Page 131 of Red Scale Daddy
“I’m fine,” she snaps, though her fingers tremble when she reaches for the controls again.
“You’re not touching that until?—”
“I said I am fine.”
The next pulse hits.
The engines die.
The silence afterward is worse than noise. The constant vibration under the deck vanishes, leaving only alarms, our breathing, and the distant metallic groan of a ship being dragged against its will.
The forward momentum bleeds away.
The Reaper vessel grows larger on the display.
Roma’s voice goes thin with fury. “They severed drive control.”
“Can you get it back?”
“I can bypass.”
She unfastens her harness and drops to the lower access panel beneath the console, yanking it open with enough force to bend the edge. Smoke rolls out around her hands as she reaches inside.
I turn toward the cockpit door.
“Where are you going?” she demands.
“To make sure when they board us, they regret the career choice.”
“Dux, no firearms near the central systems.”
“I remember.”
“Blades only if you must.”
“Sweetheart, at this point I’m down to hands, teeth, and personality.”
“That last one has limited tactical value.”
“Wounded me worse than the drone.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and for one impossible second in that ruined red cockpit, something almost soft passes between us. It disappears when the ship jolts again.
A docking clamp slams onto our hull.
Then another.
The sound reverberates through the deck, huge and final.
“They are attaching,” Roma says.
“I know.”
“I need time.”
I head for the corridor. “Then I’ll buy some.”
The passage outside the cockpit is half-lit and full of smoke, the emergency strips flickering along the floor. The ship groans around me as the Reaper vessel locks us in place. Somewhere aft, metal screams under forced entry. I roll my shoulders, flex my hands, and taste blood at the back of my throat from biting my cheek during the last hit.
