Page 71 of Red Scale Daddy
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Roma.”
She angles the ship, not toward the asteroid, but toward the gap beyond it. The Lamplight shudders like a living thing in pain. A fragment strikes the forward shields and bursts into silver fire across the canopy. Another clips the weakened port side. The whole ship yaws, and the attitude bar rips against my grip.
The asteroid fills more of the display.
Its surface is rough, cratered, and broken by ridges that look like frozen waves. Patches of mineral crystal catch the starlight and throw it back in dull blue glints. The scan flickers again: breathable atmosphere, low pressure, unstable magnetic pockets, gravity marginal but usable.
“Landing profile,” I say.
“I know.”
“You have one?”
“I am building one.”
“That sounds like no with tools.”
She snarls, actually snarls, and the sound does something strange to the back of my neck. “If you want a perfect landing, find a perfect pilot in a perfect ship under perfect conditions.”
“I want an ugly landing we survive.”
“Then stop talking.”
I stop.
Not because she told me to, though that is what she will claim later. I stop because her hands change. The panic she refuses to admit burns out of her movements, leaving something colder and faster. She kills nonessential systems without looking. Reroutes emergency power to ventral shields. Forces the starboard ballast into manual compensation. Uses the dead port vane not as lift but as drag, turning its failure into a crude brake.
There she is.
Not the planner. Not the girl with the nine-year mission and the righteous fury. The pilot.
The Lamplight dives toward the asteroid.
Atmospheric friction kisses the hull in a faint orange flare. The sound changes instantly, from interior groan to a rushing vibration that fills every seam. Air, thin as it is, screams across damaged plating. The ship rattles hard enough that my teeth click together. Roma leans into the controls as if she can will the vessel lighter by force of contempt.
“Ventral heat rising,” I say.
“Acceptable.”
“Depends on your fondness for fire.”
“Minimal.”
“Same.”
The ground rushes up.
A ridge appears directly in our path, too high, too close. Roma rolls us, skimming along its side instead of over it. The port shields scrape mineral outcrop, blue sparks sheeting across the canopy. The impact slams me against the harness and drives all the air from my lungs. Roma’s shoulder hits the side of her chair, but her hands stay on the controls.
We clear the ridge by less than a meter.
“You meant to do that?” I ask, breathless.
