Page 17 of Red Scale Daddy
Loklo places a hand over his heart. “Our poor little firewall died doing what it loved: failing.”
I continue, “The point is not remote control. The point is responsiveness. That fin just executed a correction sequence based on false stress telemetry I fed it from here. It identified the pattern, redistributed simulated load, and opened the micro-thruster lattice without manual intervention.”
Dux says, “Can it tell the difference between false telemetry and the core lying to it?”
I look at him.
He is still watching the ship. No smirk now. No casual mockery. That question is not stupid.
Annoying.
“No system can always tell the difference,” I say. “That is why I remain in command.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The part where everything still depends on you being faster than disaster.”
I close the fin and terminate the feed. The wall returns to a flickering advertisement for synth-ale that probably tastes like battery acid and regret.
“Everything always depends on someone being faster than disaster,” I say. “Most people simply prefer not to notice.”
Dux steps closer to the table, and the alcove shrinks again. “Out there, disaster doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t file a flight plan. You can model shear fields until your eyes bleed, but then a dead cruiser tumbles out of a blind pocket where no wreck should be, or a gravity eddy folds your nice corridor in half, or something hungry decides your clever little ship smells like lunch.”
“I accounted for debris drift.”
“Did you account for panic?”
“Yes.”
“No, you accounted for procedure under stress. That isn’t panic.”
Loklo glances between us, the humor fading from his face. “He’s not wrong.”
I turn on him. “You have no idea what I accounted for.”
“I know people,” Loklo says quietly. “People make a mess of clean plans.”
His words land somewhere I do not want them. My hand tightens around the compad until the edge presses through my glove. I think of my mother refusing to look at the workshop for three months. I think of my instructors telling me I was too young, then too intense, then too personally compromised. I think of every person who said impossible with the same gentle tone, as if gentleness made surrender less obscene.
“I am not asking for clean,” I say. “I am asking for capable.”
Dux holds my gaze. “No. You’re asking for obedient.”
“Yes.”
“That’ll get you killed.”
“Disobedience gets crews killed.”
“Bad command gets crews killed faster.”
The words strike sparks in me. “You are not crew.”
“Not yet.”
The alcove seems to lose air.
