Page 232 of Red Scale Daddy
“Yeah, kid?”
The word kid cuts through the pressure in my chest with infuriating precision. I keep my face still and my tone icy because if I let warmth in, it will take up space I need for calculation.
“When we board, you go straight to secondary engineering. Do not touch primary flight integration until I tell you.”
He turns his helmet toward me. “You say that because you love me, or because you think I’ll make it worse?”
“Yes.”
“Fair enough.”
Dux looks between us. “What exactly did he do to your ship?”
Dad lifts one gloved hand. “Improved it.”
I say, “Complicated it.”
“Enhanced it,” Dad corrects.
“Destabilized it.”
“Gave it personality.”
“It already had personality. You gave it opinions.”
Dux’s mouth pulls into a grin. “Of course your ship has family trauma.”
“Everything has family trauma if Dad has been in the engine compartment.”
“Rude,” Dad says, but his voice softens at the edges.
Another blast strikes close to the ship’s cockpit. The shield bloom stutters, and this time a thin trail of vapor jetsfrom somewhere near the starboard side. I map the damage automatically, overlaying memory against sight, watching probabilities fracture and reform. We need to cross the hull, enter through the dorsal service hatch, force a cold launch while under fire, integrate Dad’s bypass modifications with my original flight architecture, and execute an escape burn timed between Reaper volleys and Throgg’s final intercept attempts.
Perfect timing would be required.
Perfect timing is a lie people tell when they do not want to admit they are gambling.
The next Reaper volley begins to charge. I see it in the posture of their weapons and the faint pre-ignition flare along the barrels. The pattern staggers left to right. There is a gap after the second shot, less than three seconds, maybe enough to clear the first hull ridge.
“On my mark,” I say.
Dux lowers his center of gravity. “With you.”
Dad mutters, “This is a stupid plan.”
“It is the only plan.”
“That’s what makes it stupid.”
The first Reaper fires. Light washes over us. The second fires, slightly high, scorching the hull above the ship. The third weapon begins to glow.
“Now.”
I push out of the service lock and onto the exterior hull.
The sudden silence is enormous.
My boots clamp to the outer plating with a magnetic thud I feel through my legs rather than hear. The hull is bitterly cold even through the suit insulation, and the vast black around us presses in from every direction, endless and indifferent. Throgg’s ship curves beneath us like a wounded beast, its surface blistered with fire, ice, and ruptured seams. Beyond my ship, the Zenos swarm tears at the Reaper vessel in dark, shifting clouds,their bodies catching starlight in oily flashes as debris spins through them.
