Page 68 of Red Scale Daddy
“That is not what I asked.”
“It is the answer available.”
He lets out a soft sound, half amusement and half something gentler. “Of course it is.”
Ahead, dangerous space opens wider, darker, and less obedient than my screens had promised.
I place both hands on the controls and continue forward.
CHAPTER 10
DUX
The Lamplight does not scream when the next wave hits.
That would be too easy. Screaming belongs to living throats, wounded animals, frightened soldiers, and engines built by people who think volume can substitute for warning. Roma’s ship does something worse. She groans low through the frame, a deep and intimate sound like metal remembering it used to be ore, while every panel in the cockpit blooms red at once.
The force catches us from below.
My stomach climbs into my chest. The harness slams hard across my ribs. The secondary chair snaps sideways on its track before the lock catches with a vicious clank, and for a moment the whole cockpit becomes angle, alarm, and blue emergency light. Somewhere aft, something tears loose and bangs through a storage compartment with enough enthusiasm to become expensive.
Roma’s hands fly over the controls.
“Ventral shield decay,” she says, voice fast but clear. “Ballast lag worsening. Port vane response compromised. Drive alignment still intact.”
The ship drops again.
Not down, because down is a polite fiction in space. My body believes in down anyway, and right now down is wherever pain wants us to go. The canopy fills with spinning stars, then black, then a wash of pale debris dragged in the anomaly’s wake. The inertial dampers cough a second too late, and the pressure across my chest turns sharp enough to pull a grunt from me.
“Roma,” I say, bracing one hand against the console without touching the active controls. “You’re chasing three failures.”
“I am prioritizing four.”
“That’s worse.”
“Not helpful.”
“Port vane is lying to you.”
Her fingers do not stop. “Port vane is overheating.”
“No, it’s reporting recovery, but the hull map says the whole side is flexing like a drunk trying to dance.”
Her eyes snap toward the structural overlay on my station. “Transfer that.”
“You locked transfer.”
“Then read.”
A violent tremor cuts through the ship before I can answer. Roma corrects, but the correction is late by the width of a heartbeat, and that heartbeat is enough for the anomaly to hook us again. Warning tones stack on top of one another until they become a mechanical shriek. She silences one. Two more replace it. Her face stays composed, but the bruise on her cheek stands stark under the blue light, and there is a bright, furious fear in her eyes that she is trying to murder before anyone notices.
I notice.
“Starboard frame is taking the load,” I say. “Port vane isn’t giving you lift. It’s giving you drag.”
“It should not be.”
“It is.”
