomach before she caught herself and forced the smile back into place. Taila saw. Lyra saw. They said nothing.
Helena watched the exchange with an unreadable look. Not jealousy. Not fear.
Something like curiosity.
Lyra tapped her slate again. "We need one more thing: rules."
Vasha's head tilted. "Clan rules."
Dack nodded. "If Jade Shadow shows, I want them bound by their own pride as long as possible."
Vasha spoke like she was reciting a blade's edge. "Accept the batchall. Force terms. Deny them terrain that favors speed and range."
Quill added, calm. "And assume they'll violate it the moment it benefits them."
Morrigan's lips curled. "Finally, something we can all agree on."
Dack looked at Helena. "If they come to retrieve you, they come expecting you to fold."
Helena's voice was quiet. "I won't."
Dack's reply was blunt. "Good. Because if you try to play both sides, I don't lock you in a room next time."
Helena met his eyes. "Understood."
Lyra watched them for a long second, then nodded once like she'd just accepted the shape of the next week.
"Then we move," she said.
---
They made Harrow's Wake look like a paycheck.
The contract Lyra found was plain: protect fuel convoys from the refinery fields to the northern pad complex. The payout wasn't glorious, but it was clean, and it gave Moonjaw a reason to sit on the planet for several days without raising flags.
A named enemy already existed here. That mattered.
The Silt Reavers had hit three convoys in the last month. They'd killed drivers and left the bodies displayed on the road where the wind could sandblast them into warnings. They were loud. They were cruel. They were perfect cover for a handler team that didn't want fingerprints.
By the time the Union set down on Harrow's Wake's rust-colored pad, the air smelled like fuel, hot stone, and old violence.
The sky was a bruised orange, dust hanging in layers like the planet itself couldn't breathe properly.
Lyra didn't waste time once they were down.
She put Mina on flight board scheduling and shift tracking. She put Elowen on comms discipline with explicit instructions: no open net chatter, no unencrypted ship IDs, no "friendly" casual talk with locals who might be listening.
Sera and Rina ran corridor drills until they stopped shaking.
Helena stayed locked down—moved from her room to a smaller secure compartment closer to the bridge so Lyra could watch her on three camera angles at once. Not "guards." Just the ship's eyes and locks.
Dack didn't leave the mech bay for long.
He checked the Dire Wolf. He checked ammo counts. He checked coolant reserves. He checked the systems that mattered when the world decided to kill you.
Jinx and Taila both found reasons to be near him—touching his arm when they passed, stealing quick kisses when he wasn't looking, like they were trying to anchor him in something that wasn't revenge.
He let them.
He didn't talk about it.
Morrigan didn't kiss him.
But she started standing closer.
That was progress.
Quill stayed quiet, running sims and walk-throughs, calibrating the Awesome's heat thresholds like she was preparing for a storm she'd already lived through.
Vasha watched the horizon through the pad's heat shimmer like she was measuring how a Clan Star would move across this terrain.
And Helena waited in her compartment, silent, listening to the ship through the walls like a prisoner listening to the tide.
When everything was ready, Dack walked to Helena's door.
Lyra's voice came over the internal comm. "Cameras live."
Dack answered, "Yeah."
He keyed the lock.
The door slid open.
Helena looked up from the bunk. She'd been sitting straight, hands folded, like she refused to let captivity bend her posture.
"You're doing it," she said.
Dack's voice stayed flat. "Send it."
Helena stood. "They'll answer fast."
Dack didn't move aside. "Then do it now."
Helena stepped to the comm panel Lyra had installed in the compartment—hardwired, isolated, filtered through Elowen's encryption layer.
Lyra's voice was calm. "You speak. Short. Nothing extra."
Helena nodded once.
Then she transmitted.
A tight burst. A simple code. A phrase that sounded harmless unless you knew what it meant.
Silence.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Then the reply came in—smooth, bored, professional, like the voice belonged to someone ordering paperwork.
"Asset LARK. Status."
Helena's eyes flicked to Dack.
Dack stared back.
Helena spoke. "Alive. Contained. Compliant."
The handler's voice paused—like it was smiling without warmth. "Proof."
Lyra's voice cut in, too low for the handler to hear. "Voice only."
Helena swallowed once.
She spoke the second phrase.
The handler answered immediately, like a hook setting.
"Coordinates transmitted. You will be retrieved. Do not deviate. Do not resist. Failure will result in sanitization."
Helena's face didn't change, but her fingers tightened slightly at her side.
Dack leaned closer to the comm mic and spoke for the first time.
One sentence. Blunt. Controlled.
"Understood."
A pause.
The handler's voice returned colder. "Identify yourself."
Dack didn't answer.
Lyra cut the channel clean.
Silence slammed back into the compartment.
Helena let out a breath she'd been holding for too long.
"They're coming," she said quietly.
Dack's reply was immediate. "Good."
He turned and walked out.
Lyra sealed the door behind him with two taps.
---
Night on Harrow's Wake came fast.
The refinery lights turned the horizon into a line of flickering gold. Dust storms moved in the distance like slow ghosts. The convoy route cut through slag hills and pipeline corridors—terrain that turned mech engagements into ugly, close-range fights.
Dack liked that.
It denied speed.
It denied clean sightlines.
It forced everyone to commit.
The first convoy rolled at 02:10.
Moonjaw escorted with three mechs forward, two back.
Dire Wolf at point.
Highlander on right flank.
Awesome on left, Quill anchoring.
Marauder trailing, Taila watching rear angles.
Orion offset, Morrigan ready to slam anything that broke cover.
They didn't touch. They didn't gesture. They didn't play hero.
They moved like a unit that had learned to survive.
The Silt Reavers hit them an hour later.
Light vehicles first—rockets and machine guns, trying to bait shots.
Then mechs—shapes rising out of dust and slag.
Dack saw the silhouettes and named them without thinking:
A Jenner sprinting along a pipe berm.
A Hunchback lumbering behind it, ugly and confident.
A Trebuchet perched on a slag ridge, missile doors opening.
And a Wolverine moving low, trying to flank the convoy trucks.
Dack's voice cut across comms. "Reavers. Same plan."
Jinx laughed once. "Let's disappoint them."
The fight started with heat and metal.
Dack's Dire Wolf launched a tight volley of LRMs to force the Trebuchet to move, then followed with a gauss shot that tore armor off the ridge line in a shower of sparks and stone.
Jinx's Highlander answered with its own gauss—one clean punch that caved plating on the Hunchback's shoulder and made it stagger.
Quill's Awesome lit the night with PPC fire, bolts cracking into the Jenner's path and forcing it to juke hard, losing speed in the rough terrain.
Taila's Marauder kept discipline—short, controlled bursts, cutting the Wolverine's angle and forcing it back toward the convoy where Morrigan waited.
Morrigan's Orion stepped out of the dust like something mean.
She fired and the Wolverine took it—armor flaring, limbs shuddering.
The Reavers tried to press anyway. They wanted a kill. They wanted a driver torn in half. They wanted a story.
They got work instead.
Within minutes, the convoy was still moving, and the Silt Reavers were bleeding.
Then the air changed.
Not from the fight.
From above.
Lyra's voice snapped into comms. "DropShip burn. High altitude. Not local."
Dack's eyes flicked upward through the cockpit glass.
A fire streaked down through the night—controlled, deliberate, too clean to be pirate slop.
Vasha's voice came low, cold. "Clan entry."
Quill's tone sharpened. "Jade Shadow."
The burn resolved into a descending DropShip silhouette against refinery lights—sleek, angular, purposeful.
Not a pirate rust-bucket.
Not House military.
Clan.
A voice hit open comms—formal, clipped, amplified like it was meant to be heard by the whole planet.
"I am Star Captain Kyran of Clan Jade Shadow. You who hold stolen property—declare yourself."
Jinx's laugh sounded bright and dangerous. "Oh, they're really here."
Taila's breath caught. She steadied it.
Morrigan muttered, "Of course."
Dack didn't answer the Clan broadcast yet.
He kept killing the problem in front of him first.
He fired again—LRMs to suppress, then a gauss shot that finally broke the Trebuchet's ridge cover and sent it sliding down slag like a dying animal.
The Silt Reavers started to break.
And as they broke, another set of lights appeared on the convoy route—ground vehicles, fast, armored, coming in behind the Reavers like they'd timed it.
Lyra's voice went cold. "New contacts. Not Reavers. Professional convoy. Heading for your position."
Helena's people.
Featherline's retrieval team.
Clan in the sky.
Handlers on the ground.
Raiders in the dust.
Everything Helena had ever touched converging at once—because that's what dirty networks did when you tugged the right wire.
Dack's hands tightened on the controls.
His voice stayed level.
"All units," he said. "Finish Reavers. Then we deal with the real ones."
Above them, the Clan DropShip continued to descend like a judgment.
On open comms, Star Captain Kyran spoke again—colder now, pride sharpened into a blade.
"I issue batchall for the asset Helena Varrik and the stolen spine you shelter. Declare your commander."
Dack looked up at the burning sky.
And answered.
"This is Dack Jarn," he said, voice blunt through the static. "You want me—come take me."
The Clan voice paused—just long enough to recognize the name.
Then the reply came, pleased and predatory.
"Accepted."
And on the ground, the Featherline convoy's headlights cut through the dust, closing fast.
The war was no longer about one contract.
It was about ending Helena's chain—right here, right now, on Harrow's Wake… in the open, with Clan eyes watching.
Dack steadied the Dire Wolf's stride and drove it forward.
. No theatrics.
Just the next fight.