Page 118 of Red Scale Daddy
“Maybe not,” he admits. “But I’m the one who just had to keep those things off you while you were flying us into a wall of bad space, so I think I get a say in whether you stay sharp enough to get us the rest of the way.”
The statement hangs between us.
I hold his gaze.
He does not look away.
The signal arrives again on the display.
Closer.
So close.
I pull my attention back to the console, forcing my focus into the data, into the numbers, into something I can control.
“I do not require oversight,” I say, my voice steadier now, colder. “I require cooperation.”
“Then cooperate,” he replies.
I pause.
Just long enough for the meaning to settle.
Then I exhale slowly and adjust the trajectory again, this time leaving a margin I would have previously eliminated.
“Monitor the left-side drift field,” I say. “If the gravitational pull increases beyond projected thresholds, I need to know immediately.”
“Already watching it,” he says.
I nod once, my attention returning fully to the display.
The signal sharpens again.
Closer.
Closer.
Every calculation brings us nearer to the source, every adjustment tightening the path between where we are and where he is.
Nine years of work.
Nine years of certainty.
All of it converging into this single point.
I feel it building, rising, pushing against the edges of my control.
I do not stop it.
I cannot.
“He’s there,” I say again, softer now, the words almost swallowed by the hum of the ship. “I’m going to find him.”
Beside me, Dux does not answer immediately.
When he does, his voice is quieter than before.
“I know,” he says.
