The basin didn't celebrate.
It cleaned up.
That's what survival looks like on a backwater contract: mud packed into wounds, wrecks dragged into floodlight, the dead covered fast because the living still had shifts to work.
The captured pickup DropShip squatted in the slag canyon like a fat animal with its legs broken. Holt's people swarmed it with cutters and scanners. They moved carefully—fearful of hidden charges, fearful of traps, fearful of the kind of off-world professionalism that didn't need luck to kill you.
I understood that fear.
Sable didn't need luck.
He needed time.
And he'd been buying it with Ash Hounds blood and basin panic.
I stood at the edge of the salvage lane and watched the Dire Wolf's armor vent steam into the rain. My cockpit still smelled like hot insulation and my own sweat. My hands were steady, but my jaw ached from how long I'd been clenching it.
Jinx's Highlander was a few dozen meters away, half-coated in mud, its leg plating scarred where a Thunderbolt had managed to bite deep. She climbed down, slipped, recovered, and pretended she hadn't.
Like always.
Taila stayed near the comm node with Holt—hood up, slate in hand, shoulders too tight. She didn't look at the wrecks for long. She looked at the patterns—frequencies, timing windows, anything that meant intent.
She was learning the same lesson I'd learned years ago.
Wars don't start with bullets.
They start with ledgers.
Holt approached, boots sucking at mud. "We've got survivors from the ground team," she said, voice hoarse. "Not many."
"Bring one," I said.
Holt's eyes narrowed. "To you?"
"Yes."
She hesitated just long enough to show she hated it, then nodded and signaled. Two militia troopers dragged a man out from under a tarp—armored vest, helmet off, face streaked with mud and blood. He didn't look like a pirate. He looked like someone who'd trained for this kind of work and believed training was a shield.
It wasn't.
I knelt in front of him. Not close enough for his hands. Close enough for my shadow to land on his face.
"Name," I said.
He spat into the mud.
I waited.
He didn't speak.
Holt shifted behind me. "We can—"
"No," I said without looking up. "He'll talk."
The man's eyes flicked past me—toward the Dire Wolf. Toward the Highlander. Toward the militia line that had cut down his team in the mud.
He swallowed.
I didn't threaten him. Threats are for people who need noise to feel powerful. I just held his gaze and let him see something simple:
There was no bargaining position here.
"Who hired you?" I asked.
He laughed weakly. "You think I know?"
"You know enough," I said. "Say it."
His throat worked. "Procurement job. Recovery. Data. We were told—"
"Told by who," I pressed.
His eyes darted again, like the name itself might shoot him.
Then he said it.
"Sable."
Taila's hooded head snapped up at the word. I felt it more than I saw it—the way her whole posture sharpened like a blade pulled from a sheath.
I nodded once. "And Sable reports to."
The man's lips tightened.
I stood. Slowly. I made sure he saw I wasn't angry.
Anger is sloppy. Anger gives people hope that you'll make a mistake.
"I already know the name," I said. "This is your chance to keep breathing by confirming it."
He looked at me like I was the first person to offer him honesty.
Then he whispered, "Elias Kess."
Jinx's voice came over the open channel, cheerful and sharp. "Told you."
Holt swore softly. "So it's true."
I turned to Taila. "You've seen him before," I said.
She froze.
Then—very slowly—she nodded. "Not Kess. Not face-to-face. But the method. The handler. The gloves. He… marked me. Like inventory."
The words came out thin, like she had to push them through old scars.
I didn't ask more here. Not in the mud. Not with militia watching.
I looked back at the prisoner. "Where is Kess."
He laughed again, but it was nervous now. "You think he's here? On this rock? No. He's not a man who—"
I leaned down until my voice could be quiet and still reach him.
"He's close," I said. "Because this is personal now. He sent a professional escort lance. He sent a scuttle device. He wants the Marauder's data and my machine. That's not casual. That's oversight."
The man's eyes flickered with fear.
Holt's boots shifted behind me.
I held the man's gaze until the fear did what fear always does when it can't run.
It talks.
"He's not… in the basin," the man said quickly. "He's at the Ash Hounds' forward base. Two hours east—slag plateau—old ore processor. They call it—" he swallowed "—Hound Den."
Holt's face tightened. "We've heard rumors. Never confirmed."
Taila's fingers moved on her slate already, pulling maps, contour lines, old mining charts.
Jinx leaned close enough for her voice to carry, grin visible even in the rain. "Ore processors make great fortresses if you're a paranoid criminal with an interior design preference for rust."
Holt glared at her. Jinx smiled wider.
I asked the prisoner, "How many mechs."
"Fifteen," he said. "Maybe more. Mix. Pirates, mostly. But there's—" his breath hitched "—a command unit. Two heavies that don't belong to them."
I straightened.
If Kess was there, he wouldn't be walking around in a vest.
He'd be behind armor.
Behind guns.
Behind other people's deaths.
I looked at Holt. "You can't hold this basin and hit that base alone."
Holt's jaw tightened. "We don't have enough heavy assets."
I glanced at the Dire Wolf, its massive form breathing steam like a living thing.
"We don't need a fair fight," I said. "We need a decisive one."
Taila spoke quietly. "If we hit Hound Den, and Kess is there… he won't stay. He'll run."
"Yes," I said. "So we don't just hit it. We lock the exits."
Jinx raised a hand like a student. "Hi. I would like to formally volunteer my Highlander for the 'lock exits' portion of the evening."
Holt exhaled like she was in pain. "This is insane."
"It's merc work," Jinx corrected brightly. "Insanity with invoices."
I didn't smile.
I looked at Taila. "Can you jam long-range comms in that region."
Her eye hardened. "If I have a node close enough and a clear angle, yes."
"You'll have one," I said.
Her throat worked. "Dack—"
"Not in the kill zone," I repeated.
Her shoulders tightened—anger, maybe, or shame. Then she nodded. "Fine."
Holt's gaze flicked between us. "And if Kess isn't there?"
"Then we rout the Ash Hounds," I said. "And we take their ledger. Their contacts. Their routes. We cut the teeth out of the funding chain."
Jinx leaned toward Taila, stage-whispering like she couldn't help herself. "See? He's in his 'main character' era."
Taila didn't react much—but I saw the faintest twitch at her mouth. Almost amusement. Then it vanished behind focus.
Good.
Focus keeps you alive.
I stood and turned toward the Dire Wolf.
My father's machine.
My inheritance.
My curse.
I climbed the ladder, slid into the cockpit, and sealed it shut.
The world became HUD lines and reactor hum.
I keyed comms. "Marshal Holt. You're coming."
Holt's voice crackled back, tight. "I'm not leaving my people—"
"You're coming," I repeated. "Because your militia knows your terrain and your enemy. And because if Kess dies tonight, you'll need to be here to claim what's left."
A pause.
Then Holt said, "Fine."
Jinx's voice chimed in immediately. "Road trip!"
Taila's voice came quietly through the secure link. "Don't let him escape."
I stared at my own reflection in the cockpit glass—just a face, average, tired, too calm.
"I won't," I said.
And for the first time in days, the basin's rain felt like it was washing the world clean in preparation.
Not for peace.
For debt collection.