Page 74 of Red Scale Daddy
The asteroid surface sprawls around us beneath a dim field of strange light. Dust hangs in the low atmosphere, glimmering faintly where charged particles from the anomaly drift overhead. The horizon curves close, jagged and lonely, with distant crystal veins shining like buried lightning under black stone. The place looks dead, but the sensors claim air. Thin, cold, breathable air.
“Pretty little disaster,” I say.
Roma follows my gaze. Her expression does not soften, but the fight in her eyes shifts direction. From me to the landscape. From humiliation to problem.
Good.
Problems keep people moving.
She opens the exterior scan. “Atmosphere breathable but low pressure. Trace metallic particulates. Gravity point-three-one standard. Temperature below comfort range but survivable with thermal gear. Radiation elevated, shielded by local magnetic distortion in pockets.”
“Any predators?”
She gives me a flat look. “I have been scanning for four seconds.”
“So no pets yet.”
“No confirmed pets.”
I grin. She almost reacts, then decides against giving me the victory.
The damage report pings again. A propulsion warning appears, then expands.
Roma’s voice cools to professional ice. “Primary thrust cannot safely reengage without repair.”
“There it is.”
“Do not say that like you are pleased.”
“I’m not pleased. I am unsurprised.”
“I hate unsurprised.”
“I noticed.”
She unclips her harness and stands too fast. The motion costs her. She hides it by grabbing the console as if she meant to. “We assess external damage, patch critical systems, recalibrate ballast, repair the port vane, and depart.”
I rise more slowly, because my ribs are composing a complaint. “And if the anomaly is still chewing up our route?”
“We recalculate.”
“And if repairs take longer than your window allows?”
“They won’t.”
“Roma.”
She turns on me, all red hair, bruised cheek, and command voice held together by sheer refusal. “What?”
“This is already not the mission you planned.”
The words settle into the cockpit heavier than the crash.
Her eyes flick once to the damage display, then to the canopy, then back to me. She hates all of it. The wrecked certainty. The asteroid. The time loss. The fact that I saw the port vane issue. The fact that she needed my read on the anomaly wake. The fact that alive is not the same thing as in control.
“I know,” she says.
It is barely more than a whisper.
