Lyra didn't call it a pursuit.
On her screens it was just math tightening—pings that shouldn't be able to find them, ghost returns stitching into something with intent. The buoy net's blind spots shrank like a noose learning where your throat was.
The Union drifted dark, engines low, trying to look like scrap in a system full of scrap.
It didn't matter.
"They're triangulating," Lyra said, voice level and clipped. "Two vectors. One's a courier profile—fake. The other is heavier."
Dack stood behind her on the bridge, arms folded, eyes on the tactical plot. He didn't touch the controls, but he could feel the ship tense under his feet like an animal hearing footsteps outside the den.
Jinx sat in the gunnery chair with one boot hooked on the rung, chin lifted, blue eyes bright. She looked like she was enjoying it, but every so often she swallowed like something in her throat didn't sit right.
Taila hovered near the comm station, quiet but present—close enough to be useful, close enough to watch Dack without making it obvious. Morrigan leaned against a bulkhead near the hatch, arms crossed, expression sour, but she wasn't leaving. Not anymore.
From engineering intercom, the twins' voices came in tight and synced, running checks through the ship like they could feel the hull.
Rafe: "Mag—" Rook: "—clamps holding." Rafe: "Atlas—" Rook: "—secure." Rafe: "But—" Rook: "—mass is killing acceleration."
Lyra didn't look away from the plot. "I know."
The Atlas in the hold wasn't just a prisoner.
It was ballast.
And ballast got you killed in space.
Dack's gaze stayed on the incoming icons. "Options."
Lyra pointed with two fingers. "We burn hard for the zenith jump point. That means buying a collar slot on a JumpShip and praying the seller doesn't get greedy." Her eyes flicked to another panel. "Or we dump the Atlas and run light."
Jinx's smile sharpened. "Dump her."
Taila looked like she wanted to agree, and hated herself for it. "If we keep her… they'll keep coming."
Morrigan's mouth curled. "They'll come anyway."
Rook's voice came in, firm. "She's—"
Rafe finished, softer. "Bait."
Lyra finally looked back at Dack. "If we keep her, we commit. If we drop her, we live easier."
Dack's answer came without ceremony. "Keep her."
Jinx stared. "Dack."
He didn't look at her. "She talks. We don't have answers without her."
Taila's voice was small. "And if we die getting those answers?"
Dack's eyes flicked to her. Not soft. Just real. "Then it won't matter."
Silence held for a beat.
Lyra nodded once, accepting the choice like a coordinate. "Fine. We run heavy. Prep burn."
---
In the mech bay, the Union's belly lights painted the metal deck in pale strips. The Highlander, Griffin, and Marauder sat chained and cooling. The Dire Wolf was locked down, Dack's machine still smelling like scorched armor and dust.
And the Atlas—bone-white panels over dark slate armor, teal wing-sweeps and a brass bird insignia—hung half-swallowed by the cargo bay like a dead god being dragged home.
Except it wasn't dead.
Rook and Rafe moved along the binders and clamps again, hands checking each lock by feel, not trust. Morrigan stood close, planted like she could hold seventy tons in place through sheer spite.
"You still breathing in there?" Morrigan muttered toward the sealed cockpit.
For a moment, there was only the ship's hum.
Then, faintly, a voice answered through the Atlas's internal emergency speaker—weak, routed through whatever battery life remained, but clear enough to cut.
"Oh, I'm breathing."
Mother Lark.
Taila's head snapped toward the Atlas like it had spoken with a mouth. Jinx's grin flashed. Morrigan's eyes narrowed.
Dack stepped into the bay, boots ringing on the deck plates. He didn't raise his voice.
"Quiet," he said.
Mother Lark's tone stayed calm, almost amused. "You're afraid of words now."
Dack stopped near the Atlas's leg binders and looked up at the sealed cockpit seam. "Not afraid. Busy."
A pause—then a soft laugh that felt like it had claws. "Good. Stay busy. My people will be here soon."
Lyra's voice crackled over bay speakers from the bridge. "Rook. Rafe. Find the transmit source. Now."
Rafe: "There's—" Rook: "—no main power."
Rafe: "So it's—" Rook: "—secondary."
The twins moved fast. No panic, no wasted motion—just hands and tools slipping into access seams like they'd been born doing it. They didn't climb into the cockpit. They didn't need to. They hunted for the smallest lie: a hidden emitter, an emergency beacon, a tag meant to whisper here into the void.
Rafe's fingers found it first—a flat, clean wafer tucked behind a maintenance panel where a battlefield tech wouldn't bother to look.
Rafe: "Here—" Rook: "—it is."
She ripped it out. It sparked once, then died in her palm.
Mother Lark's faint bay speaker voice cut off mid-breath.
For a moment, the mech bay felt quieter than it should.
Dack didn't look at the twins yet. "Anything else?"
Rook answered, careful. "If she's—"
Rafe finished. "Smart, there's more."
Jinx's blue eyes flashed. "She's smart."
Taila swallowed. "So even if we cut that, they might still be on us."
Lyra's voice came down from the bridge. "They are. We're burning."
The Union's engines came alive in stages—quiet vibration becoming a deeper, steady shove. The deck plates thrummed. Straps and clamps creaked under strain.
Morrigan's lips curled. "If this Atlas shifts—"
"It won't," Dack said, and it wasn't comfort. It was a statement of intent.
---
On the bridge, Lyra turned the Union's bulk away from Lark's corridor and aimed for the far side of the orbital plane, angling toward rock and sensor clutter. It wasn't invisibility. It was buying seconds.
"They're coming in like they know our vector," Taila said, watching the plot with forced steadiness.
Lyra didn't deny it. "They're reading our habits. They've been watching longer than today."
Jinx leaned in, fingers hovering over gunnery controls. "Who is 'they,' exactly?"
Lyra expanded the heavier profile. The icon resolved into a Leopard CV carrier silhouette—clean lines, compact bulk, built to throw aerospace at a target and let the target bleed out.
Its paint was not Mother Lark's Moonjaw colors—because she wasn't Moonjaw. It matched her personal unit's palette: bone-white, dark slate, teal wing sweeps, brass bird marks.
"Her retrieval ship," Lyra said. "Not her. She's in our hold. But this is her pack."
Dack stared at the Leopard CV's approach line. "They want her back."
Lyra's jaw tightened. "And they'll trade our hull for that goal."
A comm request hit their board—open channel, no encryption games, confident enough to be insulting.
Lyra accepted without looking pleased.
A woman's voice came through—hard, trained, not theatrical. "Union-class DropShip. This is Wing Captain Veyra Quill, Lark Retrieval. You are carrying property belonging to Lark's Nest. Power down and prepare to be boarded."
Jinx smiled like she wanted to bite someone. "Property."
Taila's hands curled into fists. "They're calling her a thing."
"They're calling everything a thing," Lyra said. "It's easier for them."
Dack leaned toward the comm mic. "No."
A pause—then Quill's voice sharpened. "You're outmasssed, outgunned, and heavy. You can't reach a JumpShip under pursuit."
Dack's answer stayed flat. "Watch."
Quill laughed once, humorless. "Then you die tired."
The channel cut.
Lyra's eyes flicked to her slate. "I can buy a collar slot. Not public. Not safe."
Dack didn't hesitate. "Do it."
Lyra used an old corridor handshake—private, ugly, not tied to any House registry. A name came back fast, which was never comforting.
SOTERIA — Merchant JumpShip — Captain Arvid Kline
Lyra opened audio.
A tired male voice answered immediately. "Sato."
Lyra didn't waste breath. "Docking collar at zenith. We pay double standard. We're hot."
Kline's silence lasted long enough to feel like he was deciding if he liked breathing. "Who's on you."
Lyra glanced at the tightening plot. "Lark retrieval."
Another pause. Then: "Triple."
Jinx hissed something filthy.
Lyra's face didn't change. "Paid on clamp."
"Half now," Kline said. "Half on clamp."
Lyra didn't blink. "Half now. Half on clamp."
"Twenty minutes," Kline said. "If you're late, you're dead without my help."
Channel cut.
Taila stared at Lyra. "You trust him?"
Lyra's answer was honest. "No."
Dack's voice was simple. "We use him."
Lyra nodded once. Credits moved. The first half vanished into the void like blood into water.
Soteria's beacon blinked onto the plot—a far, faint point that would become salvation if they reached it.
"Twenty minutes," Lyra said. "We won't get twenty."
She was right.
---
The first contact came dressed as a harmless courier—small craft drifting with freight codes, transponder squawking innocence.
Then it broke course.
Panels slid back. Hardpoints extended. The profile resolved into a light attack craft designed to chase a DropShip and die doing it.
"Courier's armed," Taila said, voice tight.
Jinx's grin went feral. "Good."
Lyra kept the Union's vector steady. "Don't let them herd us off the jump line."
The first fighter screamed in and fired a burst meant to force Lyra to turn.
Lyra didn't.
The shot raked along outer armor, sparks spraying off the hull like angry fireflies. The Union shuddered but stayed on line.
Jinx answered with a controlled point-defense burst that walked across the fighter's approach. It juked, rolled, and tried to stay outside the Union's heaviest arcs.
"Smart," Jinx muttered. "Annoying."
More icons bloomed behind it—two, then four—fighters coming in from different angles like they'd practiced this.
The Leopard CV stayed back, patient, launching waves instead of charging in. It wasn't trying to kill them fast.
It was trying to exhaust them until killing them was easy.
The Union was a fat target hauling a chained Atlas.
A slow animal bleeding from a hundred cuts.
In the mech bay, Rook and Rafe called up from engineering.
Rafe: "Point—" Rook: "—defense trending hot." Rafe: "If it—" Rook: "—overheats we lose coverage."
Lyra's fingers stayed steady. "Cycle. Stagger bursts."
Dack watched the plot and didn't pretend it was comfortable. "If they get into our engines, we're done."
Lyra didn't argue. "Yes."
The second wave came in low—two fighters in tight formation, angling for the Union's stern where the engines were vulnerable.
Jinx fired and clipped one across a wing root. It spun away trailing vapor and sparks, limping but alive.
The other pressed harder, brave or stupid, diving toward the engine bells.
"Kill it," Dack said.
Jinx obliged—short, brutal burst. The fighter tore apart mid-dive, scattering debris that flashed white-hot as it kissed the Union's wake.
Taila exhaled shakily. "One down."
"More coming," Lyra said.
Then the worst move hit the plot.
A boarding pod.
A fat, blunt cylinder that didn't care about dogfights. It cared about hull contact—about latching, cutting, and spilling bodies into corridors.
"They're trying to board," Taila said, voice tightening.
Jinx's eyes lit up. "Let them. I miss violence."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "No boarders."
Lyra angled slightly—not enough to ruin their vector, just enough to make the pod's intercept solution uglier.
Jinx poured point-defense into it, but the pod was armored for this. It kept coming, trailing sparks.
Rook and Rafe shouted over engineering.
Rafe: "Impact—" Rook: "—in ten."
Morrigan's voice came up from the bay, fierce. "Let them latch. I'll cut them up."
Dack didn't raise his voice. "You don't get to."
Jinx switched to a heavier turret line and concentrated fire on the pod's nose. The armor finally failed. The pod ruptured, decompressed violently, and spun off into the void, tumbling uselessly.
No boarders.
Not yet.
Lyra exhaled once through her nose. "Good."
Dack didn't relax.
He stared at the Leopard CV icon. It was still there. Still launching. Still patient. Still closing the net.
And Mother Lark—captured, silent now, but present like a poison in their hold—had almost certainly left more than one hook behind.
---
Soteria's beacon grew from faint point into real presence.
A JumpShip wasn't a war machine. It was a skeleton with a drive core and a collar and enough mass to make space feel crowded.
But it was salvation.
"We're five minutes out," Lyra said.
Jinx swore softly. "We're not getting five."
The Leopard CV surged closer, like it could smell the collar.
Quill's voice cut into their comms again. "Last offer. Power down. Release the Atlas. We will let the Union limp away."
Lyra's face went cold. "They'll kill us the second we're helpless."
Taila whispered, "They don't care about us. They care about her."
Dack leaned in to the mic. "Then come take her."
A pause. Then Quill's voice sharpened. "Gladly."
Three fighters came in tight—heavier run this time, coordinated, trying to force Jinx's point-defense to split.
Jinx fired, clipped one, but the other two pushed through close enough that the Union's hull rattled with near-misses.
"Brace," Lyra said. "Docking approach now."
The Union began its collar run.
In the bay, deck plates screamed under the shift. Rook and Rafe braced against a bulkhead, hands still on binder controls. Morrigan planted her boots wide, staring at the Atlas like it was a rival breathing near her territory.
Soteria loomed ahead—massive, indifferent, waiting like a god that didn't care who prayed.
Kline's voice came through, strained. "You're late."
Lyra's jaw clenched. "Open the collar."
"You've got fighters on you," Kline snapped. "If they hit my ring—"
Lyra's tone went razor. "Open. The. Collar."
A beat.
Then: "Fine! Move!"
The docking collar yawned open.
Lyra eased the Union in—slow, careful, threading a needle while someone tried to cut her hands off.
Jinx fired constantly now, trying to keep fighters from making one last suicidal run at the collar. She clipped another, sent it spinning away, but one still came in—fast, stupid, and brave.
"Incoming!" Taila shouted.
Dack leaned over Jinx's shoulder. "Now."
Jinx's grin went vicious. "Gladly."
She dumped a tight burst into the fighter at the last second. The craft exploded in a flash that painted the collar in white light—close enough to feel, not close enough to damage.
The shockwave slapped the Union's hull.
Lyra didn't flinch.
The Union slid into the collar.
Clamps seized.
Mag locks engaged with a heavy, final thunk that vibrated through every deck.
For a heartbeat, everything stopped.
Then Kline's voice cut in, tight. "Clamp confirmed. Pay the second half."
Lyra sent it instantly—no argument.
Kline exhaled like he'd been holding his breath since birth. "Jumping. Now."
Space bent.
The Leopard CV and its fighters were still there—still closing—when the stars smeared and the universe snapped sideways.
The last thing on Lyra's plot was Quill's carrier icon surging toward the collar like a reaching hand—
Then it vanished.
---
The jump ended in cold quiet.
Different starfield. Different system. No buoy net in immediate range. No carrier icon chewing at their tail.
For the first time in hours, the Union wasn't being actively mauled.
Lyra sat back slightly, not relaxing, just letting her spine remember it existed.
Jinx slumped in her chair, breathless, then forced a grin anyway. "Okay. That was hot."
Taila let out a shaky laugh she didn't know she had—then realized she'd laughed and went red at herself.
Dack didn't smile. He stared at the tactical plot until he was sure nothing was going to reappear like a bad dream.
From the bay, Morrigan's voice came over internal, rough. "We still have her."
Rook and Rafe followed, synced and steady.
Rafe: "Atlas—" Rook: "—secure." Rafe: "No—" Rook: "—shift." Rafe: "No—" Rook: "—new emitter found… yet."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Yet?"
Rook's answer came careful. "If she's—"
Rafe finished. "Smart, she planned ahead."
Jinx's grin thinned. "She planned everything."
Taila swallowed. "So she can still guide them… even trapped."
Dack's voice was flat. "Maybe. But she's here."
Lyra looked back at him. "And now?"
Dack's eyes stayed hard. "Now we strip every hidden hook out of that Atlas."
He paused, just long enough that the ship's hum filled the space.
"And then," he added, blunt and certain, "we make her talk."
In the belly of the Union, the powered-down Atlas sat chained and silent.
But silence wasn't peace.
It was just the space before the next move.