The Union didn't feel like a ship so much as a steel animal that had eaten too much.
It drifted behind a curtain of debris and dead rock, engines low, heat signature kept dull. Inside, the mech bay was crowded in a way that made the deck plates groan: Dack's Dire Wolf locked down in its berth, Jinx's Highlander cooling with fresh scorch along the shoulder plates, Taila's Griffin tucked in tight like it was trying not to take up space, Morrigan's Marauder standing a little too forward like it didn't trust the clamps, and the newest prize—an Awesome—still painted pirate-ugly, chained hard and silent.
Above them all, the Atlas hung like a shrine to someone else's power.
Bone-white and slate armor. Teal wing-sweeps. Brass bird insignia.
Mother Lark's cage.
Dack stood under it with his hands in his pockets, staring up at the cockpit seam. He'd learned to hate the calm that came after a fight, because the calm was when you finally had time to think.
And thinking was where the rot lived.
Rook and Rafe moved along the Atlas's torso plating with tools and a ruthless patience. Their motions were synchronized without being showy—two bodies, one rhythm. They didn't just remove panels. They hunted for lies.
Lyra watched from the catwalk with a slate in one hand and her helmet hooked on two fingers, calm and severe in her fitted black suit. Jinx was sprawled on a crate below her, legs crossed, red jacket unzipped, eyes bright. Taila stood near the Griffin's berth, arms folded tight, trying not to look like she wanted to bolt. Morrigan leaned against the Marauder's leg armor, arms crossed, expression set in practiced disgust.
"Any more hooks?" Lyra asked.
Rafe answered without looking up. "If—"
Rook finished. "She planned. Yes."
They slid a probe into another seam and waited. A small, almost harmless chime sounded from the diagnostic reader.
Rafe's voice tightened. "Identity—"
Rook: "Ping."
Rafe: "Not—"
Rook: "A tracker."
Rafe: "It—"
Rook: "Wakes when scanned."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
Rook tapped the reader and brought up a tiny, ugly schematic. "Most ports—"
Rafe: "Run—"
Rook: "Passive inspection."
Rafe: "If—"
Rook: "Their scanners see this, it answers."
Rafe: "Not—"
Rook: "To them."
Rafe: "To—"
Rook: "Her."
Jinx sat up a little, grin gone sharp. "So if we dock somewhere with real security, the port itself rats us out."
Taila swallowed. "Even if we change our transponder?"
Lyra nodded once. "Yes."
Dack didn't react, but his jaw tightened a fraction. "So we can't go anywhere clean."
Morrigan's mouth curled. "We weren't going to anyway."
Jinx made a small sound like laughter and nausea met halfway in her throat. She pressed a fist against her stomach, then waved it off when Taila looked at her.
"I'm fine," Jinx said quickly. "Just… ship air."
Lyra's eyes flicked to her, then away. Not now. There was always a not-now in merc life until not-now became too late.
Dack held out his hand. Rook dropped the ping device into his palm like it was nothing.
He crushed it.
Plastic cracked. Metal snapped.
No speech.
No threat.
Just an end.
Then he looked up at the Atlas again and spoke toward the seam, voice blunt and calm.
"You're out of tricks."
A faint hiss came through the Atlas's emergency speaker. Mother Lark's voice slid into the bay like silk pulled over a blade.
"Am I," she said softly.
Jinx smiled like she wanted to take a bite out of that voice. "Yes."
Mother Lark ignored her completely. She always did. It wasn't arrogance. It was targeting. She spoke only to the person she wanted to move.
"You've stolen from me," Mother Lark said, still soft. "You've embarrassed me. You've killed my people."
Dack didn't look away. "You started it."
A pause. Then: "Ronan started it."
The name landed heavier than any mech.
Taila's breath caught. Morrigan's eyes sharpened. Lyra's posture didn't change, but the air did.
Dack's voice stayed flat. "Talk."
Mother Lark's laughter was quiet, pleased. "So commanding. Just like him."
Dack's eyes didn't blink. "Why."
Silence—long enough to become a decision.
Then Mother Lark said, almost tenderly, "Because your father thought he could keep what didn't belong to him."
Lyra's voice cut down from the catwalk. "The Dire Wolf."
Mother Lark's tone warmed by a fraction. "The Daishi."
Jinx snorted. "Don't say it like it's romantic."
Mother Lark didn't look at her. "You wouldn't understand romance if it bit you."
Jinx's grin widened. "Try me."
Dack's voice was a hard stop. "House."
It wasn't a question. It was a wedge.
Mother Lark went quiet again.
Lyra watched the cockpit seam like she could see the woman behind it through steel. "You don't have the money, reach, or escrow rails to run what we've seen alone," Lyra said. "Not with that level of redundancy. Not with that retrieval discipline."
Mother Lark's voice returned cooler. "You're smarter than most pilots."
Lyra didn't accept the compliment. "Which House."
Taila's voice came small. "What do you mean, a House?"
Jinx answered her without turning. "She means someone big enough to buy murder and call it paperwork."
Dack spoke again, blunt. "Which House."
Mother Lark exhaled slowly through the speaker, like she was savoring how much it would hurt.
"Steiner," she said.
The bay went still.
Not shock—grim confirmation. Lyran hands reached far, and 3067 was a season of knives hidden behind flags.
Lyra's voice stayed steady, but her eyes hardened. "LIC."
Mother Lark laughed softly. "Of course you know the letters."
Dack's hands tightened once at his sides. "Why."
Mother Lark's voice softened again. "Ronan refused to surrender the Daishi."
Lyra's gaze cut to Dack. "That fits."
Taila stared at Dack like she was seeing the outline of something bigger than her grief. "Your father… refused a House?"
Dack didn't answer her directly. His eyes stayed on the Atlas seam. "They killed him for it."
Mother Lark didn't deny it. "They wanted the Dire Wolf in a bay where it could be stripped, copied, and filed."
Jinx's voice dropped low and vicious. "So they sent pirates."
Mother Lark's tone sharpened. "They sent contracts."
"Name," Dack said.
Mother Lark paused—then spoke, and the calm in her voice was the calm of someone who had rehearsed revenge until it felt like prayer.
"Halden Risk & Recovery," she said. "A salvage and asset-recovery front."
Lyra's slate hand tightened. "HRR."
Mother Lark continued. "They paid through Featherline because they like their blood clean."
Dack's jaw clenched. The words tasted familiar now. A rail. A signature. A hand behind the hand.
"Handler," Dack said.
Mother Lark's voice turned almost amused. "Always the pilot. Always hunting the face behind the mask."
Lyra's tone went razor. "Give it."
A beat.
Then Mother Lark gave it anyway—because she was bargaining now, whether Dack acknowledged it or not.
"Rookmaster," she said.
Jinx blinked. "That's… stupid."
Lyra didn't laugh. "Codename."
Mother Lark's voice slid smoother. "Publicly he was HRR. A liaison. A man who smiled like he enjoyed doing favors."
Dack's voice was flat. "Name."
Mother Lark let the silence stretch, then dropped it like a coin.
"Alaric Venn."
Taila whispered the name like it might bite. "So… he told you to kill Ronan?"
Mother Lark's voice turned colder. "No."
Jinx's grin faded. "Then what."
Mother Lark spoke carefully now, and that carefulness was its own confession.
"I wanted Ronan dead," she said.
Taila's face tightened. Morrigan watched, hungry and repulsed at the same time. Lyra's eyes didn't blink. Jinx's hands curled on her knees.
Dack's voice stayed flat. "Why."
Mother Lark's answer came like she'd been waiting years for someone to ask.
"Because he promised me everything," she said softly, "and then he took my sister to his bed instead."
Taila went rigid. "Your… sister?"
Mother Lark's voice turned sharper, contempt hiding underneath. "She never knew. That's what makes it worse."
Jinx's eyebrows lifted, all humor gone. "He cheated on you… with your sister."
"Yes," Mother Lark said, and the word was too clean. "He chose her. He made a life with her. He put a ring on her finger and pretended I was a mistake."
Taila's eyes flicked to Dack, realizing the obvious. Her voice barely worked. "And… that's why you hate him. That's why you hate Dack."
Mother Lark's voice went quiet, thick with old poison. "He's Ronan's blood."
Dack didn't flinch. "So you wanted revenge. But the House wanted the mech."
Mother Lark laughed faintly. "Now you understand."
Lyra's voice was cold. "They used you."
Mother Lark's pause was the first time she sounded… not wounded. Just honest.
"Yes," she said. "And I didn't care—because I got what I wanted."
Jinx hissed through her teeth. "You didn't even kill him yourself."
Mother Lark's tone sharpened. "No. They wouldn't allow that."
Taila frowned, confused through anger. "Why not."
Mother Lark's answer was cruel in its simplicity. "Because they wanted his death to look like chance."
Dack's voice went lower. "Kess."
Mother Lark's voice returned to business. "Kess was contracted through HRR. He thought he was stealing for rich collectors. He didn't know he was stealing for a House cell."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "And Sable."
Mother Lark's speaker hissed. "Sable was another cutout. Useful. Disposable."
Dack's jaw tightened. "So Sable wasn't yours."
Mother Lark sounded amused again. "No. I don't keep men. Men disappoint."
Jinx's smile returned briefly—cold approval of that line, even if it came from the enemy.
Lyra leaned forward, slate in hand. "Where does Venn operate."
Mother Lark's voice lowered, like she was offering candy laced with poison.
"Ceres Junction," she said. "A transfer station. A place where HRR audits salvage shipments and closes paperwork."
Lyra's eyes flicked down to her slate, already searching. "That's… a real lead."
Dack stared up at the cockpit seam for a long second. His voice stayed blunt, but something behind it shifted—like a door opening to something colder.
"You wanted revenge," he said. "But they wanted the Daishi."
Mother Lark's laughter was soft. "Yes."
Dack's next words landed harder than any shouted threat.
"They're the reason my father died."
Mother Lark's speaker hissed. "Ronan died because he thought he could keep a Clan monster like a trophy and call it freedom."
Dack didn't take the bait. He didn't defend Ronan. He didn't praise him. He just held the truth where it belonged.
"You helped," Dack said.
Mother Lark's pause was minimal. "I opened the door."
Taila's hands clenched. "You're sick."
Mother Lark's voice went sweet. "I'm honest."
Jinx stood up off the crate, eyes bright and dangerous. "I want five minutes."
Dack didn't look at her. "No."
Jinx froze, jaw tight. "Dack—"
"No," Dack repeated, simple. Then he looked up. "You talk because you want to live."
Mother Lark's voice came back, calm and predatory. "I talk because I want you to bleed the right people."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "You're afraid they'll erase you."
A long silence.
Then Mother Lark spoke, and for the first time her calm had a hairline crack in it—not fear. Calculation.
"Quill won't stop," she said. "If recovery fails, they sanitize. Evidence. Loose ends."
Taila blinked. "They would kill you."
Mother Lark's voice turned bitter. "The LIC kills anything that becomes inconvenient. Even a tool that did its job."
Jinx's grin returned, sharp. "Good."
Mother Lark ignored her. "You need me alive if you want Venn."
Dack's answer was immediate. "You're alive until you're not useful."
A soft laugh. "Perfect."
Lyra looked at Dack, eyes steady. "We have a lead. We also have a problem."
Dack didn't ask. He already knew.
Lyra gestured toward the crushed identity ping pieces in Dack's hand. "We can't dock anywhere with real scanners. The Atlas will scream."
Dack's gaze stayed on the Atlas seam. "So we stay dirty."
Lyra nodded. "And we keep moving."
Jinx's voice slid in, cheerful again like she could flip moods on command. "Which means: we need more supplies, more ammo, and more clothes."
Morrigan's mouth curled. "You and your clothes."
Jinx winked. "You liked designing them."
Morrigan looked away like she didn't care, but her shoulders eased.
Taila, still tense, glanced at Dack's face. "So… what now?"
Dack's voice was blunt. "We go to Ceres Junction."
Lyra nodded once. "We find HRR."
Jinx's eyes gleamed. "We ruin someone's life."
Morrigan's voice was quiet and sharp. "We kill Venn."
Dack didn't agree. He didn't refuse. He just stared up at the Atlas cockpit seam and let the anger settle into something usable.
"We get proof first," he said.
Mother Lark's voice drifted down, almost pleased. "Look at you," she murmured. "A proper wolf."
Dack didn't respond.
He turned away from the Atlas and walked toward the Dire Wolf's berth, already thinking in vectors and kill zones and how to move a heavy, hungry ship through space without letting the Houses see the leash they'd thrown.
Behind him, the women moved too—Jinx bright and dangerous, Taila quiet and burning, Morrigan cold and sharpening into loyalty, Lyra steady and calculating, the twins synced and deadly with tools.
And in the cage above, Mother Lark listened.
Not defeated.
Not yet.
But for the first time, the story wasn't hers to steer.
She'd thrown her bargain.
Now she'd have to live long enough to see who it killed.