The ravine cache tried to kill them one last time.
The Hunchback came out of the smoke with its torso twisted, armor blistered, shoulder mount still hungry. It stepped over burning trucks and shattered container doors like it didn't care what it walked through—only what it got to hit.
Dack kept the Dire Wolf moving. Not fast—nothing that heavy moved fast—but deliberate. He stayed off the "easy" lanes between container stacks, the ones pirates wanted him to take. Every step was a choice.
Jinx's Highlander held the right side, shouldering the fight like she liked it—direct, brutal, close enough to feel the heat off the fires. Taila's Griffin anchored left, disciplined, covering the angles where a light 'Mech would try to sprint for a lucky shot and a fast escape.
Lyra's voice floated in steady over comms from the Leopard, cool and clear above the crackle of burning fuel. "That rear storage heat isn't engine. It's rigged. Don't push into the back line. You've got a cookoff waiting."
Dack answered once. "Copy."
The Panther tried to reappear on Taila's side—PPC flash from behind a container edge—testing if she'd chase into the maze.
Taila didn't chase.
She shifted her Griffin half a step, kept her lane, and answered with a clean shot that tore more armor off the Panther's torso and forced it to withdraw deeper into cover. Her LRMs followed a moment later, not a wasteful storm—just enough to make the Panther move when she wanted it to move.
"Good," Dack said, eyes never leaving the Hunchback. "Hold."
Jinx laughed like she was proud. "She's learning."
The Hunchback fired and the ravine shook. The impact chewed into basalt near the Dire Wolf's feet, throwing shards hard enough to spark against armor.
Dack didn't flinch. He fired LRMs to force the Hunchback to brace, then drove a gauss shot into its torso while it was still correcting. The round hit like a hammer through old steel. The Hunchback staggered, tried to swing its shoulder toward him again—
Jinx hit it from the side. Missiles and a follow-up that made the medium 'Mech twist wrong, exposing its flank.
Taila took that opening immediately—PPC flash into the exposed side plating.
The Hunchback's gyro fought. Lost. Fought again.
It went to one knee.
Dack stepped forward and ended it clean—autocannon burst into the already-breached torso, then a final gauss shot that punched through what was left of its center mass.
The Hunchback collapsed into the salt-stained dirt with a grinding crash that echoed off the ravine walls.
Silence came hard after the noise—fires crackling, heat sinks sighing, the Leopard's distant engines a low hum above it all.
Jinx's voice softened just a fraction. "Nice."
Dack didn't answer that. He scanned the cache.
There was salvage here. Real salvage. The kind that kept a merc unit alive longer than a contract's payout.
And there was the trap Lyra had warned them about—rear storage, deep in the yard, heat bleeding through container seams like something breathing.
Lyra was already ahead of them. "You can grab from the front line and mid stacks. Do not cross the rear threshold. The pattern reads like linked triggers—if you disturb the wrong crate, everything goes."
Taila's voice tightened. "Then we leave it."
Jinx sounded annoyed. "That's a lot of money to leave."
Dack watched the smoke roll along the ground, watched the way the wind tugged at tarps, watched the container line that separated "profit" from "funeral."
"We don't leave it for them," he said.
Jinx's smile sharpened. "Now you're talking."
Dack angled the Dire Wolf away from the rear line, backed them out to open ground where the ravine widened. He put the Hunchback's wreck between them and the cache like a marker.
"Lyra," he said. "Give me a safe standoff."
Lyra's answer was immediate, clipped. "Five hundred meters minimum. Seven hundred to be sure, given the chemical signature."
Dack didn't argue. He moved them to seven hundred.
Then he raised the Dire Wolf's torso and fired—two controlled LRM salvos into the rear storage line, not at random. He aimed at the heat source itself, the crates that were breathing wrong.
The first impacts ruptured tarps and container seams.
The second hit found whatever the pirates had packed back there.
For a heartbeat nothing happened.
Then the ravine lit up.
A violent bloom of flame and pressure rolled outward, a wave that slammed into container stacks and threw doors off hinges. The shockwave kicked up dust and grit hard enough to rattle their cockpits. The fire didn't just burn—it ate, consuming whatever chemistry had been meant to cook off under their feet.
Jinx laughed, satisfied. "That's the best kind of 'leave it.'"
Taila exhaled shakily. "We would've died."
Dack's reply was flat. "Yes."
Lyra's voice was tight but approving. "That was clean. You denied them their reserve and didn't walk into it."
Dack scanned again. "We salvage the Hunchback and what's safe. Then we go."
They worked fast the merc way: not pretty, not romantic, just efficient. Marked crates. Tagged parts. Pulled what could be hauled without inviting bad luck.
And when they extracted, they left a pirate staging yard as a burned-out scar.
---
The arbitration office smelled like recycled air and cheap disinfectant.
A bored official sat behind a counter with a datapad and a badge that meant nothing. He tried to look unimpressed by the footage Lyra placed on the counter—burning cache, disabled pirate 'Mechs, the Hunchback wreck, the controlled cookoff that denied future raids.
"You caused… substantial property destruction," the official said, tone oily. "This could affect payment."
Lyra didn't blink. "It was pirate property used for raiding municipal shipping. The contract states removal of pirate capability. We removed it."
The official tapped his pad like he was searching for an angle. "Ammo expenditures—"
Lyra slid a second pad forward. "Listed. Logged. Within expected parameters."
He frowned. "The cookoff—"
Dack stepped half a pace closer, looming without raising his voice. "It was rigged."
The official hesitated. "You can't prove—"
Lyra's finger tapped a line on the footage. "Thermal spike pattern, linked triggers, chemical signature. If we had pushed in, we'd be discussing body recovery, not billing. Payment. Full."
The official's mouth tightened. "Salvage rights—"
Dack cut in. "We took a Hunchback wreck and safe parts. That's it."
The official looked like he wanted to fight, then reconsidered the math of fighting a merc unit with an assault 'Mech and a DropShip.
He pushed the authorization through with a stiff motion.
Lyra didn't smile. She just took the confirmation chip and stood. "Good."
On the way out, Jinx brushed Taila's hip and murmured, delighted, "Paperwork violence."
Taila whispered back, "She's scary."
Lyra, a step ahead, heard them anyway and didn't deny it.
---
Back aboard the Union, the reality of damage sat like weight.
Armor scoring. Heat stress. Feed jitter on one of the Highlander's systems. Griffin's left hip actuator making a faint, irregular vibration on startup—small now, deadly later.
They needed techs. Real ones.
Dack sat at the terminal again, filtering contracts and browsing the port's crude labor board. Names blurred. Rates too high. Credentials too thin. Some "certified" techs whose histories looked like they were stitched together from lies.
Lyra walked in quietly and set a mug down beside him. "I'm looking too."
Dack glanced at her. "Find anyone."
Lyra didn't answer immediately. She was already scrolling through her own channels—not the public boards. The ones built from favors, bay managers, salvage foremen, and the kind of women who ran refit schedules like they were battle plans.
She sent a message.
Waited.
Then another.
Dack watched the way her eyes moved—fast, precise—like she was scanning a battlefield.
A reply came.
Lyra's gaze sharpened, then she tapped again, confirming.
She looked at Dack. "I found two."
"Who," Dack said.
Lyra's voice stayed calm. "Calder twins. Rook and Rhea—goes by 'Rafe.' No formal certs."
Dack's eyes narrowed. "That's a problem."
"It would be," Lyra said, "if they weren't the same names I got from three different bay leads who don't talk to each other."
Dack leaned back slightly. "What's the catch."
Lyra held his gaze. "They're invisible. Cash jobs. Short contracts. They don't advertise. They don't socialize. They work."
Dack was silent a beat. "You trust them."
Lyra didn't say yes. She said, "I want to test them."
Dack nodded once. "Where."
"Port-side bay," Lyra said. "Rented. Neutral. They don't step on the Union until we know what they are."
Dack's mouth tightened, approving the caution. "Do it."
Lyra glanced down the corridor toward the galley where Jinx and Taila were arguing over something trivial and affectionate.
"And," Lyra added, voice flat, "they're women."
Dack didn't react outwardly.
But Lyra saw the tiny shift in his eyes—understanding.
He didn't comment.
He just said, "Bring them in."
---
The port repair bay was a long, echoing box of steel and hanging chains.
The Calder twins arrived on time.
They didn't show up dressed for attention. They showed up dressed for work—practical coveralls, boots scuffed from real bays, tool packs worn and heavy. Grease under nails. Hair tied back in no-nonsense ways. Faces calm in the way people get when they've spent a lifetime around things that can crush you if you get emotional.
They were similar enough that a lazy person would call them identical.
They weren't identical.
One—Rook—stood slightly forward without meaning to, posture quiet and steady, eyes sharp like she was measuring bolt patterns at a glance. The other—Rafe—moved a half-step behind and to the side, hands already fidgeting with a small tool as if her fingers needed to be doing something even while she waited.
Lyra met them first, as planned, with Dack beside her.
Rafe spoke first. "You're Lyra Sato."
Rook finished without looking at Lyra's tag. "And Dack Jarn."
Dack's eyes narrowed. "How."
Rafe tapped her temple lightly. "People talk."
Rook added, same calm, "Mechs talk more."
Lyra didn't smile. "You're here for a test."
Rafe nodded once. "We expected that."
Rook finished, "We'd do the same."
They moved past talk and into work like it was a relief.
Lyra led them to a stripped panel assembly from the Griffin—the left hip actuator housing, the one that had been singing wrong. Not fully disassembled. Not impossible. Just the kind of job that separated "tech" from "guy with tools."
"I want you to diagnose the vibration," Lyra said. "Without me telling you the symptom profile."
Rafe crouched, fingers brushing the housing lightly. Rook leaned in, listening—not with ears exactly, with attention.
Rafe murmured, "It's not the actuator—"
Rook continued, "—it's the coupling."
Rafe nodded, already pulling a small alignment gauge from her pack. "The bolt pattern's off by a hair."
Rook's fingers slid along the seam, then stopped. "Stress line."
Lyra blinked once. "Where."
Rook tapped a spot so small it looked like nothing—just a faint shadow along the metal. "Here."
Lyra ran her scanner.
The scanner chirped.
A microfracture.
Dack watched without moving. Something cold settled in his gut—not fear, not exactly. Recognition. Skill like that wasn't common.
Lyra kept her voice level. "That could've been missed."
Rafe shrugged slightly. "It would've grown."
Rook added, flat, "Then it kills pilots."
Lyra stared at them a moment longer, then forced herself back into test mode. "Fix it."
They did.
They didn't rush. They didn't waste motion either. Rook stabilized the housing with a block and brace like she'd done it a thousand times. Rafe reseated the coupling with a precision that made the alignment look inevitable. No arguing. No conferring. Just the kind of coordination you usually only saw in crews that had worked together for years.
They moved like one mind split into two bodies.
Lyra watched their hands, their timing, the order of steps.
Because the order was wrong for a "self-trained" tech.
It was too clean. Too correct.
Dack saw it too, even without knowing the details—the way they didn't hesitate. The way they anticipated. The way they knew where the problem would be before the scanner confirmed it.
When they finished, the housing hummed smooth on the test rig. No jitter. No stray vibration. Clean.
Rafe wiped her hands on a rag and looked up. "Next."
Lyra didn't answer right away. She just held their gaze, searching for arrogance.
There wasn't any.
Only expectation—like this was normal.
"Who taught you," Lyra asked finally.
Rafe started, "Our dad—"
Rook finished, "—mostly."
Rafe added, "No school."
Rook: "No academy."
Rafe: "Just bays."
Rook: "And him."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Name."
The twins hesitated for the first time—not because it was secret, but because it felt strange that someone cared.
Rafe said, "Garrick Calder."
Rook finished softly, "Dad."
Lyra's gaze went distant for a heartbeat, like a file opened in her mind.
Dack caught the micro-change. "You know it."
Lyra didn't say yes.
She said, carefully, "I know the work."
Rafe blinked. "What does that mean."
Lyra watched them for a long moment, then said, "It means you're better than you should be. And you don't seem to know it."
Rook's brows knit faintly. "We know we're—"
Rafe finished, "—competent."
Lyra's mouth tightened. "This isn't 'competent.'"
Dack finally spoke, low and direct. "How much do you want."
Rafe answered instantly. "Fair pay."
Rook added, "Stable work."
Rafe: "A bay."
Rook: "Tools."
Rafe: "No games."
Rook: "No disrespect."
Lyra looked at Dack.
Dack nodded once. "You get it. Under conditions."
Rafe tilted her head. "Conditions."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "You don't touch our ship systems without Lyra present. You don't share what you see. You don't bring strangers. You do good work, you get paid. You do bad work, you leave."
Rook nodded. "Fair."
Rafe smiled—small, quick, a flash of something almost shy. "Fair."
As they packed their gauge back into their tool pack, Jinx's voice cut in behind them—she'd arrived with Taila, both of them lingering at the bay entrance, watching.
Jinx's eyes raked the twins with open curiosity. "So you're the miracle hands."
Taila stood quieter, but her gaze was sharp—evaluating, protective.
Rafe opened her mouth, then Rook spoke at the same time, overlapping slightly—
"We're— / We just—"
They stopped.
Then Rafe laughed under her breath, and Rook's mouth twitched like she was amused despite herself.
Rafe tried again. "We just work."
Jinx grinned. "Great. We like work."
Taila stepped forward half a pace. "You're really that good?"
Rook answered, "Yes."
Rafe finished, softer, "We have to be."
Jinx's grin turned wicked. "Why's that."
The twins exchanged a glance so fast most people would miss it.
Rafe said, "People think we're—"
Rook finished, "—weird."
Rafe shrugged. "We talk mechs."
Rook: "We build things."
Rafe: "We don't—"
Rook: "—date."
Taila blinked. "Why."
Rafe's expression went flat. "Because they—"
Rook: "—pick one."
Rafe: "Like the other is—"
Rook: "—optional."
Rafe met Taila's eyes, then glanced at Jinx, then back. "So we made a rule."
Rook finished, calm and absolute. "Both. Or neither."
Jinx's grin widened like she'd just discovered a new favorite kind of trouble.
Taila's cheeks warmed, but her eyes softened—understanding something too familiar.
Lyra watched all of it with careful calm.
Dack said nothing.
But he saw the way Jinx's attention sharpened, the way Taila's protectiveness shifted into curiosity, and the way the twins stood together like a single unit that refused to be separated.
He didn't comment.
He just said, "Lyra, hire them."
Lyra nodded once. "On trial. Paid."
Rafe's shoulders loosened. Rook's eyes softened by a fraction.
Then both of them nodded in sync.
---
The Union felt different that night.
Not because it was bigger—because it was becoming real.
A merc unit wasn't just mechs and a DropShip. It was sustainment. Hands that could keep machines alive. People who could stay when the adrenaline wore off.
When they returned from the port bay, Jinx was buzzing. Taila was quieter, thoughtful. Lyra was already making lists—parts orders, bay hours, tool acquisitions, schedules.
Morrigan sat in the sim pod later than usual, running an extra hour like she'd demanded. She came out sweaty and tense and more alive than she wanted anyone to see.
Dack was waiting by the bay glass when she stepped out.
Morrigan's eyes narrowed immediately. "What."
Dack's voice was even. "You're improving."
Morrigan stiffened. Praise still hit her wrong. "I'm still behind."
"You're not," Dack said. "You're just new."
Morrigan swallowed like that was harder to accept than an insult. "I want another hour tomorrow."
Dack nodded once. "You get it."
Morrigan's jaw tightened. "Why are you—"
Dack cut in, simple. "Because you're putting in work."
Morrigan looked away fast. "Fine."
She walked off, boots sharp on the deck.
But the slam of the door later was quieter than it used to be.
---
The shared cabin became routine too.
Not announced. Not negotiated every night. Just… where they ended up.
Lyra locked the door. Jinx did her usual prowling around the room like she owned it. Taila tried to act like her heart wasn't pounding every time she climbed into the big bed.
Dack was last in, as usual. He shut the door. Checked the lock. Then stripped off the outer layer of his pilot suit and sat on the bed edge like he was deciding whether sleep was allowed.
Jinx leaned into him immediately, warm and bold, pressing her mouth to his neck in slow kisses that made Taila's breath catch.
Taila hovered for a second, shy, then climbed in close too, hand resting on Dack's chest like she needed to feel he was real.
Lyra watched them, quiet, expression controlled—then she moved closer, sliding in so her thigh brushed Dack's and her shoulder pressed against Taila's.
Jinx murmured, voice low, "Unit cohesion."
Lyra answered dryly, "You're obsessed."
Jinx smiled into Dack's skin. "Yes."
Taila's cheeks were flushed already. "Jinx…"
Jinx lifted her head and looked at Taila with a soft intensity that surprised even Taila. "You want this?"
Taila swallowed. She nodded once, small but sure. "Yes."
Jinx's grin turned satisfied. She looked at Lyra. "You?"
Lyra hesitated only long enough to make it honest. Then she nodded. "Yes."
Jinx's eyes flicked to Dack.
Dack didn't give speeches. He just looked at them—Jinx's fearless heat, Taila's shy hunger, Lyra's careful steadiness—and said, "If anyone wants to stop, say it."
No threat. No pressure. Just fact.
Taila exhaled shakily. Lyra's fingers tightened lightly around the blanket edge. Jinx smiled like she liked him more for saying it.
Then Jinx kissed him—slow, deep—and pulled Taila in with her, guiding her mouth to his. Taila's kiss was softer at first, uncertain, then stronger as Dack's hand settled on her waist and steadied her.
Lyra leaned in next, kissing Dack's cheek, then his mouth, more controlled than Jinx, but no less real. Her fingers slid under his jaw and held him there like she needed to feel his pulse.
The room filled with quiet sounds—breath, fabric shifting, soft murmurs. Hands on skin. Warmth building.
Jinx tugged Taila closer until Taila was pressed between them, breath hitching as Jinx's mouth traced along her neck and Taila's hands clenched the sheet like she didn't know where to put the feeling.
Lyra's hand found Taila's fingers and laced with them—steady, grounding. Taila looked at her, wide-eyed.
Lyra whispered, "You're okay."
Taila nodded, voice small. "I am."
Dack didn't rush. He didn't perform. He just kept them close—one hand on Taila, one on Lyra, Jinx pressed against his side like a heat source—and let the night build the way they needed it to.
Clothes came off in stages—slow, deliberate, no fumbling that turned into panic. Jinx teased. Taila blushed and then leaned into it. Lyra stayed quiet but present, her touch more confident than it used to be.
When the line finally crossed from kissing to something deeper, the details blurred into warmth and rhythm and soft, broken words—Jinx laughing under her breath, Taila whispering his name like she couldn't believe she was allowed, Lyra's breath catching when Dack's hand tightened on her hip.
The door stayed locked.
The ship hummed.
And the rest of it belonged to them alone.
Later—after—the room was quieter.
Jinx lay sprawled like a satisfied cat, one leg thrown over Dack, smug even in sleep. Taila lay curled against his chest, hair messy, face warm, fingers tracing a slow line over his ribs like she was counting something that wasn't days.
Lyra lay close on his other side, eyes open in the dim, calm but glowing in a way she couldn't hide. She looked at Taila, then at Jinx, then at Dack.
"It's… weird," Lyra murmured.
Jinx cracked one eye open. "Good weird?"
Lyra exhaled, faint smile. "Good."
Taila's voice came soft, embarrassed. "I thought I'd be… jealous."
Jinx hummed. "You are a little."
Taila's cheeks warmed. "Maybe."
Lyra's fingers brushed Taila's hair gently. "Jealousy doesn't mean you're wrong. It means you care."
Taila swallowed. "I do."
Dack's hand rested on Taila's back, steady. "Sleep."
Jinx's grin returned even half-asleep. "Bossy."
Dack didn't deny it.
The ship stayed quiet after that.
Except, down the corridor, Morrigan's door closed and stayed closed—no slam this time. Just a click. Like she didn't want anyone to know she'd heard them breathing and laughing and belonging.
Like she didn't want anyone to know how much it bothered her that she wasn't in that room.
Not yet.
---
Later, when the Union's lights dimmed and the bay went still, Dack climbed into the Dire Wolf cockpit for the last check of the night.
He sealed the hatch. Let the familiar hum wrap around him.
His thumb found the marks beneath the HUD.
He scratched one more line.
Then, quietly, he said the number out loud.
"Sixty-two."