Page 89 of Red Scale Daddy
“That is my way of saying blood loss reduces combat performance.”
“Warm as sunlight.”
“Patch.”
I press the patch against my side and hiss when the sealant bites. Roma watches long enough to confirm I am doing it correctly, then turns toward the cockpit.
“We completed partial vane response,” she says. “Not the routing.”
“Partial is better than eaten.”
“I know.”
“Say it again.”
She stops in the corridor.
The ship hums around us, damaged but alive. Outside, claws scrape along the hull in distant, searching lines. The drones are still there, but for the moment, the Lamplight holds them out. Roma stands with one hand against the wall, dust streaked across her suit, red hair escaping her braid, eyes bright from adrenaline and fury and something that is not quite fear.
“Partial is better than eaten,” she says.
I smile. “That should go in your manual.”
“It will not.”
“It has a ring.”
“It has idiocy.”
“Most good sayings do.”
She turns, but she does not walk away yet. Her gaze drops to the patch on my side, then to the torn armor at my shoulder, then back to my face.
“You protected the hull,” she says.
“I protected you.”
Her expression changes.
Not much. With Roma, not much is a country.
“The hull is mission critical,” she says.
“So are you.”
She looks away first, and I let her because I am not entirely a bastard. The corridor lights flicker once, then settle into emergency blue. Somewhere outside, a drone shrieks against the closed ship, frustrated and hungry.
Roma’s voice returns to command, but it carries a new thread beneath it. “We need to reassess. The drones are coordinated, adaptive, and numerous. Exterior repairs require a tactical plan, not merely a technical one.”
“Look at that,” I say. “You said tactical.”
“I have always understood tactics.”
“You have understood them in theory.”
She turns back with a look sharp enough to cut plating. “Choose your next sentence wisely.”
I grin despite the ache in my ribs. “Under pressure, you adjust fast.”
