DAY 97 — 20:58 (LOCAL)
The Union's mech bay never truly went quiet.
Even when the ship slid into night-cycle and the overhead lights dimmed, the work lamps stayed on—white cones of light spilling over scarred armor and exposed guts. Coolant hissed in lazy pulses. Diagnostic leads draped from open panels like vines. The air tasted like hot metal, solvent, and burned insulation that hadn't decided whether it would become a problem later.
Moonjaw's line looked like it had been through a grinder and crawled out anyway.
Dire Wolf in its cradle, right torso open where Slag Cut Delta had gnawed the plating, cabling neatly bundled where Rook and Rafe had already started pretending the Dire Wolf belonged to them as much as it did to Dack. The gauss rifle housing sat under a support bracket while they checked a stabilizer collar, and the LRM feed assemblies were half-disassembled in tidy rows.
Highlander beside it, gauss barrel removed and hoisted by crane, the empty mount looking wrong on something that big. Jinx perched on a maintenance step, long dirty-blonde hair tied back, bright blue eyes tracking everything the twins did with the sort of attention that wasn't just interest—it was possessive pride.
Awesome stood tall and strict under Quill's oversight, PPC capacitors ticking down like a storm choosing patience. Quill didn't fidget. She didn't waste motion. She stood like she was on parade even while the ship moved under her feet.
Marauder sat with a shoulder assembly cracked open and tagged, the PPC conduit and heat scoring visible where Taila had pushed too hard and survived anyway. Taila lingered close to it, black-and-red clothes tight against her frame, hands clasped behind her back, gaze fixed like the machine might judge her if she looked away.
And Orion—Morrigan's new claim—had frontal plating off and stacked on the deck. It looked meaner with its ribs showing. Morrigan sat on a crate beneath it, arms crossed, scowl set, boots planted like she was daring the universe to comment.
Dack walked through the bay without stopping long.
Not because he didn't care.
Because if he stopped too long, his mind would start trying to walk backward.
Lyra caught him before he climbed the Dire Wolf's ladder.
"Got a minute," she said.
Dack looked at her. "Now."
She led him into the side office—just a partitioned corner with a bolted desk, slate dock, and enough privacy that voices didn't become entertainment. The hum of machines bled through the wall, steady as a pulse.
Lyra didn't sit. She never sat when she was trying to sell something that mattered.
She pulled up the same mess Elowen had been massaging into shape—routing tags, compliance strings, handler signatures. The "SELENA" thread sat in the middle like a thorn you couldn't pull without bleeding.
Dack stared at it for a few seconds.
Then said the truth out loud, flat and heavy.
"I can't hit them."
Lyra nodded once. "Not clean."
"Not at all," Dack said. His voice stayed blunt, but it wasn't defeat. It was restraint—choosing not to throw his people into a fog he couldn't see through. "I don't have the reach. I don't have the map. I don't even know which 'company' is real and which one is just a mask."
Lyra's eyes stayed on him. "Featherline isn't a place. It's a method."
Dack's jaw flexed once. "And if I go chasing a method right now, I get us killed."
Lyra didn't argue. She'd already done the same math.
Dack's gaze drifted toward the wall, toward the bay beyond it—toward the machines and the women and the fragile thing they were building out of violence and stubbornness.
"I want my mother found," he said. "I want Selena's trail. But it's not today."
Lyra's voice stayed calm. "So we put it on hold. Quietly. We keep digging while we build the tools we'll need."
Dack nodded once. "You keep digging."
"I keep digging," Lyra confirmed.
"And Helena," Dack said.
Lyra's expression sharpened. "Locked. Watched. Useful."
Dack's eyes narrowed slightly. "No risks."
Lyra exhaled through her nose. "My entire job is risk."
"I'm saying it anyway," he replied.
Lyra gave a small nod. "Then I'll be smart."
Dack stared at the slate again—numbers and codes and a name that felt like a ghost.
Then he pushed it aside and pointed at the other problem that had to be solved before revenge ever got a chance.
"We need work," Dack said.
Lyra's eyes sharpened. "Real work."
"Not charity," Dack said. "Not scraps. Jobs that pay and jobs that get our name said twice."
Lyra flicked screens—contract boards, MRBC tags, local postings, corporate offers. Harrow's Wake and its neighbor worlds were full of violence for sale. The trick was surviving the purchase long enough to become the seller.
"We can build reputation," Lyra said. "Fastest is consistent completion and clean reporting. The MRBC loves paperwork that proves you didn't turn the whole job into a war crime."
Dack's mouth tightened. "They also love results."
Lyra nodded. "Then we give them results."
Dack tapped a finger on the desk once. "And we use what we already have."
Lyra's eyes narrowed slightly. "Meaning the JumpShip."
Dack didn't blink. "Meaning the JumpShip."
That was the difference.
They didn't need to dream about owning one.
They needed to survive owning it.
Lyra pulled up the JumpShip logistics slate: maintenance cycles, docking permissions, sail charge windows, parts sourcing, and the thing that mattered most—
cover.
"It's a liability if anyone decides to ask whose registry it is," Lyra said. "We can move faster now, strike farther, and take contracts other mercs can't touch. But it also paints a target on us if we start acting like we're invincible."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "We're not."
Lyra nodded once, approving. "Good. Then here's what I need."
She didn't say "more crew," because they already had enough bodies on paper.
She said what it actually was.
"I need structure," Lyra said. "People assigned. Rotations locked. The Union and the Leopard shuttling will eat me alive if everything routes through my hands."
Dack's eyes narrowed. "Pick your people."
Lyra didn't hesitate. "Mina for accounts and payroll. Elowen for comms screening and data hygiene. Sera and Rina for internal watches and shift discipline. The triplets for cargo manifests, refuel oversight, and shuttle checklists—under supervision. They're awkward, but they're eager, and eager people learn."
Dack nodded once. "Do it."
Lyra let out a slow breath like she'd been holding that ask in her teeth for days. "And one more thing."
Dack looked at her. "Talk."
Lyra tapped the Selena thread again, but she didn't push it. She framed it the way it needed to be framed.
"If you want Selena back someday," she said, "then Moonjaw needs to become bigger than a rumor. It needs to become something people respect enough to hesitate."
Dack's eyes went colder. "So we build."
Lyra nodded. "We build."
Dack stared for a long beat, then said it—simple, blunt, final.
"Put Selena on hold," he said. "Quiet digging only. We focus on contracts and cohesion. We get paid. We get known. We get stronger."
Lyra's mouth tightened, but she nodded. "Understood."
Dack stood. "Show me options."
Lyra walked with him back into the bay and projected listings onto the bulkhead wall—text crawling like menus for violence.
One stood out—ground action, high visibility, good pay, salvage negotiable.
RAIDER GROUP: "THE GLASS VULTURES."
WORLD: Kestrel's Scar (industrial badland)
OBJECTIVE: Break raider hold on a strip-mine complex, secure convoy lanes, recover stolen refined metals.
PAY: High
SALVAGE: Negotiable
RISK: High
VISIBILITY: Very high
Jinx saw the listing and bounced down off her step, eyes bright. "That's us."
Taila's stomach tightened, but her voice stayed steady. "That's big."
Quill's tone was even. "That builds reputation. Or it burns you."
Morrigan's scowl sharpened into a grin that didn't look friendly. "Finally."
Dack looked at them—his machines, his crew, the pack that had stopped being accidental and started being real.
He didn't give a speech.
He gave instructions.
"Tomorrow," Dack said, "sims. Quill leads. We drill comm discipline and lanes until it's boring. Taila—Marauder stays on support angles. Morrigan—Orion stays anchored unless I call you in. Jinx—"
Jinx saluted like she was in a parade. "I will be a model professional."
Dack stared at her. "No."
Jinx pouted. "Worth trying."
Rook and Rafe popped out from under the Dire Wolf's open torso panel like identical gremlins with grease on their cheeks.
Rook's eyes lit when she saw Dack.
Rafe's smile followed half a heartbeat later.
Rook: "He's back."
Rafe: "He's intact."
They slid out and closed in without asking, kissed him—one on each side of his mouth—quick, practiced, like checking a seal.
Jinx's grin widened. "The Ritual."
Taila's cheeks flushed immediately, but she didn't look away.
Morrigan stared like she wanted to protest, then didn't. She stood and walked closer, scowl still on.
"Don't get yourself killed," Morrigan said, voice sharp.
Dack raised an eyebrow.
Morrigan's expression hardened like she was covering something softer. "Because I don't want to deal with the mood that would put me in."
Jinx made an approving sound. "Aww."
Morrigan snapped, "Shut up."
Dack's mouth twitched—barely—and he said, "Noted."
Taila stepped in close enough to touch Dack's forearm with both hands, gentle and steady. "We're… doing this?"
Dack looked down at her. "Yeah."
Taila's shoulders eased like a strap had loosened.
Jinx, still bright, still sharp, pressed her hand briefly against her stomach as she leaned into Dack's side—an absent gesture she tried to hide by turning it into a cuddle. Lyra noticed. Taila noticed. Dack didn't comment.
Not here. Not now.
Dack looked across all of them and felt the truth settle in, hard and simple:
He didn't have the power to go after Featherline yet.
But he had the power to keep this pack alive long enough to get it.
"We build up," Dack said. "We take work that pays. Work that spreads our name. We keep Helena locked. Lyra digs quietly. When we've got enough steel, enough skill, and enough reach…"
His voice dropped a notch.
"Then we go hunting."
No cheering.
No bravado.
Just understanding.
Lyra lifted her slate. "I'll send interest on Glass Vultures. Ask for terms and salvage percentages."
Dack nodded once. "Do it."
Later, Dack climbed into the Dire Wolf's cockpit alone while the bay lights painted the glass and the machine's cooling system ticked like a slow clock.
He stared at the instruments because they were honest.
Then he let himself mark it—once, for pacing.
Day ninety-seven.
And for now, revenge could wait.
Because survival—and making Moonjaw big enough to bite back—couldn't.