Page 110 of Red Scale Daddy
“I am stabilizing internal pressure and reinforcing the corridor structure,” she replies. “I cannot guarantee full containment.”
“I don’t need containment,” I say. “I need space to move.”
The next drone lunges as soon as it clears the opening.
I meet it head-on, catching its strike and driving my shoulder into its center mass. The impact sends it crashing back into the frame of the airlock, tangling briefly with another drone trying to force its way through behind it.
The confined space works in my favor.
They cannot spread out.
They cannot surround me cleanly.
They come through one at a time, or not at all.
I grab the nearest limb and twist, using the leverage to pull the creature off balance. It hits the deck hard, its body slammingagainst the metal floor with a force that reverberates up through my legs. I follow it down, driving a knee into its center mass to pin it long enough to get my grip under the edge of its plating.
The armor resists, flexing under the strain.
I adjust my position, bracing my foot against the deck for leverage, and pull harder.
The plating tears open in a jagged split.
The drone thrashes violently, its limbs striking the floor and walls as it tries to break free. One catches my shoulder, driving me back just enough to loosen my hold.
I shift my grip and drive my hand into the exposed interior, crushing down until the movement stops.
Behind me, I hear Roma moving through the corridor, her steps controlled and deliberate as she positions herself just outside the immediate line of the breach. Her attention splits between the handheld interface in her grip and the unfolding fight, her eyes tracking both the system readouts and the drones forcing their way into the ship. The air pressure stabilizes slightly as she reroutes internal systems, smoothing out the uneven pull that had been dragging at the edges of the corridor.
“She’s adjusting the ship around me,” I realize.
“Dux,” she says, her voice steady despite the urgency threaded through it, “three additional drones are attempting simultaneous entry.”
“I see them,” I reply.
The next wave presses through the breach together, their limbs tangling briefly before separating with coordinated precision. The confined space forces them into each other’s path, slowing their advance just enough to give me the opening I need.
I step forward to meet them.
“Stay behind me,” I say without looking back.
A brief pause follows.
“Understood,” she replies.
That lands differently than I expect.
I push it aside and focus on the movement in front of me.
The first of the new drones lunges, and I move with it.
Its forward limb arcs toward my head, fast enough to blur in the low emergency lighting, but the movement carries a pattern now that I recognize. I shift my weight just off center and let the strike pass close enough to feel the displaced air along my cheek before catching the follow-through at the joint. The impact drives into my grip, heavy and sharp, and I turn with it, redirecting the force downward into the deck.
The limb slams into the metal floor with a dull, concussive crack.
Before it can retract, I bring my heel down across the joint with enough force to collapse the structure beneath its plating. The material fractures under the pressure, splitting along a line that exposes the softer tissue beneath. The drone reacts immediately, its body convulsing as it attempts to withdraw, but the confined space works against it, trapping its own movement.
I drive forward, closing the distance completely.
