Page 39 of Red Scale Daddy
“For my blood pressure.”
I follow her up the ramp, ducking under the hatch. The inside of the Lamplight smells like filtered air, warmed polymer, solder, and machine oil. It is clean enough to make me feel accused. The corridor lights brighten as Roma passes, responding to her like well-trained soldiers. For me, they brighten a fraction late, as if the ship is deciding whether I count.
I angle my shoulders through the corridor and immediately knock one horn ridge against a low structural lip. The chime that answers is delicate and judgmental.
Roma turns. “Did you just hit my ship?”
“With my head.”
“Do not do that.”
“I will try to become shorter.”
“Try harder.”
She leads me past a compact galley, a sealed equipment locker, and a narrow access shaft that no being my size should ever be asked to enter by anyone who values peace. “Your quarters are aft, starboard side. Storage is limited. Weapons go in the locker unless I authorize them. Do not alter environmental settings. Do not access maintenance crawlspaces. Do not improvise repairs.”
“I sleep with weapons,” I say.
“Not on my ship.”
“I sleep badly without them.”
“That is unfortunate for you.”
“Could become unfortunate for everyone.”
She stops at the cockpit hatch and faces me. The bruise along her cheek has darkened since the fight, purple blooming beneath pale skin. It makes my fingers curl around the duffel strap before I tell them to behave.
“If your sense of safety depends on violating my rules before launch,” Roma says, “then you may leave.”
“I did not say I would violate them before launch.”
Her eyes narrow. “That qualifier is doing suspicious work.”
“I like precise language. You should appreciate that.”
“I appreciate obedience.”
“Then you are destined for disappointment.”
She enters the cockpit without dignifying that. I follow and take in the layout properly this time.
The cockpit is built like her mind: efficient, compressed, and hostile to waste. The pilot’s station curves around the command chair in a crescent of screens and tactile controls. The secondary station sits slightly behind and to the right, its interface trimmed down so aggressively it looks punitive. No weapons array. No thrust authority. No free navigation access. Environmental alerts, hull status, emergency foam, medical systems, limited comms. She has given me a toolbox with half the handles removed.
I sit in the secondary chair.
The chair creaks.
Roma glances over her shoulder. “It is rated for your weight.”
“It disagrees.”
“The chair does not have opinions.”
“Everything has opinions if you mistreat it enough.”
“You have known it for three seconds.”
