Page 29 of Red Scale Daddy
I end the call before he can continue.
For several seconds, I remain at the top of the ramp, compad still in my hand, aware of everything I am leaving behind and everything that will not follow me into the dark.
The room I leased. The vendors waiting for payment. The messages I stopped opening. My mother’s voice, carefully avoided because it carries too much weight and not enough usefulness. The remnants of a life that required patience instead of obsession.
None of it survives the launch.
I board the ship.
The transition is immediate and absolute. The air shifts from stale industrial circulation to filtered sterility. The scent of ion scrubbers replaces alcohol and sweat. Machine oil, warmed circuitry, and polymer insulation create a clean, controlled environment that settles into my lungs with quiet familiarity. Lights activate in sequence as I move, responding to my presence with silent precision.
Inside, everything behaves.
Inside, variables obey.
I take the pilot’s seat and bring the systems online. Data streams populate the displays in clean, ordered layers. Diagnostics. Navigation matrices. Environmental stability. Everything exactly where it should be.
Then I open the candidate list.
It does not take long.
The scarred woman is competent, but volatile. The Alzhon is overqualified and risk-averse. The human is unusable.
One by one, they fall away until only one option remains.
I do not select him immediately.
Instead, I review the fight again.
Dux moves with efficiency that borders on inevitability. No wasted force. No hesitation once a decision is made. He tracks multiple threats without losing focus, adjusts position instinctively, and communicates only when necessary. His presence alters the battlefield without disrupting it.
He is reckless.
But he is not careless.
That distinction matters more than I want it to.
The cockpit hatch opens behind me.
I do not turn right away. I already know who it is.
“You bypassed my perimeter,” I say.
“Your perimeter tried,” Dux replies.
“That is not reassuring.”
“It is if you’re me.”
I turn then, rising from the chair as he steps into the cockpit. The space contracts around him, his height forcing the design into uncomfortable proximity. He carries the scent of the bar with him—smoke, heat, ozone—and it clashes violently with the ship’s controlled atmosphere.
“You are trespassing,” I say.
“I’m following up.”
“You were rejected.”
“You rejected me before the fight.”
