Page 133 of Red Scale Daddy
Of course she does.
She lunges for the exposed control panel beside the corridor junction and slams the plasma torch into the interface. Sparks explode outward as she shorts the local systems, forcing the door between us and the boarders to start closing. For one glorious second, it works. The damaged door grinds downward, cutting the corridor in half.
Then a Reaper wedge device punches into the seam and stops it cold.
Roma’s face hardens.
“Damn it.”
A voice enters the shipwide comm.
Deep. Calm. Patient.
“Roma Larson.”
Everything in me goes still.
The Reapers stop advancing, not because they hesitate, but because they have been ordered to hold. The voice fills the corridor with quiet ownership.
“You have caused considerable inconvenience,” it continues. “Your skill makes that forgivable.”
Roma lifts her chin toward the nearest comm panel. “Identify yourself.”
“In time.”
“I do not negotiate with unidentified hostiles.”
“You are not negotiating.”
The words carry no anger. That makes them worse.
Roma’s hand shifts behind her back toward the manual emergency control. I see it. The Reapers see it too. One of them fires.
The stun round catches her in the side.
Her body jerks, and she hits the wall, sliding halfway down before forcing herself upright with a sound that goes through me like a hook.
I surge against the hands holding me.
“Touch her again and I’ll wear your spine as jewelry!”
A Reaper drives another shock baton into my side.
Pain blanks the corridor for a moment.
When my vision clears, Roma is still standing. Barely. Her hand is pressed against the wall, her breathing ragged, her eyes locked on me.
“Dux,” she says, voice strained. “Stop fighting.”
I laugh, though it comes out wet. “Terrible advice.”
“They want me alive.”
“Yeah, I noticed. I’m less impressed with what they want for me.”
The voice returns through the comm. “Correct.”
The Reapers drag me backward toward the breached access point.
