DAY 62 — 03:14 (SHIPTIME)
The Dire Wolf was never truly asleep.
Even powered down in the Union's mech bay, its bulk sat with predatory patience—reactor on low standby, systems dim, armor still holding the heat of recent violence in stubborn pockets. Inside the cockpit, the world shrank to instrument glow and filtered air that tasted faintly of metal and sweat no scrubber could fully erase.
Dack Jarn sat strapped in, helmet off, hands resting on the controls like they belonged there more than they belonged anywhere else.
The ship around him had the held-breath feeling again. The Union drifted cold—no bright thrusters, no casual pings, no wide sweeps that screamed look at me to anyone listening. Quiet was survival when you didn't know who was out there.
Dack stared into the dark and allowed himself the one ritual he still kept.
"Sixty-two," he said softly.
Two months, give or take. Sixty-two days since Ronan Jarn died. Sixty-two days since Dack stopped being a man with a future and became a man with a machine and a list of things that needed to end.
He let the number sit for a beat, then shoved it down where he kept everything else that could slow him.
A comm chirped—short, controlled, private.
Lyra.
"Dack," she said. No padding. "External traffic updated. We're still catching passive sweep patterns after the jump. Not a lock. But it's tightening."
Dack didn't shift. "Distance?"
"Hard to say. Whoever it is isn't pinging like a civilian. Wide and quiet."
Dack's eyes stayed on his display. "Shadow?"
A pause. "Absence where there should be noise."
That was Lyra's way of saying someone competent.
"Keep us cold," Dack said.
"Already," Lyra replied. "I need you in the bay. Everyone's moving."
Dack unstrapped and climbed out of the Dire Wolf like he was stepping out of his own skin. He dropped to the deck with a heavy, controlled thud and walked into the mech bay's heat and steel stink.
The ship greeted him with noise—tools, fans, distant hydraulic cycling—and with eyes.
Jinx noticed first. She always did. She leaned against a crate near the Highlander, long dirty-blonde hair flipped over one shoulder, blue eyes bright with that grin she wore like armor. Her outfit was tight and black-and-red, built for movement and for attention at the same time, the Dire Wolf sigil stitched on like a claim.
"Boss," she said, like it was a joke and a compliment.
Taila was near the Griffin, focused on a diagnostic slate. Tight black halter top, long black combat leggings with red stripes—still her style, still the pack's colors. Her cheeks colored when she saw him, then she forced her gaze steady.
Morrigan lingered near the Marauder's shadow line, arms crossed, expression set in a permanent glare that somehow managed to look like a warning and a shield. Black-and-red again, but sharper—more her.
Lyra stood by a terminal near the bay bulkhead, black flight suit fitted and practical, helmet tucked under one arm. Calm posture. Professional. Not trying to run the room—just keeping it alive.
At the workbench, Rook and Rafe moved like one rhythm split into two bodies—panels off, tools strapped down, hands fast and precise. They barely looked up, but Dack could feel them clock him anyway.
Quill stood apart in her pressure suit, helmet in hand, too controlled to be comfortable. Her gaze kept flicking up to the chained Atlas like she couldn't stop checking whether it was still real.
And overhead—
The Atlas hung in mag clamps and chain restraints like a captured god. The cockpit seam was a thin line of darkness. The woman inside hadn't given her true name. She didn't need to. Dack could feel her listening.
He stopped beside Lyra's terminal.
"Show me," he said.
Lyra brought up a plot: faint arcs of passive sweeps, spaced like someone fishing without ever casting too hard. A hunter trying to force prey into making the first mistake.
"After jump," Lyra said. "We drifted cold. Still caught a sweep on our vector. They aren't committing, but they're persistent."
Dack's jaw tightened. "Small craft?"
"Possibly," Lyra said. "Could be a scout boat. Could be a dropship running emissions discipline. Whoever it is, they don't want to be seen."
Dack stared at the arcs, then looked up at his crew.
"Prep dead yard," he said.
Jinx perked up. "Yard rat life. Love that for us."
Morrigan's voice was low and mean. "We'll get ambushed."
Taila didn't speak, but her fingers tightened on her slate. Running still hit her wrong—like weakness—even if she understood it was math.
"We need repairs and quiet," Dack said. "Dead yard gives both."
Lyra nodded once. "Two candidates. One has old station beacons still bleeding power. One is truly dead."
"Truly dead," Dack said.
"Copy," Lyra replied.
Dack turned from the terminal and faced the bay.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't sell courage. He assigned survival.
"Rook. Rafe. Dire Wolf knee actuators and armor scoring first. Then Highlander heat baffles."
Rafe started, "Heat—"
Rook finished, "—baffles."
They were already moving.
"Taila," Dack said.
She straightened. "Yeah?"
"Griffin ammo count. Missile feed seals. You're not going into the next fight with a jam."
Taila nodded hard. "Got it."
"Jinx."
Jinx grinned. "Yes?"
"Highlander rail alignment. If your gauss drifts, you don't get to laugh about it."
Jinx's grin softened into something proud. "Fine."
"Morrigan."
She scowled. "What."
"Marauder stress check. PPC mount. Laser conduits. I don't want your arm dying mid-fight."
Morrigan's glare flickered—almost pleased. "It won't."
"Quill."
Quill snapped upright. "Yes."
"You stay off external comms," Dack said. "No hails. No civilian chatter. You're a flag."
Quill didn't argue. "Understood."
Dack's gaze slid up to the Atlas. "Nobody touches the Atlas restraints without me or Lyra present."
A soft laugh slid down from above, smooth as oil.
"You're learning," the woman murmured from inside her cockpit cage.
Dack didn't look up. "Shut up."
Jinx snorted. Taila stiffened. Morrigan's eyes sharpened like she wanted permission. Quill's jaw tightened, and Dack noticed that too.
The voice overhead stayed amused. "A chained Atlas makes you feel powerful. It should make you feel hunted."
Dack finally tilted his head up, eyes cold. "We're already hunted."
A pause.
Then another quiet laugh. "Good."
Dack turned away before the urge to do something permanent climbed up his spine. Predators fed on reaction. He didn't feed her.
He walked toward the Dire Wolf berth again.
Taila fell in beside him by habit now, matching his pace. Close, but not clinging. Jinx drifted on the other side, shamelessly close, shoulder brushing his arm like she wanted him to remember she was there.
Dack's eyes flicked down—black and red, sigils, tight clothing that marked them as one unit. He approved of it the way he approved of good armor plating and clean firing lanes.
Jinx caught the glance and winked.
Taila blushed and tried not to.
Morrigan watched from across the bay like she was disgusted by all of them.
Lyra pretended she didn't notice any of it. She did.
Dack climbed into the Dire Wolf cockpit again and sealed the hatch. The world narrowed. The cockpit swallowed him.
He keyed Lyra on a private line.
"Plot the dead yard. No beacons. No emissions," Dack said.
"Already," Lyra replied. Then, after a beat: "But there's something else."
Dack's fingers stilled. "Say it."
Lyra's voice stayed calm. "I'm getting a contact. Not a hail. Not a lock. A faint presence… like a reflection. It shouldn't be there."
"Where," Dack said.
Lyra fed him the vector.
A point of absence. Not bright signature—no transponder, no chatter, no drive flare. Just a gap where there should've been background noise, like something was drinking the dark.
Dack stared at it and felt old instincts rise—Ronan's lessons, learned inside steel: the quiet things were often the things that killed you.
"Small craft," Dack said.
"Or a scout boat," Lyra replied. "It's too controlled to be random debris. But it's also not committing."
Dack's mouth tightened. "Observer."
Lyra didn't disagree.
Through the mech's frame, Dack felt vibrations of tools against metal—Rook and Rafe already working like the ship might explode if they didn't. He pictured Taila checking feeds with the seriousness of someone who refused to be useless again. Jinx laughing too loud. Morrigan glaring at the universe. Quill standing too straight, trying to become something other than a mistake.
And overhead, an Atlas full of quiet amusement.
Dack keyed the crew channel—short and sharp.
"Listen," he said. "We're not alone out here."
The bay quieted a fraction.
Lyra's voice joined, clipped. "Passive sweep is tightening. We have a faint contact on our aft quadrant. No transponder. No broadcast. Possibly a small craft running cold."
Jinx's voice came in eager. "Can we shoot it?"
"No emissions," Dack said immediately. "No firing unless it commits. We don't light ourselves up."
Morrigan's voice was low and vicious. "So we let it follow?"
"We make it work," Dack replied. "We drift cold. We change vector. If it stays with us, it's not chance."
Taila's voice came softer, steady. "If it commits?"
Dack didn't hesitate. "Then we kill it."
He cut the channel and stared at the point of absence again.
This wasn't a loud raid. This wasn't some drunk pirate with a big mouth and a sloppy transponder. This was a professional watching from the dark, learning habits, waiting for weakness.
The kind of threat that got people quietly erased.
Lyra came back on private. "Dack… what do you want me to do?"
Dack's answer was immediate.
"Go colder," he said. "Bleed heat. Kill nonessential systems. Drift like wreckage. Plot the dead yard. If the contact stays with us—"
He paused, eyes hard.
"—we assume it's hunting."
Lyra replied, calm as ever. "Copy."
The Union shifted in the dark, a predator pretending to be dead.
And somewhere behind them, something quiet held position—too perfect, too patient, too interested.
Dack sat in his cockpit with the Dire Wolf's heart humming under him and the day count heavy in his chest.
Sixty-two.
He didn't say it again.
He saved his breath for whatever came next.