Page 91 of Red Scale Daddy
ROMA
The drones do not stop testing the hull.
They scrape, tap, strike, and retreat, turning the Lamplight into the center of a patient, many-legged argument. Every few seconds a claw drags across exterior plating with a shriek that travels through the frame and settles under my teeth. The cockpit smells of overheated circuits, sealant smoke, suit dust, and Dux’s blood beneath the chemical bite of the compression patches. Emergency blue light washes over the consoles, cold and surgical, while the damage displays pulse in layered warnings that refuse to quiet.
My ship is alive.
Barely.
I kneel beneath the secondary routing panel with half my torso inside the access bay, a coil of replacement conduits looped around my wrist. The edge of the housing presses into my ribs while heat radiates from the damaged junction in dry, prickling waves. Sweat gathers beneath my collar despite the lingering chill in the air. My left hand braces the bypass line while my right threads a replacement coupler through a space too narrow for proper leverage and too hot for patience.
Something slams onto the hull above us.
The ceiling dents inward with a dull, protesting groan.
I shut my eyes briefly, steadying my breathing before speaking. “If that drone punctures my upper coolant exchange,” I say, my voice tight with restraint, “I am going to be very cross.”
Dux does not hesitate. He shifts his stance, raises his weapon, and fires upward at a precise angle that skirts disaster by the narrowest margin. The shot reverberates through the cockpit. A wet, furious shriek answers from outside, followed by the scraping slide of something losing its grip on the hull.
Lowering the weapon, he exhales through his nose. “Problem relocated,” he says.
I pull myself partially out from the panel and glare at him. “You fired inside my ship.”
Dux tilts his head, glancing at the dent before looking back at me. “I fired from inside your ship,” he corrects, tapping the ceiling lightly. “Important distinction.”
“It is not,” I reply, tightening the coupler until the tool chirps green. “The ceiling disagrees.”
He studies the dent as if considering its feelings. “The ceiling is alive because of me.”
“The ceiling is dented because of you.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Alive and dented is still a win.”
I slide fully out and rise to my feet, brushing dust from my gloves. His armor is torn along the shoulder and side, and the compression patch over his ribs has darkened again where blood presses against it. He stands like the damage is an inconvenience rather than a concern.
“Stop making philosophy out of property damage,” I say, turning back toward the console.
“Then stop owning fragile property,” he replies, though his weight shifts slightly as if the movement costs him more than he wants to admit.
“The ship survived a gravitational anomaly and a crash landing,” I counter, already reaching for the next panel.
“And now drones are chewing on it.”
“They are not chewing.”
He glances upward as another claw scrapes across the hull. “They are enthusiastically evaluating.”
I ignore him and refocus on the routing. The replacement coupler seats, but the bypass line resists calibration. I adjust voltage tolerance manually, reroute through the tertiary stabilizer, and lock the connection before another impact can disrupt it. The panel flickers from red to amber.
“Routing junction three patched,” I say. “Temporary stability achieved.”
Dux leans against the hatch frame, eyes flicking toward the display. “Temporary as in stable,” he asks, “or temporary as in we should say something meaningful before we explode?”
“Stable if we avoid another crash,” I reply.
“Ambitious.”
I climb into the pilot’s chair, ignoring the stiffness in my legs. “We need another thirty-two minutes.”
