Page 54 of Red Scale Daddy
“I see them, Dux.”
Her voice sharpens, but her eyes do not leave the display. Good. Irritated is fine. Distracted is bad.
The Lamplight’s projected route remains steady, threading through a thinning portion of the debris. The computer likes it. Roma seems to like it less. Her mouth changes, not tightening exactly, but flattening into that severe line she gets when the universe hands her a number she did not invite.
“Recommend drop below the lane,” I say.
“That costs eight minutes.”
“Better than costing hull.”
“The lower lane is unstable.”
“So is the upper lane.”
“The upper lane is mapped.”
“Mapped before all that junk decided to become weather.”
Her hand hovers above the course adjustment.
There it is.
Not fear. Hesitation. The small human moment between certainty and action, almost hidden beneath discipline. Her models are fighting the evidence in front of her, and she hates that the evidence has better timing. I can practically see her mind running branches, calculating fuel, window loss, debrisspeed, corridor collapse, mission tolerances, her father’s signal pulsing somewhere impossibly far ahead.
A long shard of hull plating spins across the display, its edge glittering with subspace static.
“Roma,” I say, keeping my voice low, “move.”
She does.
The Lamplight drops.
The maneuver is so clean that for one breath I forget to be annoyed at her. She angles us beneath the primary lane, not in a panicked dive but in a controlled arc that cuts through the thinnest part of the wake. Inertial dampers groan. Weight presses across my chest. Blue-white light flares over the canopy as debris tears through our former path, a glittering storm of broken cargo ribs, frozen coolant pearls, shredded plating, and one tumbling engine bell large enough to turn us into a rumor.
Roma’s left hand adjusts ballast while her right feathers thrust in tiny corrections. The ship responds like a trained predator, rolling under a cluster of fragments, lifting over a spinning beam, then sliding sideways through a gap I would have sworn was too narrow until we are already through it. A sharp crack echoes along the starboard side as something small kisses the shields and dies angry.
I grip the armrests and laugh once, low and unwilling.
Roma’s eyes flash toward me. “Is something funny?”
“No.”
“You laughed.”
“I respect good work.”
“That sounded like amusement.”
“That was admiration with poor socialization.”
She returns to the controls, but color rises along the edge of her throat. Interesting. Compliments bother her more than insults. I tuck that away for later misuse.
Another warning blooms red. A dense mass appears ahead, almost invisible until it passes through a bright fold of subspace light: a curved section of reinforced hull, rotating slowly, too close and too large.
Roma sees it.
Her hands move.
