Page 152 of Red Scale Daddy
“I see why he fought.”
The words strike too deep, and for one second I feel the platform under my boots, the heat rising from the conduit spine, the taste of copper at the back of my mouth where I have bitten my tongue without realizing it. My body wants to shake. I refuse.
“Give me access to distributor timing,” I say.
“That is restricted.”
“Then your repair will be decorative.”
“I gave you secondary diagnostics.”
“You gave me a window and asked me to rebuild the house.”
Throgg turns slightly toward the engineer. “Can her claim be verified?”
The engineer studies the readout, unwilling to look at me. “The distributor timing is relevant to the instability.”
“Relevant,” I repeat. “An elegant way to say necessary while protecting your pride.”
The engineer’s hand twitches.
Throgg lifts one finger, and the Reaper stills.
“Limited access,” Throgg says.
The panel updates.
More data opens.
Not all.
Enough.
My pulse steadies because this is the first real gain.
I pull the timing architecture into view and begin altering a visible section of the compensation logic. The correction I provide is legitimate. It reduces the response delay by a measurable margin, increases stability under moderate gravitational variance, and gives Throgg enough improvement to trust that I can do more.
It also leaves the deeper instability untouched.
No, that phrasing is lazy.
I write the correction around the instability like a wall built with a hidden door.
The ship will perform better.
Throgg will see results.
His engineers will grow dependent on my interpretation.
And when the time comes, the system will fail in a direction I choose.
“You are smiling,” Throgg says.
I neutralize my expression. “I solved your immediate problem.”
“Show me.”
I execute the simulation.
