Page 67 of Red Scale Daddy
Dux exhales slowly. “That was not in your models.”
“No.”
The word costs more than it should.
He does not gloat. Somehow, that makes it worse.
I bring up the full integrity scan. “Hull spine intact. Shield lattice recovering. Port vane heat damage within repairable range. Ballast regulation compromised but functional. Drive coil alignment stable. No atmosphere loss. No critical breach.”
“Your ship held,” he says.
“Yes.”
“She held through something you didn’t predict.”
I look at the trembling diagnostic lines, the stressed but living systems, the stubborn green returning one by one after thered. My hands ache from gripping the controls. My cheek throbs again. My throat tastes of copper and fear I will not name.
“Yes,” I say again.
Dux leans back carefully, as though sudden movement might offend the ship. “Good design.”
The praise enters quietly.
I cannot dismiss it with sarcasm fast enough.
“Good pilot too,” he adds.
My fingers resume moving across the console. “You identified the wake.”
“You asked.”
“You answered correctly.”
“Careful, Commander. That almost sounded like approval.”
“It was a performance note.”
“Positive?”
“Do not ruin it.”
His smile appears faintly, but it does not mock. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I update the model with the anomaly data. The route ahead shifts, no longer the clean thread I built from years of work, but something messier, more provisional, alive with fresh danger. I should be angry. I am angry. But beneath that anger is a hard, uncomfortable fact.
I did not plan for that.
I survived it anyway.
Not alone.
The thought is intolerable enough that I immediately archive it for later examination under emotional quarantine.
Dux watches me from the secondary station, too large for the chair, too sharp for my comfort, too quiet for a man who has spent hours making noise out of every available silence.
“You all right?” he asks.
I do not look at him. “I am functional.”
