DAY 98 — 09:14 (LOCAL)
The contract came in like most trouble did—quiet at first, then suddenly it owned your whole day.
Lyra had the negotiation slate projected onto the mech bay bulkhead, crisp white text floating over the shadowed ribs of the Dire Wolf. Work lamps painted the bay in hard angles, and the cranes creaked above them like something old and tired shifting its bones.
Dack stood with his arms folded, pilot suit half zipped, gaze fixed on the terms like it was a target he could put a hole in.
Behind him, Moonjaw's machines waited:
Dire Wolf: open torso panels still off, gauss collar tagged for replacement, LRM feed housings laid out in neat rows.
Highlander: gauss barrel back in its mount, still under calibration.
Awesome: Quill's machine—tall, severe—PPC capacitors topped and checked twice.
Marauder: Taila's new seat, shoulder assembly reinforced and re-seated, heat exchangers flushed.
Orion: Morrigan's, freshly claimed, armor plates reattached with ugly weld beads that promised they'd hold even if they didn't look pretty.
Quill stood a step behind Lyra's projection, still as a statue, helmet under one arm. Jinx leaned against the Highlander's maintenance rail with her red jacket open over her black tank top and tight shorts, the whole look combat-ready in the way she insisted it was—webbing strapped in all the right places, thigh holster empty but present.
Taila hovered near the Marauder, jaw set, trying to look like she'd been doing this her whole life. Morrigan stood near the Orion's shadow, arms crossed, expression sour, eyes cutting toward Dack every so often like she was annoyed he existed and annoyed she cared.
Rook and Rafe were under the Dire Wolf again, voices drifting up between clinks of tools.
Rook: "If they try to short-change salvage—"
Rafe: "—we riot."
Dack didn't look down. "You're not rioting."
A pause.
Rook: "A small riot."
Rafe: "Polite riot."
Dack's mouth twitched. "No."
Lyra didn't smile. She just continued the negotiation like she was reading out a grocery list.
"Employer: Kestrel Consolidated Minerals," she said. "Local charter. Backed by two off-world financiers. They want their strip-mine complex reopened, convoy lanes secured, and stolen refined output recovered."
Dack's gaze stayed flat. "Who are we killing."
Lyra flicked to the next pane.
RAIDER GROUP: THE GLASS VULTURES
KNOWN ASSETS: Mixed lance elements. Light spotters. Heavy core.
BASE OF OPERATIONS: Mine Spine 7 / Crusher Yard / Refinery Ring
INTENT: Hold industrial site; ransom shipments; strip machinery.
Jinx's eyes glittered. "Cute name."
Morrigan muttered, "They're not cute."
Taila swallowed. "How many mechs."
Lyra's projection shifted again—estimated strength.
"Confirmed sightings: at least eight," Lyra said. "Unconfirmed: more. The Vultures rotate units between outposts. They've been smart about not fielding everything at once."
Quill finally spoke, voice even. "Smart raiders don't fight fair. They fight cheap."
Dack nodded once. "Terms."
Lyra swiped.
"Base pay is good," she said. "Bonus for restoring conveyor operations intact. Bonus for recovering the stolen refined stock. Salvage is the fight."
Dack's eyes narrowed. "Salvage is always the fight."
Lyra's tone stayed calm. "They're offering battlefield salvage rights on raider vehicles and equipment. They want first refusal on raider mechs."
Jinx pushed off the rail like she'd been insulted personally. "Absolutely not."
Morrigan's scowl deepened. "They can get bent."
Taila's hands tightened behind her back. "We need salvage."
Quill's gaze stayed on Lyra. "Counter."
Lyra nodded. "Already did."
She pulled up the counteroffer.
"Full battlefield salvage. Employer retains claim only on stolen refined product and mining machinery," Lyra said. "We'll sell them back any raider mech parts they want at a discount if they pay the completion bonus at signing instead of on departure."
Jinx grinned. "That's my girl."
Lyra ignored her and looked at Dack. "I also asked for hazard coverage. If they want us to walk into a minefield, they pay for the legs we lose."
Dack's voice stayed blunt. "Good."
Lyra tapped the slate, sent the counter.
A few seconds of dead air followed, filled only by the bay's hum and the distant tick of cooling systems.
Jinx—unusually quiet—pressed a hand lightly to her stomach as if checking something that wasn't pain, then dropped it before anyone could comment. Taila noticed. Lyra noticed. Morrigan noticed.
No one said anything.
Dack didn't look away from the projected terms.
The reply came in.
Lyra's eyes flicked as she read it, then she looked up.
"They agreed," she said. "Full battlefield salvage. They keep stolen refined output and mining hardware. Completion bonus paid half now, half on verified site control."
Jinx's grin went feral. "Oh, we're eating good."
Dack nodded once. "We leave when."
Lyra swiped to logistics. "Orbit window is in fourteen hours. We jump on our own schedule. Drop at first daylight local for best visibility and lower thermal interference from refinery heat."
Quill's head tilted slightly. "They'll have spotters."
"They will," Dack said. "So we don't give them a clean read."
Lyra added, "We land outside the mine basin, use the slag berms to mask approach. We move fast, break their pickets, then push into the spine before they can consolidate."
Morrigan's eyes gleamed a fraction. "Finally. Something direct."
Dack looked at Quill. "Sims."
Quill nodded once. "Now."
Jinx groaned theatrically. "Ugh. Responsibility."
Dack glanced at her. "You want to live?"
Jinx immediately straightened. "I love responsibility."
Taila swallowed, then nodded hard like she could nod fear away.
Morrigan rolled her eyes. "Let's go."
---
They ran sims until the world got boring.
That was the point.
Quill didn't teach by yelling. She taught by repeating the same scenario until everyone stopped making emotional decisions and started making correct ones.
Lane discipline. Heat management. Crossfire angles. Comms brevity.
Dack stayed in the sim suite with them—not hovering, not praising, just present. When someone made a mistake, he called it once, blunt, and moved on.
Taila took the worst of it.
Not because she was weak.
Because she was new to being responsible for a machine that could melt a person into the dirt with a trigger pull.
The Marauder didn't forgive hesitation. Quill's sim made sure Taila learned that.
By the third run, Taila stopped overcorrecting. Stopped chasing targets. Started trusting the formation.
By the fifth, Morrigan and Taila executed a clean crossfire without speaking—Orion anchoring, Marauder supporting the angle, both of them forcing a simulated Thunderbolt into an exposed lane.
Quill's eyes narrowed.
Not approval.
But… recognition.
"Better," Quill said.
That was as close to praise as she gave.
Jinx—predictably—treated the sim like a sport, but she listened. When Dack told her to stop drifting out of formation to chase "fun kills," she stopped.
Mostly.
When she didn't stop, Morrigan's Orion "accidentally" tagged her Highlander in sim with a friendly-fire warning. Jinx screamed like she'd been stabbed.
Morrigan smiled like a demon.
Dack said nothing, but his eyes flicked toward Morrigan like he was storing the moment.
Later, when they finally broke, everyone looked tired in that deep way that came from training the ego out of you.
Lyra met them at the bay hatch with a single nod.
"Contract is signed," she said. "Half bonus transferred. We're cleared to land. KCM is broadcasting their beacon on encrypted local."
Dack nodded once. "Good."
Jinx bumped Taila's shoulder lightly as they walked. "We're gonna be famous."
Taila's mouth twitched. "Or dead."
Jinx winked. "Both can happen."
Morrigan snorted. "Stop talking."
Jinx leaned in like she couldn't help herself and murmured, "Make me."
Morrigan's scowl sharpened, but she didn't move away.
Dack watched it all with quiet eyes and did what he always did when the universe offered him something soft.
He didn't grab it too hard.
---
The jump was clean.
The JumpShip's presence changed everything—no begging for transit, no being forced to ride another man's schedule. Moonjaw moved on its own timing now, and that was power even if Dack didn't talk about it.
By the time Kestrel's Scar filled their sensors—a dusty industrial world with a scar of strip mines cutting through its badlands like a wound—the Union was already aligning for descent.
The planet looked dead from space.
Closer, you could see it wasn't dead.
It was just used.
Refinery stacks. Conveyor spines. Open pits like missing teeth. Roads carved into slag hills where convoys crawled like insects.
And somewhere in that ugliness, Glass Vultures were feeding.
Lyra's voice came over comms from the Union's flight deck, calm as always.
"Descent in six. Leopard will remain high and quiet for overwatch and comm relay. We touch down outside Basin Nine. Beacon confirms KCM's safe zone three klicks west of Mine Spine 7."
Quill's voice answered. "Copy."
Jinx's voice came bright. "Copy!"
Morrigan: "Copy."
Taila: "Copy."
Dack: "Copy."
Simple. Clean. No chatter.
The Union dropped into atmosphere like a controlled fall.
The hull vibrated. Heat rose. The world turned from distant to immediate.
In the mech bay, Dack climbed into the Dire Wolf and sealed the cockpit.
The familiar hush came down around him: filtered air, instrument glow, the heavy reassurance of a machine that had survived things that should've killed it.
He checked ammo counts. Heat sinks. Gyro status. Gauss charge integrity.
His comms filled with the others as they did the same.
Jinx in the Highlander, humming like she was excited for a party.
Taila in the Marauder, breathing steady but a little too controlled.
Morrigan in the Orion, quiet and predatory.
Quill in the Awesome, voice calm enough it made the air feel colder.
Lyra's voice cut in again. "Ramp in thirty."
Dack's hands settled on controls.
He didn't pray.
He didn't hype.
He just waited.
The Union hit ground hard enough to rattle teeth.
The ramp began to lower.
Sunlight and dust spilled into the bay.
Kestrel's Scar smelled like heated rock and old oil—like a place where machines worked until they broke and then were stripped for parts.
Dack walked the Dire Wolf down the ramp first.
It always started with the Dire Wolf.
Heavy steps thudded into slag-dirt, compressing it with each footfall. The horizon shimmered with heat and refinery haze. In the distance, Mine Spine 7 rose like a rusted vertebra across the badlands—conveyor supports and crushed metal frameworks twisting together.
The others followed in order.
Awesome stepped down with disciplined weight, Quill already aligning her firing arcs to cover likely approach lanes.
Orion moved next, Morrigan planting it like a guard dog at Dack's flank.
Marauder came down smooth—Taila careful, but not hesitant, settling into formation as they'd drilled.
Highlander came last, Jinx's machine stomping into place like it was eager to be hit.
Lyra's voice came from above. "You are green. KCM patrol vehicles are inbound from the west. They'll guide you to their staging point. Expect Vulture spotters in the berms."
Dack answered, "Copy."
They moved.
Not fast, not slow—measured.
The badlands around them were broken by slag hills, crushed equipment hulks, dead loader frames, and the bones of old convoy trucks that had never made it home.
They passed one of those bones close enough Dack could see the cab.
There were still stains inside.
Someone had died in there, and nobody had cared enough to clean it.
Jinx's voice came quieter than usual. "They hit hard."
"Raiders," Morrigan said. "That's what they do."
Taila didn't speak.
Quill did. "Eyes up. That's bait."
Dack didn't argue. He scanned.
Thermals.
Motion.
Nothing obvious.
That was how you knew the first punch was coming.
It came from the berms.
A light mech flashed into view—fast, twitchy, sprinting along a ridge line.
"Contact," Quill said. "Jenner. Right ridge."
A second ping hit Dack's sensors from the opposite berm.
Morrigan's voice: "Panther. Left."
Taila's voice tightened. "I've got—Spider. High."
The Glass Vultures didn't open with their real bite.
They opened with eyes.
Spotters. Harassers. Mechs designed to make you shoot too early and reveal your angles.
Dack didn't take the bait.
"Hold fire," he said. "Walk them down."
Jinx hissed. "Aw, come on."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "Live."
Jinx: "Fine."
The Jenner darted along the ridge, too fast for an easy shot, trying to get a clean tag on Quill's Awesome.
The Panther kept low behind broken slag mounds, PPC barrel peeking out like a snake's head.
The Spider jumped, arcing between dead gantries and twisted conveyor supports, trying to flank wide.
Quill stayed calm. "They're painting. They want the heavies to drop on our heads."
Morrigan's voice was darkly pleased. "Let them try."
Dack watched the Jenner's movement—too clean, too confident.
"Glass Vultures are disciplined," he said. "Not just hungry."
Jinx's Highlander shifted, gauss rifle tracking the ridge line, restraint visibly painful to her. "Permission to swat?"
"Wait," Dack said.
The Jenner made its first mistake.
It slowed for half a second to pivot and transmit.
Dack took that half second like it was a gift.
He fired.
The Dire Wolf's LRMs rippled out in a tight volley—enough to blanket the ridge and force the Jenner to move whether it wanted to or not. Explosions walked across the crest, throwing slag dust into the air.
The Jenner bolted—exactly where Dack wanted.
"Now," Dack said.
Jinx fired her gauss rifle.
The shot cracked across the badlands like thunder and punched into the Jenner's side as it tried to sprint away. Armor blew off in a spray of metal and dust; the light mech staggered, almost went down, then caught itself and kept moving on instinct.
Jinx made a pleased sound. "Tag."
The Panther finally committed.
A PPC bolt lanced out, bright and violent, smashing into the Orion's forward plating. Morrigan's machine rocked, armor charring.
Morrigan didn't flinch. "Mine."
She returned fire—Orion's autocannon barking, rounds chewing into the Panther's cover, collapsing a slag mound into rubble. The Panther backed off fast, trying to stay alive.
The Spider jumped again, trying to land behind Taila's Marauder.
Taila didn't panic.
She pivoted, lined up, and fired her PPC—a bright bolt that caught the Spider mid-landing and blew armor off its torso. The Spider's pilot panicked and jumped again, limping into the haze.
Taila's breathing hitched, then steadied.
Dack's voice came blunt. "Good."
That one word went through her like an injection of courage.
Quill's Awesome finally fired too—one PPC bolt, precise, hammering the Panther's shoulder just as it peeked out for another shot. Armor vaporized. The Panther staggered back and disappeared behind cover.
Quill didn't chase. "They're pulling back. They got their eyes."
Dack scanned again.
Then he saw it.
Thermal signatures rising beyond the refinery haze—bigger. Heavier. Slower.
The Glass Vultures' real teeth.
"Here they come," Quill said, voice calm but sharpened.
Shapes emerged through dust:
A Warhammer first—broad shoulders, PPC housings glowing like angry eyes.
A Catapult behind it—missile racks high, already angling for indirect arcs.
And a Thunderbolt—thick, stubborn, walking like it didn't believe in fear.
Three heavies.
Dack's cockpit filled with warning tones as the Catapult's targeting wash swept across them. The spotters had done their job.
Jinx's voice went bright again, almost happy. "There's the party."
Morrigan's tone turned serious. "This is the line."
Taila swallowed hard. "They've got more than we thought."
Quill's voice stayed controlled. "Maintain formation. Anchor fire lanes. Don't overextend."
Dack watched the heavies take positions—smart positions. The Warhammer and Thunderbolt moved to bracket, trying to pin Moonjaw against the slag berms. The Catapult hung back, ready to rain missiles and build heat until someone made a mistake.
Dack spoke once, blunt and final.
"Glass Vultures want to break us on the approach," he said. "We break them first."
He shifted the Dire Wolf forward, heavy steps grinding slag underfoot, and lined up on the Warhammer.
He didn't rush.
He didn't posture.
He advanced like an answer.
"Lyra," Dack said.
Her voice came instantly. "Go."
"Confirm Leopard overwatch has sight on Mine Spine," Dack said. "I want their rear lanes watched. If they try to slide mediums behind us, I want warning before I feel it."
Lyra: "Copy. Leopard has eyes. You've got two vehicle columns moving toward you from the north—KCM patrols. They're late. Raiders likely delayed them."
Dack's jaw tightened. "Of course they did."
Quill spoke, calm. "Then we don't rely on them."
Jinx's Highlander shifted into a firing stance. "Dack?"
He glanced at the heavy trio again, then said, "We take the Warhammer's teeth. Taila, you support Quill. Morrigan, you hold the Thunderbolt off. Jinx—"
Jinx's voice was eager. "Yes?"
"Don't chase," Dack said.
Jinx groaned. "I hate you."
Dack answered, flat. "I know."
Even over comms, the pause that followed felt like the whole unit noticed it.
Then Jinx laughed—one bright, quick sound. "Okay. Okay. I won't chase."
Morrigan muttered, "Did you just… banter."
Dack ignored her.
The Warhammer fired first.
Twin PPC bolts slashed out of the haze and hammered into the Dire Wolf's forward plating, charring armor, rattling Dack's cockpit with warning chimes.
Dack didn't flinch. He fired his LRMs in reply—tight spread, aimed to force the Warhammer to twist and manage impact.
Missiles erupted across the Warhammer's torso, detonations flashing through dust. The heavy staggered half a step, then steadied, trying to keep its firing line.
The Catapult's first missile wave followed—arcing high, then dropping like rain.
Explosions walked across the slag around them. One blast caught the Marauder's side, rocking Taila's machine. Another burst chewed into the Orion's shoulder plating, sparks bleeding from seams.
Morrigan snarled. "Cute."
She returned fire, autocannon barking toward the Thunderbolt's chest. The Thunderbolt answered, laser fire flashing, forcing Morrigan to angle her Orion and take hits on stronger plating.
Quill fired again—PPC bolt hammering the Catapult's rack housing. The Catapult rocked but stayed back, refusing to step into clean gauss lanes.
Taila added her support fire in measured bursts—PPC lancing out through haze, catching the Warhammer's upper plating and stripping armor. She didn't chase. She didn't drift. She stayed where she was told.
Dack pushed forward another step, then fired his AC/10—one solid punch of recoil through the Dire Wolf's frame—and the shell slammed into the Warhammer's torso, gouging deeper into already-damaged plating.
The Warhammer rocked, then answered with lasers that stitched across Dack's armor like hot knives.
Heat climbed.
Warning lights blinked.
Dack didn't panic.
He watched the angles.
The Thunderbolt tried to slide left to bracket Quill's Awesome. Morrigan blocked it, Orion moving like a wall.
The Catapult shifted, trying to get a better arc for missiles.
Jinx's Highlander tracked it—but held, restraint visible even in the way her mech's torso kept wanting to rotate.
"Dack," Jinx said, voice tight, "I can put a gauss round into that Catapult."
"I know," Dack said. "Wait."
The Warhammer took another step forward—trying to close, trying to force the Dire Wolf into a brawl where heat and armor would decide everything.
Dack didn't give it what it wanted.
He pivoted his Dire Wolf slightly, forcing the Warhammer to adjust—just enough for Quill's Awesome to have a clean line.
"Quill," Dack said.
"I see it," Quill replied.
Three PPC bolts fired—sequential, disciplined.
The first hammered the Warhammer's shoulder and stripped armor clean. The second slammed into exposed structure. The third hit the same area again and sent sparks and fragments flying off in a shower.
The Warhammer staggered hard.
Jinx didn't wait for permission this time.
She fired her gauss rifle into the Warhammer's chest.
The shot hit like a hammer from God, punching a crater into armor and driving the Warhammer backward a half step.
The heavy didn't fall.
But it stopped advancing.
That mattered.
The Glass Vultures' heavies pulled back half a pace—just a breath of retreat, just enough to reset their lanes.
And through the haze behind them—deeper in the refinery shadow—Dack's sensors caught another heat signature rising.
Bigger.
Slower.
Heavier than the rest.
A silhouette stepped into existence behind the Catapult—broad-shouldered, missile racks like a spine of teeth.
A Stalker.
Quill's voice came quieter, sharpened. "Assault contact. Stalker at their rear."
Jinx swore softly, delighted and worried at the same time. "Oh."
Taila's stomach dropped. "That's… a lot."
Morrigan's voice went low. "That's the boss."
Dack watched the Stalker's heat bloom stabilize, watched it take position like it owned the battlefield, watched the Catapult shift slightly as if relieved to have something bigger behind it.
Glass Vultures weren't just raiders.
They were organized.
And the first engagement—this opening bite—had been designed to test Moonjaw's cohesion and make them bleed before they reached Mine Spine 7.
Dack answered with the only thing that mattered.
"Formation holds," he said. "We don't break."
Lyra's voice cut in from above, tight. "Dack—KCM patrols just got hit. I'm seeing burning vehicles in their lane. They're not making it to you in time."
Dack didn't look away from the Stalker.
"Then it's us," he said.
He took one slow step forward in the Dire Wolf, heavy feet grinding slag, and lined up the Stalker in his sight like a future problem with a name.
"Glass Vultures want to make us pay to enter," Dack said. "Fine."
His voice stayed blunt, but there was something in it now—an edge the crew could hear.
"We'll pay," he said. "And then we'll take the receipt out of their hide."
The heavies shifted again. The Stalker's missile racks angled.
The air felt like it tightened.
This wasn't the mission yet.
This was the door.
And Glass Vultures were trying to slam it on Moonjaw's fingers.
Dack didn't retreat.
He advanced.
And the badlands lit up again as the fight moved from skirmish into war.
---
Inside the Dire Wolf's cockpit, with alarms blinking and the world shrinking to heat, steel, and angles, Dack let himself mark one private line—short, quiet, for pacing and for the part of him that measured survival in time.
Day ninety-eight.
Then he shoved the thought away and focused on keeping his pack alive long enough to become something the universe couldn't erase.