Page 227 of Red Scale Daddy
The words hit harder than the ship collapsing around us.
Before I can answer, the metal above us buckles inward.
A claw punches through the duct ceiling, tearing a jagged hole that spits sparks and debris into the confined space. The creature attached to it forces its way down, chitin scraping, limbs folding and unfolding as it tries to fit into a space not built for it.
“Move!” I shout.
Roma doesn’t hesitate. She surges forward, abandoning the careful pace for raw speed, crawling faster than should be possible in a space this tight.
I follow, the creature tearing the duct open behind me with a shriek of metal. Its body wedges halfway through, blocking part of the passage, but it keeps coming, relentless.
I twist onto my back just enough to fire behind me. The muzzle flash blinds me for a split second, lighting the cramped space in harsh bursts. The shot hits something soft, and the creature screams, a high, tearing sound that vibrates through the metal.
It doesn’t stop.
“Pally!” I bark into the comm. “We need that door open now!”
“I’m working on it!” he snaps, strain bleeding through his voice. “These wires are fighting me!”
“They’re wires!”
“They’re evil wires!”
Roma reaches the end of the duct and kicks out the panel ahead of her. It crashes down into a narrow service corridor beyond, barely wider than the crawlspace but blessedly vertical.
She drops through, lands hard, and turns immediately, weapon up.
“Dux!”
I shove forward, ignoring the creature clawing at my boots, and dive out of the duct. I hit the floor shoulder-first, roll, and come up beside her just as the creature forces its head through the opening.
Roma fires point-blank. The blast takes half its face off, but the rest of it keeps pushing through, driven by something beyond pain.
I grab a loose pipe from the wall and swing it with everything I’ve got. The impact cracks against the creature’s skull, buying us half a second.
“Door!” I shout.
“Almost!” Pally yells back.
The corridor shakes violently. Somewhere close, a hull plate gives way with a deafening tear, and the temperature drops like the air itself is trying to escape.
Roma grabs my arm and yanks me down the corridor. “We move!”
“What about?—”
“Now!”
We run.
The service lock is at the end of the corridor, a heavy bulkhead with manual override levers flanking it. Frost has already started creeping along its edges, thin white veins spreading across dark metal.
Pally’s on the other side.
I can hear him breathing through the comm, fast and uneven.
“Say you’ve got it,” I tell him.
“I’ve got something,” he says. “I don’t know if it’s the right something.”
