Page 63 of Red Scale Daddy
“No, but neither is pride.”
I look at him fully. “This is not pride.”
“What is it, then?”
“Competence.”
He nods slowly, as if granting the point and refusing to surrender the argument. “Competence is what keeps us alive until the universe changes the question.”
“The universe has changed the question many times. I have modeled for that.”
“No,” he says, and now the humor is gone completely. “You have modeled for versions of that. The difference matters.”
I should ignore him. The next shear band requires my attention, and arguing with Dux has a way of turning ten seconds into an emotional alley fight. But the ship is steady, the diagnostics are strong, and part of me wants the fight because the alternative is admitting his warning has weight.
“I did not spend nine years building a fantasy,” I say.
“I know.”
“I did not come here with optimism and a pretty hull.”
“I know that too.”
“I sacrificed everything that did not serve this mission.”
His expression changes, not pity, not exactly, but something close enough to irritate me. “That is the part that worries me.”
“It should reassure you.”
“Sacrifice can make people careful. It can also make them unwilling to admit when the thing they paid for is not buying what they need.”
My fingers press into the edge of the console. “My design is holding.”
“Yes.”
“My predictions are within acceptable deviation.”
“Yes.”
“My ship is performing under conditions that would cripple most private craft before the second shear band.”
“Yes, Roma.”
“Then define your objection in measurable terms or stop dressing anxiety as expertise.”
Dux studies me across the cockpit, his scarred red face half-lit by diagnostics. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, which makes it more infuriating.
“My objection is you think accounting for everything means you can control what everything does.”
Before I can answer, the forward sensors spike.
Not amber.
Red.
The central display fractures into competing warnings: gravitational deviation, inertial shear, localized distortion, shield asymmetry, drive alignment error. The Lamplight jerks hard enough that my harness bites into my collarbone. The cockpit tilts, or my body thinks it does, which is worse becauseinstruments disagree for half a second. A violent tremor tears through the hull from bow to stern. Somewhere aft, a panel bangs open and equipment clatters free.
Dux’s hand shoots toward his console, then stops just short of touching anything.
