Three days after the Centurion became "real"—after the registry stamped Taila's name onto something that could bleed and burn and still keep walking—we stopped pretending we could live forever on leased holds and borrowed favors.
A merc unit without a DropShip was a dog without legs. You could still bite. You just couldn't choose where.
And choice was the only thing that kept a pilot from becoming someone else's line item.
So we did two things at once, the way you have to when time is always trying to outrun you:
1. We trained Taila until the Centurion stopped feeling like a coffin.
2. We hunted for a cheap DropShip that wouldn't kill us in the void.
### Day One — Training
The port world had a training range outside the city—scarred flats of crushed rock and rust-colored mud where mercs paid by the hour to fire into metal hulks and pretend it made them safer.
Taila's Centurion stood under grey sky like it was waiting to judge her.
Jinx's Highlander was parked off to the side, power low, watching like a big sister who'd pretend she wasn't worried. My Dire Wolf sat farther back, sensors up, because I didn't trust "quiet" even when it looked like quiet.
Taila's voice came through the comm link, tight. "I'm in."
"Good," I said. "Start with movement. Don't fire yet."
She walked the Centurion forward—stiff at first, then smoother as she found the cadence. The machine wasn't fast, but it was stable. It forgave mistakes. It didn't punish her for being new.
That mattered.
"Turn left," I said. "Stop. Pivot. Back up. Now step over the trench line."
The Centurion hesitated at the trench—just a shallow cut in the range—but Taila breathed through it and stepped across without overcorrecting.
Jinx's voice chimed in, bright. "Look at her. She's stomping like a real murder professional."
Taila snapped, "Jinx."
Jinx laughed. "Yes, ma'am."
I kept it methodical. Not heroic. Not cinematic. Real skill is built on boring repetitions.
When Taila's movement was consistent, I finally said, "Weapons check."
Taila swallowed audibly. "Okay."
"Single shots," I ordered. "One at a time. Feel recoil. Feel heat. Don't chase speed."
The Centurion's autocannon spoke once—deep, heavy, the sound of a door being slammed by a god. The impact punched a crater into a derelict target hulk downrange.
Taila's Centurion rocked slightly with the recoil.
She steadied it.
Then her **missile rack** loosed a short ripple—controlled, not panicked—and the impacts walked across the target's torso plating.
"Better," I said. "Again."
By the fifth cycle she wasn't flinching at the noise anymore. She still wasn't "good." But she was present. She wasn't drowning.
That was the line that mattered.
After the session, when the machines powered down and the range went quiet except for wind, Taila climbed down from the Centurion ladder slowly, hands shaking a little with adrenaline and pride.
Jinx was there instantly—too close, too bright—then stopped herself and offered Taila a canteen like a normal person.
Taila took it with a wary glance. "You're being… quiet."
Jinx shrugged. "Don't get used to it."
Taila drank, then surprised me by stepping close enough that her shoulder bumped my chest lightly—like she was checking I was still there.
I rested my hand on her upper back, steadying. No force. Just contact.
"You did well," I said.
Taila's eyes flicked up. "I didn't miss as much."
"That's not what I said," I replied. "You did well."
Her throat worked. She nodded once, then—very quickly—kissed my cheek as if she was terrified she'd lose the courage if she waited.
Jinx made an exaggerated noise of disgust. "Wow. Affection. In public. Scandalous."
Taila's face went red. "Shut up."
Jinx leaned in and kissed Taila's temple. Taila froze, then didn't pull away.
Progress.
### Day Two — DropShip Hunting
The used DropShip yard smelled like hot steel and old coolant.
Rows of hulls sat under floodlights—some proud, some half-dismantled, all of them expensive in the way that could ruin you. Paint flaked off armor plating in sheets. Engines were patched with mismatched parts. Names were scratched out or painted over like regret.
We needed something small, repairable, and cheap enough that it didn't feel like buying our own execution.
A broker met us at the gate—a lean man with too-white teeth and a datapad that never left his hand.
"Looking for a Leopard?" he asked immediately, like he could smell it on us.
"Yes," I said. "Or something similar. Nothing flashy. Nothing that needs a miracle."
He smiled. "Miracles cost extra."
He led us down a lane where a battered Leopard-class DropShip sat with one landing strut replaced by a different model entirely. Its hull was scarred and patched, but the frame lines were true. No visible warping. That mattered more than cosmetics.
"This one's been through it," the broker said. "But she'll fly."
Jinx circled it like a cat around a new box. "She's ugly."
Taila frowned. "It's… kind of beautiful."
Jinx pointed at her. "Look at her being sentimental. I'm so proud."
Taila ignored her and looked up at the ship's nose. "How many mechs can it carry?"
"Four bays," the broker said. "You only need three. Leaves room for salvage or a spare."
I climbed the boarding ladder and inspected the interior—cargo deck, mech clamps, winches, life support, access corridors. Not luxury. Functional. If something went wrong, it would be wrong in ways you could fix with hands, not prayers.
Taila stayed near the ramp, eyes tracking everything like she was learning the shape of a future she'd never been allowed to imagine.
Then we hit the next problem: crew.
I pulled up the listings the broker offered—DropShip pilots for hire. Most were men with long service histories, scarred reputations, and the kind of attitude that came from knowing they could strand you on a rock if you annoyed them.
Taila pointed at one profile, voice cautious. "This one has good ratings."
Jinx leaned in, scanned it, and immediately shook her head. "No."
Taila blinked. "Why?"
"He's a man," Jinx said, like that was the whole answer.
Taila's jaw tightened. "Jinx—"
Jinx stepped closer, voice lowering just enough to be sharp. "Taila. Would you like another man looking at you the way Dack looks at you?"
Taila went still.
It wasn't embarrassment at first.
It was memory—something old and cold behind her eyes.
Then she swallowed hard. "No."
Jinx nodded like she'd been waiting for that. "Then we hire female-only personnel."
Taila's voice was quiet but immediate. "Female only."
I watched Taila as she said it—no hesitation, no apology. That wasn't a preference. That was a boundary drawn in steel.
"Agreed," I said.
The broker's smile faltered. "That narrows your options."
"Then narrow them," I replied.
He scrolled again, slower this time, and brought up a smaller list.
That's when we saw her.
A new profile. Fresh credentials. No long list of contracts. No battlefield history that could be verified. Just clean academy ratings and a calm, minimal personal statement:
**Pilot Candidate: Lyra Sato**
**Graduation: Donegal Aerospace Academy Track (Civil/Commercial + Contract Flight Certification)**
**Notes: Calm under pressure. Excellent adherence to procedure. Low incident record.**
**Availability: Immediate.**
Jinx squinted. "She looks… polite."
Taila murmured, "She looks quiet."
I said, "Quiet can be good."
The broker hesitated. "She's green."
"She's trained," I corrected. "There's a difference."
We arranged a meet.
### Day Three — Lyra
Lyra arrived on time.
That alone put her above most mercs.
She was young, but not naive—eyes steady, posture controlled, voice soft without being uncertain. She wore a plain flight jacket with academy stitching still crisp at the cuffs, as if she hadn't decided what kind of pilot she wanted to become yet.
When she saw my Dire Wolf's unit patch on my jacket, her gaze didn't widen. She didn't gush. She simply nodded like she'd filed it under *relevant data.*
"Dack Jarn," she said quietly. "Thank you for meeting me."
Her voice was calm in the same way mine was calm—measured, not performative.
I nodded back. "Lyra Sato."
Jinx leaned into Taila and whispered loudly, "She's like you if you had less trauma and more paperwork."
Taila elbowed her.
Lyra's eyes flicked to them—curious, not judgmental. "Are you… all contracted together?"
"We are," I said.
Lyra nodded once. "Good. I prefer units that don't lie to each other."
That was a dangerous thing to say to mercenaries.
It made me like her immediately.
We walked the Leopard's interior. I asked technical questions—reaction time on manual landings, experience with damaged thrusters, emergency procedures. Lyra answered with precision. No bravado. No excuses.
Then she surprised me by asking her own questions.
"How strict is your command structure?" she asked. "And what happens when a crew member freezes under pressure?"
Taila stiffened slightly at that.
I answered honestly. "We train it out. We don't shame it out."
Lyra's gaze held mine. "Good."
Jinx grinned. "Boss, she's interviewing you."
Lyra glanced at Jinx. "I am."
Jinx laughed, delighted. "I like her."
Taila watched Lyra quietly, then—after a long beat—said, "Do you… mind that we're… not normal."
Lyra blinked once. "Define normal."
Taila's cheeks warmed. She didn't answer.
Lyra looked between Taila and Jinx, then back to me. Her tone stayed calm. "You work closely. You trust each other. That's normal for crews."
Jinx's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Oh no."
Lyra tilted her head. "What."
Jinx smiled like a knife wrapped in candy. "Come with me."
Lyra looked at me for permission.
I didn't give it. I didn't deny it. I simply said, "You can walk away at any point."
Lyra nodded once. "Understood."
Jinx took Lyra aside—just around the corner of the cargo bay, out of Taila's earshot. Taila stood stiffly near the ramp, pretending to be fascinated by a clamp assembly.
I stayed where I could see all of them.
Jinx's voice lowered into something that was still playful, but serious underneath.
Lyra listened—really listened—face composed, eyes occasionally flicking down as she processed something unexpected.
Then Jinx pointed back toward us—toward Taila, toward me—making small gestures like she was outlining rules on an invisible board.
When Lyra finally answered, her voice was still soft, but steadier.
"I appreciate clarity," she said.
Jinx grinned. "Good. Ground rules are simple."
Lyra nodded once. "No coercion. No games that hurt someone. Loyalty to the crew. And…" She hesitated, then added carefully, "…respect Taila's boundaries."
Jinx blinked like she hadn't expected Lyra to nail it that cleanly.
Then she smiled wider. "Oh, you're going to fit in great."
Lyra's expression didn't change much, but her cheeks colored faintly. "I'm not inexperienced with social structures," she said.
Jinx leaned in, stage-whispering. "You are, though."
Lyra's cheeks warmed a fraction more. "I am… busy."
Jinx's grin turned almost gentle. "Yeah. Same."
They came back around the corner.
Lyra faced Taila first. That mattered.
"I was told your boundaries are important," Lyra said quietly. "I respect that."
Taila blinked, a little startled by direct respect without strings. Then she nodded once. "Thank you."
Lyra looked at me. "If you hire me, I can fly your Leopard. I can keep you legal. And I can keep calm when things get loud."
"Can you handle merc work," I asked. "Not just flying. The reality."
Lyra's gaze didn't flinch. "I can learn. I learn quickly."
Jinx chimed in immediately. "Also she's cute and quiet and has 'wife who reads manuals' energy."
Taila hissed, "Jinx!"
Lyra's cheeks warmed again, but she didn't look offended. She looked… thoughtful.
Then she looked at me and said quietly, "Your crew is… unusual."
"Yes," I said.
Lyra nodded. "I don't dislike unusual."
That was her version of bold.
I extended my hand. "We'll start with this next contract. Trial basis. Paid. If it doesn't fit, we part clean."
Lyra shook my hand—firm, steady.
"Agreed," she said.
Jinx clapped once. "Welcome to the circus."
Taila muttered, "It's not a circus."
Jinx leaned in and gave Taila a quick playful swat as she passed.
Taila's face went bright red. "Jinx!"
Lyra blinked at the interaction, then—surprisingly—her mouth twitched as if she found it funny but didn't want to laugh in case it broke the mood.
I saw Taila notice that twitch.
And Taila… relaxed a fraction.
Good.
If Lyra could make Taila feel safe without trying, that was worth more than perfect stick-and-rudder.
### Departure
We finalized the Leopard purchase as "bare hull + repairs to be completed," which meant it was cheap enough to own and ugly enough that nobody would envy it. The broker tried to upsell us a cosmetic repaint. Jinx asked if the paint would make the ship "less traumatized." The broker stopped talking.
Taila spent the last night before departure in her Centurion's cockpit, running sim overlays and tactile drills—hands on controls, breathing steady, learning the machine's weight like it was becoming part of her.
Jinx came in halfway through and, instead of teasing, simply sat on the ladder rung outside the cockpit and talked softly about nonsense—books, academy rumors, stupid port food—until Taila's shoulders stopped being so tight.
When Taila climbed down, she surprised both of us by hugging Jinx quickly—clumsy, shy, real.
Jinx froze like she'd been struck, then hugged back, careful and fierce.
Lyra watched from a respectful distance, calm and quiet, as if she understood that this wasn't just affection.
It was proof of safety.
Then Lyra approached me near the Leopard's ramp and said quietly, "If this contract is a trap… I will still get you out."
I studied her face.
No bravado. No promise of heroism.
Just procedure and loyalty.
"Good," I said. "Because it might be."
Lyra nodded once. "Understood."
The next morning we loaded the Dire Wolf, Highlander, and Centurion into our own ship for the first time. The clamps locked with a heavy finality that felt like a door closing behind us.
Taila stood at the ramp, staring into the cargo bay like she didn't quite believe this was hers now—this steel, this future, this crew.
Jinx slid an arm around her shoulders. "Look," she whispered. "We're real."
Taila swallowed hard. "Yeah."
I watched them for a moment, then climbed the ramp.
"Mount up," I said. "We have work."
Lyra took the pilot's chair. Her hands settled on the controls like they belonged there. The Leopard's systems came alive in a low hum.
And as the ship lifted—slow, ugly, ours—I felt the old sensation return:
Movement.
The only real protection a mercenary ever has.
We were headed to the contract now—planet-side convoy security and a retrieval in bad country.
Taila would be in her Centurion—limited role, controlled exposure.
Jinx would be Jinx.
Lyra would fly us like a calm ghost through a universe that wanted to bite.
And somewhere out there, Sable might be watching.
If he was, he'd learn something new this time:
We weren't a lone pilot anymore.
We were becoming a unit.
A star, whether Taila liked the word or not.
And stars are harder to snuff out than single flames.