TSD: 3049-10-03 — Local: 19:26
Galatea, Galatea System — Galaport City (Hiring Hall District)
Galatea didn't welcome you.
It evaluated you.
The air tasted of old fusion exhaust and overworked scrubbers, of hot metal and solvent, of spilled coolant that never quite came out of decking seams. The concourse outside the hiring hall pulsed with the kind of life that grew around violence the way algae grew around light—thick, persistent, opportunistic. Mercenaries in patched flight jackets. Traders with hard eyes and soft hands. Dock security pretending they didn't see what everyone saw. And ComStar's presence—clean, quiet, undeniable—like a scalpel laid on a stained table.
Kel let it all wash past without letting it touch his face.
Nineteen. Lean. Average height. The kind of young man you could lose in a crowd if you didn't know what to look for. His hair was an unremarkable brown, kept short enough not to snag on cockpit padding, long enough to fall forward when he tilted his head. His expression was calm to the point of unreadable—no scowl, no bravado, nothing that invited a challenge.
His clothes were as plain as he could make them without looking desperate: a dust-gray canvas field coat with the seams repaired twice, a dark shirt beneath it that fit close to his frame, utility pants that sat low on his hips and moved easily, boots scuffed from hangar decks. No unit patch. No bright colors. No "I'm important" signs.
But he carried weight that wasn't on his back.
A neurohelmet bag hung at his side, its strap darkened by sweat and age. The bag itself was too carefully handled to be just gear. Kel's left hand hovered near it sometimes without touching—like a man walking a line of prayer beads he refused to admit he needed.
His father's neurohelmet.
On his right hip, under the coat, a compact slugthrower rode in a simple holster. Not flashy. Not expensive. Clean enough to trust. He didn't have his hand on it. He didn't need to. People who lived around weapons could tell the difference between a man who wanted a fight and a man who would finish one.
Kel's eyes flicked to the MRB posting wall—ComStar formatting, neat columns, contract codes, bonds, arbitration flags. Pay rates that made his jaw tighten. Salvage percentages that mattered more than any number beside "C-bills."
He read. He calculated. He didn't stare.
A cluster of MechWarriors laughed nearby, loud enough to make themselves real. Their jackets were layered with patches—some stitched over, some ripped off, some cut and resewn like scars. One had a cane that didn't match his age. Another had burn marks climbing his neck like someone had tried to cook him alive. They were speaking in a mix of bravado and exhaustion, trading stories that were half warning, half advertisement.
Kel didn't join. He didn't flinch away either.
He simply stood where he could see exits, watch reflections, and keep his back from being a target.
His handheld chimed.
Kel took it out smoothly, thumbed it awake, and read.
BAY RENT DUE — 23:00 LOCAL
DEPOSIT SHORT — 4,800 C-BILLS
— GALAPORT MECH SERVICES
He stared at the number for a beat—not in disbelief, but as if he were pinning it to a board inside his mind, labeling it, placing it into a sequence of priorities.
Then he pocketed the handheld.
Kel started walking.
The crowd didn't part for him. He didn't expect it to. He moved with quiet competence, slipping between bodies and cargo carts and kiosks with the same economy he used in a cockpit: no wasted steps, no sudden turns, no visible hurry.
He used reflective surfaces to watch his back.
A man in a red vest at a vendor stall glanced at him once, then again. Too long. Not curious—interested. Kel marked him, adjusted his path half a meter to the left, and let a group of dockhands drift between them like moving cover.
Near a support column, a woman leaned with the ease of a person who didn't need to lean. Shaved on one side, braid on the other. She didn't look up at all.
That was the point.
Kel didn't change his pace. He didn't reach for his pistol. He didn't look directly at her.
He just filed her away and kept walking.
Because dominance wasn't volume. It wasn't showing teeth at every shadow.
Dominance was control.
A pressure door marked GALAPORT MECH SERVICES — BAY RING C cycled open with a hiss of heat and old air. Kel stepped through and the world shifted from public chaos to private industry.
Inside, it was louder in a different way: the low thrum of power conduits, the distant whine of a diagnostic rig, the clack of tools on metal, the occasional pop of a weld. Light came from overhead work lamps and monitor glow, harsh in some places, dim in others, turning grease into shine and sweat into highlight.
Mech bays were honest. They didn't care who you said you were.
They cared what you could keep walking.
At the far end of the ring, under a lattice of work lights, the Zeus stood.
ZEU-6S.
Eighty tons of assault-class war machine, the kind of 'Mech that didn't sprint or dance—it advanced. Its silhouette was a blunt statement in armor and metal. It wasn't the grotesque bulk of an Atlas or the sleek menace of a Victor. It was a soldier's assault: built to anchor a line, built to take punishment, built to keep firing when everything else had already started to die.
Kel stopped at the threshold and let himself look.
The Zeus wore scars the way veteran men wore them—without apology.
Mismatched armor plates patched the right torso, bolted over older plating like layered history. A faint set of scoring marks ran along the left arm actuator housing—signs of stress and heat and repair work done fast under bad conditions. The stenciled name on the torso had been sanded down, painted over, sanded again, but in the right angle of light it still showed:
HARROW.
Kel's breath stayed steady. His chest tightened anyway.
A wrench clanged. Someone swore softly—more habit than anger.
A creeper board rolled out from beneath the Zeus's left leg, and a young woman slid with it like she belonged under there. She pushed herself upright, wiped her hands on a rag that had long since stopped being clean, and looked at Kel.
Tessa Rook was nineteen, like him, but she carried herself like a person who had been working adult hours for too long.
She was compact and strong—dense muscle in her arms, the kind you built by lifting armor plate and wrestling stubborn actuators. Her coveralls were worn and patched, sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar open enough to show the edge of a dark tank underneath. The fabric clung in places where sweat had dampened it; the bay heat made honesty out of everyone. A tool belt sat on her hips, heavy with sockets and spanners. Goggles hung around her neck. Her hair was pulled into a tight high bun, but loose strands had escaped and stuck to her temples.
She glanced at the neurohelmet bag first, then at Kel's face.
"Kel," she said, like she was confirming the machine's pilot from a roster.
"Tessa."
She stepped closer. Not aggressive. Just… present. Close enough that she could smell him—dust, metal, soap used sparingly—and close enough that he could feel the warmth of her in the bay air.
"You look clean," she said. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Which means you haven't slept."
"I slept," Kel said calmly.
Tessa's mouth twitched. "You blinked. That's not sleep."
Kel didn't argue. He didn't smile either. He let the point land and move on.
He looked past her at the Zeus again. "Status."
That single word carried weight without any edge to it. A request that assumed competence and expected truth.
Tessa exhaled, and her posture shifted into work mode. "It runs," she said. "That's the good news."
She lifted a hand and counted off on her fingers, grease smudging her knuckles.
"Left hip actuator's running hot. Not failure-hot, but the tolerances are drifting." Another finger. "Gyro's stable but tired. It'll hold, but I want to inspect the mounts before you do anything stupid." Her eyes flicked to his face, testing. "AC/5 feed guide is misaligned. It'll jam if you rattle it hard enough."
Kel listened without interruption. No fidgeting. No visible stress.
When she finished, he nodded once. "Ammo."
"Low," she said immediately. "AC/5 and LRM bins. Enough for a short job if you don't waste it."
Kel's gaze stayed on the Zeus's torso—on the patched plating, on the half-hidden HARROW stencil. "Bay rent," he said.
Tessa's jaw tightened. "Due at twenty-three hundred."
Kel didn't sigh. He didn't curse. He simply shifted his attention like a pilot shifting targeting brackets.
"How short?"
"Forty-eight hundred."
Kel nodded again. "We're not losing the bay."
Tessa's eyes held his for a beat—like she wanted to see if that was bravado.
It wasn't.
Kel's voice didn't rise. His expression didn't change. The certainty was quiet.
Tessa swallowed, then nodded sharply. "Okay."
He set the neurohelmet bag on a bench with care, like setting down something fragile that mattered more than steel. The strap slipped from his fingers, and for a second his hand hovered over the bag as if he were tempted to touch it.
He didn't.
"Show me the lien notices," Kel said.
Tessa hesitated. "You sure?"
"Yes."
That was all. No irritation. No push. Just direction.
She led him into the shadowed side of the bay between stacked crates of patch armor and shelves of seals and coolant hoses. Close quarters. The air here was warmer, the sound muffled by the Zeus's bulk. When Tessa leaned over a terminal to pull the documents, the coveralls tightened across her back and hips, fabric creasing where she bent. She didn't perform it. She simply existed in it. The bay made everyone physical.
Kel kept his gaze on the screen.
Tessa pulled up the filings: lien claim, breach notation, arbitration flag, all stamped through ComStar channels in that immaculate font that made cruelty look polite.
Kel read in silence.
His face stayed calm.
But something behind his eyes hardened—quiet, controlled focus. The same look he wore inside a cockpit when the battle had finally revealed itself.
"This is a trap," Tessa muttered.
"Yes," Kel said evenly.
Tessa glanced at him. "You're… not angry?"
Kel looked at her, steady and direct. "I'm angry," he said. "It doesn't help."
The words weren't cold. They were honest.
Tessa's breath caught slightly, and for a second the tough grease-smeared tech looked very young. Then she nodded, and her expression matched his—serious, anchored.
A voice cut through the bay heat like a clean line through smoke.
"You're not going to beat ComStar paperwork by suffering at it."
Kel turned.
A woman stood by the bay office entrance, too neat for this place, which meant it was intentional.
Mara Saito. Twenty. Slim. Straight-backed. A fitted charcoal jacket over a light top, dark slacks, and boots polished enough to be a statement. Her hair was pulled into a sleek low ponytail, every strand controlled. She carried a tablet case tucked under her arm like it was a weapon she knew how to use.
She didn't look around, because she'd already read the room.
Her eyes went to Kel, then to the lien notices, then back to Kel.
"Good," she said quietly. "You're here."
Tessa bristled. "How did you—"
Mara's gaze flicked to Tessa without losing its calm. "You called me. Twice. Then you stopped calling, which meant something changed."
Kel's voice stayed even. "You're early."
Mara stepped closer and stopped with deliberate respect for distance—close enough to speak privately, far enough not to crowd. "MRB liaison is taking late filings," she said. "Forty minutes."
Kel nodded once. "We're filing."
Tessa looked between them. "Just like that?"
Kel turned slightly toward her, the Zeus looming behind him like a silent witness. "Tessa," he said, using her name like an anchor. "Lock the bay. Pull your parts list. I want priorities and costs."
She opened her mouth—then closed it. His tone wasn't harsh. It simply left no room for dithering.
"Okay," Tessa said, and the word came out like consent to a plan she could believe in.
Kel looked back to Mara. "What do you need?"
Mara's lips pressed for a moment, as if she approved of the question. "Inheritance proof. Identity. The sealed packet." She glanced at the neurohelmet bag. "Continuity helps. ComStar likes continuity."
Kel picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder in one smooth movement.
He didn't ask if Mara could be trusted. He didn't ask if the liaison would be fair. He'd already accepted the universe as it was.
He simply said, "Lead."
---
TSD: 3049-10-03 — Local: 20:11
Galatea, Galatea System — Galaport City (MRB Liaison Office, Hiring Hall Annex)
The MRB liaison office felt like someone had carved a small, sterile sanctuary out of Galatea's mess.
Outside, the hiring hall roared—money, desperation, laughter too loud, threats hidden in jokes. Inside, the air smelled filtered. The floors were clean. The lighting was soft and even, designed to lower pulse rates. A ComStar emblem hung behind the counter like a watchful eye.
A young acolyte in white sat with perfect posture, hands folded, expression polite in the way that meant he'd seen too many people try to bargain with faith.
"Name and registry," he said.
Mara stepped forward like she belonged there. "Kellan Harrow," she said. "Provisional mercenary filing. Inheritance transfer. Disputed breach claim."
The acolyte's gaze flicked to Kel. "Agent?"
"Contracts and communications," Mara said calmly.
Kel didn't correct her. He didn't need titles to feel real—he needed results.
The acolyte's fingers moved over a terminal. A faint hum of data transfer. Kel stood without shifting his weight, shoulders relaxed, eyes level. He didn't loom. He didn't shrink. He waited like a man who understood time and refused to be ruled by it.
After a moment, the acolyte's expression changed by a fraction.
"There is an active lien notice attached to the asset," he said.
Kel nodded once. "By the employer."
"Yes," the acolyte replied. "Filed under contract breach."
Kel's voice stayed calm. "My father was ambushed. He died in the field."
The acolyte's reply was gentle and merciless. "Death does not void obligations."
Kel held the acolyte's gaze without hostility. Without pleading.
"Provisional terms," Kel said. Two words. Not rude. Not loud. But they weren't a request for sympathy.
They were a demand for structure.
The acolyte blinked once, as if unused to being addressed that way by someone who didn't wear power on his sleeves. Then he answered, "Bonded local contract. Minimal travel. Employer must accept arbitration pending review."
Mara slid the sealed data sleeve onto the counter. "Request arbitration review," she said. "Provisional status pending investigation. We accept bonding."
The acolyte hesitated at the seal. Then opened it with a small tool and pulled out the wafer.
His eyes tracked as he read.
Kel watched his face with the same focus he used on a target scope—tiny changes, breath patterns, flickers of surprise.
After a few seconds, the acolyte looked up.
"This addendum," he said slowly, "was filed less than six hours before the engagement."
Mara's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes sharpened. "Convenient."
"It modifies salvage and extraction clauses," the acolyte continued. "And expands collateral claims in the event of breach."
Kel's jaw set, not in anger—control. "So it was designed to strip the unit," he said.
The acolyte didn't deny it. "ComStar accepts filings. ComStar does not judge intentions."
Kel nodded once, absorbing the world exactly as it was.
"Then we don't argue intentions," Kel said quietly. "We build a record."
Mara glanced at him—approval flickering there, small and real.
The acolyte tapped his terminal. "Provisional status can be granted pending bond acceptance," he said.
Kel looked at Mara. "Find the cleanest local posting. Boring. Stable."
Mara's fingers were already moving.
Kel didn't breathe easier. He didn't relax. He simply stepped forward and placed his identification on the counter.
His father's neurohelmet bag hung at his side like a verdict.
Time passed in small official noises—printer whirs, terminal taps, the soft chime of a seal applied.
Then Kel's handheld chimed.
NEW MRB POSTING — LOCAL (BOND ELIGIBLE)
EMPLOYER: VANTRELL LOGISTICS
JOB: CONVOY ESCORT / RAID DETERRENCE
AO: GALATEA CONTINENTAL ROUTE 7
DURATION: 72 HOURS
PAY: LOW
SALVAGE: LIMITED
Mara read it over his shoulder. "Vantrell is boring," she said. "Boring is good."
Tessa muttered, "Boring doesn't fix a hip actuator."
Kel didn't argue. He simply said, "It keeps the Zeus in a bay tomorrow."
Tessa's shoulders eased by a fraction, as if the reality of that sentence mattered more than the tone.
Kel looked at Mara. "File acceptance."
Mara nodded. "Now."
Kel looked at Tessa. "Prep the Zeus for three days. Prioritize what keeps it moving."
Tessa didn't bristle this time. She nodded once. "Yes."
Kel glanced at the acolyte. "Thank you."
The acolyte looked momentarily surprised—then dipped his head. "May Blake guide your steps."
Kel didn't answer the blessing. He didn't need to. He turned and walked out with his crew forming around him like pieces of armor bolted into place.
Outside, Galatea's noise hit them again.
The crowd tasted the scent of a contract forming. People looked. People listened.
That was when a small clinic kiosk near the edge of the concourse caught Kel's eye—not because it was bright, but because it was calm.
A young woman in a medic vest was finishing a wrap on a dockhand's forearm. Her motions were steady and practiced. Her sleeves were rolled to the exact same width on both arms—control expressed in cloth and habit. Her hair was braided tight down her back, practical and clean. She looked up as if she'd felt their approach.
Elin Varga's gaze swept Kel the way medics read people: posture, breath, tension, the invisible bruises.
"You're the Harrow kid," she said.
Kel didn't flinch at the label. "Yes."
Elin's mouth softened by a fraction. Not a smile—an acknowledgement. "You look like trouble," she said. "The kind that tries not to be."
Mara stepped forward. "We're taking a bonded local escort," she said. "Three days. We need medical coverage."
Elin's eyes narrowed. "Pay?"
"Low," Mara admitted. "Steady."
Elin looked at Kel again. "Rules."
Kel didn't hesitate. "We bring people home when we can. We don't chase pride. We don't waste lives to feel brave."
Elin watched him for a beat longer than necessary, as if measuring whether those were words or a code.
Then she nodded once. "Good," she said. "I'm in."
Tessa exhaled, relieved despite herself. "Thank you."
Elin's gaze flicked to Tessa's grease-streaked arms and sweat-damp collar. "You'll thank me after you stop bleeding."
Kel almost smiled. Almost.
A proximity ping chimed on Kel's handheld—short range, keyed to nothing official. His head turned without urgency.
A woman drifted through the crowd toward them like she was walking into a spotlight she'd already claimed.
Sienna Kells. Nineteen-ish. Long-limbed, restless energy held in check by confidence. A battered flight jacket hung open over a fitted top, patches half-removed and re-stitched into new shapes. Her hair was half-up, the rest loose; one side showed the faint stubble of a recent shave. She moved like someone who knew she was being watched and enjoyed it.
She stopped a respectful distance from Kel and smiled—sharp, curious, not unfriendly.
"Kellan Harrow," she said, voice loud enough to carry but not loud enough to be crude. "The kid with the Zeus."
Kel met her eyes without heat. "Yes."
Sienna's smile widened slightly. "I heard you're a wolf in the cockpit."
Kel didn't deny it. He didn't confirm it either.
He tilted his head a fraction. "You want something."
Sienna laughed softly. "Direct. I like that." Her gaze flicked briefly to Mara, to Tessa, to Elin—assessing the forming crew. Then back to Kel. "I want to see if the rumor is real."
Kel's voice stayed calm. "Earn it."
Sienna's eyebrows lifted.
Kel nodded once toward the posting boards. "Take the same contract. Route 7. Three days. Stay alive and don't make us babysit you."
It wasn't an insult. It was a standard.
Sienna's grin sharpened like a blade finding its edge. "That's your test?"
"Yes."
A beat of silence. The crowd nearby leaned in without admitting it.
Sienna stepped back, hands still visible, posture relaxed. "Fine," she said. "I'll see you on Route 7."
She turned and melted into the crowd with the ease of someone used to slipping between lives.
Tessa muttered, "Who is that?"
Mara's eyes stayed narrowed. "Trouble."
Elin watched Sienna vanish. "Or useful," she said quietly. "Sometimes it's both."
Kel didn't comment. He didn't need to. He looked at his crew—at Tessa's grease-smudged competence, at Mara's quiet precision, at Elin's steady calm.
Then he said, "Back to the bay."
No flourish. No speech.
Just direction.
They moved.
Because mercenary life wasn't built on dramatic declarations.
It was built on the next hour, the next choice, the next machine that had to walk again.
And somewhere beyond Galatea's busy skies, the Periphery kept whispering—unknown attackers, disciplined raids, worlds going quiet.
Kel didn't know their name yet.
But he felt the universe shifting.
And he intended to meet it on his feet.
---
Bay Log — Zeus ZEU-6S (Harrow Legacy Asset)
Left Hip Actuator: overheating under sustained load; tolerances drifting
AC/5 Feed: misaligned guide; jam risk under high vibration
Gyro: stable, fatigue suspected; inspection recommended
Armor: patched plates (RT/CT); refit needed when funds allow
Ammo: AC/5 + LRM bins low; resupply required before extended operations
Contract Stub (MRB-Bonded, Local)
Employer: Vantrell Logistics
Job: Convoy Escort / Raid Deterrence
AO: Continental Route 7 (Galatea)
Duration: 72 hours
Pay: Low / steady
Salvage: Limited (defensive salvage retained under arbitration clause)