Page 234 of Red Scale Daddy
“Yes.”
“Alive.”
“That is implied.”
“Say it.”
Another barrage charges. We are out of time, but his stubbornness anchors me more than it delays me. I resent that almost as much as I need it.
“I come in alive,” I say.
Dad clears his throat. “For the record, I also prefer that version.”
The Reaper nearest the mast pivots toward us.
I move.
I break right from the ridge, firing twice to draw attention, then slam my boots down hard and sprint across open hull toward a collapsed sensor strut. Reaper fire follows me immediately, bright bolts cutting past close enough that the suit temperature alarm shrieks in my ear. Heat kisses my left side, sharp and intimate, and the outer layer of the skinsuit blisters but holds.
Dux fires from the ridge, clean shots forcing one Reaper to recoil. Dad runs for the ship with surprising speed, low and awkward in the magnetic boots, muttering nonstop into the comm.
“Too old for this. Too handsome for this. Too emotionally underprepared for space jogging.”
“Less talking,” I say, diving behind the sensor strut as another shot tears through the metal.
“I talk when stressed.”
“You are always stressed.”
“Then I am consistent.”
Dux’s voice cuts through, tight. “Roma, two are shifting toward you.”
“I see them.”
I do not see the third until it is already moving along the hull beneath the line of sight, crawling with disturbing speed toward Dad.
“Dad, down!” I shout.
He drops flat. A Reaper blade slices through the space above him, sparks bursting where it strikes the ship’s outer hatch. Dux launches himself forward, tether stretching, boots skidding as hefires into the creature’s side. It twists, hit but not stopped, and lunges toward him instead.
The old version of me would calculate distance, trajectory, and ship access priority. The old version would know Dad is at the hatch, Dux is exposed, and the escape clock is collapsing. The old version would choose the faster escape path because the mission cannot survive sentiment.
My body moves before the old version finishes speaking.
I push off the strut and cross open hull toward Dux.
The Reaper is on him by the time I reach them, claws tearing at his shoulder plating, weapon arm lifting for a killing strike. Dux has one hand locked around its wrist, the other trying to bring his gun up in a space too tight to aim. His breath is harsh over the comm, not panicked, never that, but strained with effort.
“Little help would be real nice,” he grits out.
“I’m here.”
“I noticed.”
I slam into the Reaper from the side, driving my knife into the seam beneath its jaw. The blade catches, slips, then sinks. The creature thrashes, nearly ripping me loose from the hull. My boots scream against the magnetic lock, traction failing for one horrible second before Dux hooks an arm around my waist and anchors me against him.
I twist the knife.
