Page 188 of Red Scale Daddy
“We avoid guards.”
“You said hit the right people at the right time.”
“This is not the right time.”
A muffled clank echoes beneath us as something large moves through the adjacent corridor. The sound repeats, closer, paired with the faint scrape of armored boots.
I lean near the hatch seam and listen. Two Reapers, maybe three if one stands farther back. Their voices come through low and clipped, too distorted for words, but their rhythm is relaxed. Perimeter duty. They think the outside threat is outside.
Lucky bastards.
Pally angles his head toward me. “We wait until patrol rotation.”
The hatch’s sensor light shifts from amber to green.
The guards pause outside.
One says something sharp.
Then a soft tone chirps from the conduit wall beside my shoulder.
Pally’s eyes widen.
I look at the light. “That bad?”
“Pressure anomaly.”
“Us?”
“You.”
“Rude.”
The hatch begins to unlock from the other side.
Pally’s hand flies toward a tool, but I am already moving. I drive my shoulder into the panel as the first Reaper opens it, turning the hatch into a weapon. It slams outward into the guard’s faceplate with a crack that I feel up my arm. The Reaper staggers back, and I surge through the opening before the second can bring its weapon up.
The corridor is wider than the conduit but still tight for a fight, lit in cold strips along the floor and ceiling. The first guard crashes into the wall, visor fractured. The second raises a compact rifle. I catch the barrel and shove it upward as it fires, the shot carving a burning line across the ceiling panel. My other hand closes around the Reaper’s throat armor, and I slam him backward into the bulkhead hard enough to dent both.
“Subtle,” Pally snaps behind me.
“Situation evolved.”
The first Reaper recovers fast and drives a shock blade toward my side. I twist, letting it score across the pressure rig instead of my ribs, then trap his wrist and wrench downward.The joint gives under armor with a wet crunch. He makes a sharp sound, and I headbutt him before he can make another.
Pally darts past me while I keep both guards occupied, moving straight to the wall interface. His fingers work fast over a stolen access chip, bypassing whatever alarm my entrance just offended.
“Third incoming,” he says.
“I’ve got two.”
“You are about to have three.”
A door at the far end opens, and the third guard steps through with weapon raised.
Pally does not look up. “Duck.”
I do not ask questions.
