Page 86 of Red Scale Daddy
“Cruel woman.”
“Move it two degrees right.”
I blink through dust and pain. “What?”
“The drone. Move it two degrees right.”
“That is very specific.”
“Do it.”
I shove the creature right.
Roma drives a loose actuator rod straight through the gap between two plates on its side and twists with both hands. The drone spasms, limbs flaring. I slam it down onto the rod, and the creature goes still.
I stare at her.
She stares back. “You moved it three degrees.”
“I was distracted by the murder.”
“Acceptable variance.”
“High praise.”
She reaches back into the housing and yanks the damaged link free. “I need the replacement coupling from the red case.”
I grab it from the repair kit and toss it. “Incoming.”
She catches it cleanly.
Another drone shrieks from the ridge. The sound is answered by several more beyond the crash gouge. More are coming, drawn by noise, heat, vibration, or the hive’s collective irritation that dinner has started arguing.
Roma works the replacement coupling into place. “Give me thirty seconds.”
“I can give you twenty.”
“I need thirty.”
“Then I’ll steal ten.”
I move toward the open ground before she can object.
The next cluster comes in a rush: four drones low, two high, one circling toward the ramp. I fire at the circling one first because ships matter, then holster the weapon before the nearest drone reaches me. Rounds are precious. Hands are reusable, usually.
The first drone slashes. I step inside the arc, catch one limb, break it backward, and drive my knee into its chest. The second hits my side wound. Pain bursts white behind my eyes. I roar,not because roaring fixes anything, but because sometimes the body needs to tell the universe it objects.
Roma shouts from the housing. “Dux!”
“Busy.”
“You are bleeding more.”
“I noticed.”
“You are supposed to avoid that.”
“Write it in the protocols.”
