Page 16 of Red Scale Daddy
Dux tilts his head. “Interpretive?”
“The system reads stress patterns the way a medic reads muscle tension before a seizure. Not perfectly, but fast enough to matter.”
“That sounds pretty,” he says. “Pretty gets people killed.”
“Only when stupid people confuse it with sufficient.”
His mouth twitches. “You practice being insulting, or does it come free with the engineering degree?”
“I was homeschooled in disappointment.”
Loklo laughs, then catches himself. “Sorry. That was bleak as hell, but tidy.”
I flick the projection, and the alcove wall screen activates remotely from my compad. The bar’s back systems resist for half a second, then accept my override because their security is approximately as sophisticated as a wet paper bag with delusions. A live feed appears: an external camera view of Docking Bay Twelve, where my ship sits under maintenance lights like a folded blade.
Loklo sits upright. Dux goes still.
There she is.
My vessel is not beautiful in the decorative sense. She is compact, dark-hulled, and narrow through the spine, with external rings folded close for dock configuration and shielding vanes tucked like layered wings along her flanks. Her surface drinks light rather than reflecting it, broken only by palemaintenance markings and the faint blue pulse of systems running low but awake. Around her, dock workers keep a respectful distance because even people who know nothing about engineering can sense when a machine has been built for dangerous purpose.
I feel my pulse steady at the sight of her.
“This is live?” Loklo asks.
“Yes.”
“You hacked our wall screen.”
“Yes.”
“I feel violated and impressed.”
“You should feel embarrassed. Your security protocols still use default handshake architecture from twelve years ago.”
Dux looks at him. “I told you to update the system.”
Loklo throws up both hands. “I thought you meant spiritually.”
I allow myself half a breath of amusement before closing it away. “The component I showed you is currently engaged in dockside test mode.”
I input the command.
On the screen, one of the folded fins along the ship’s flank slides outward with smooth, deliberate grace. The movement is almost silent on the feed, but my compad transmits the diagnostic audio: a low mechanical hum, a faint hydraulic sigh, the delicate click of magnetic locks releasing in sequence. The fin angles, splits along its inner seam, and exposes the nested micro-thruster lattice beneath.
Loklo’s mouth opens. “Well, damn.”
Dux’s eyes do not leave the screen. “How far is that dock?”
“Three levels down and two towers over.”
“You’re controlling it from here?”
“Yes.”
“Through bar security?”
“Partially through bar security.”
