Page 40 of Red Scale Daddy
“And already we have tension.”
She turns back to her screens. “Do not bond with my furniture.”
I run my fingers over the edge of the locked weapons panel. The interface rejects me with a polite red flash. “Why are weapons routed only through your station?”
“Because I control weapons.”
“What if you are unconscious?”
“I do not intend to become unconscious.”
I look at the back of her head. “Reality loves that kind of confidence. It keeps a special hammer for it.”
“My station has independent backups. If I am incapacitated, the ship prioritizes evasion and life support until I recover.”
“And if you don’t recover?”
Her hands pause over the controls for the smallest possible fraction of time. “Then the mission has likely failed.”
“That is a terrible design philosophy.”
“No, it is an accurate hierarchy of function.”
“It makes you the single point of failure.”
“It makes me the only person qualified to prevent failure.”
“Those can be the same thing.”
She turns in her chair then, face controlled, eyes bright with irritation. “I am aware you come from a professional tradition where shouting and charging may have been considered sufficient tactical planning, but on this vessel systems exist for reasons. You do not get authority because you are large, loud, and difficult to kill.”
“I am also charming.”
“You are also temporary.”
“That hurts, Commander.”
“It was meant to clarify.”
I lean back as much as the chair allows and scan the panel again. “What does this toggle do?”
Roma’s gaze snaps to my hand. “Do not touch that.”
“I have not touched it.”
“You were approaching it with intent.”
“I approach many things with intent.”
“Approach fewer.”
I let my finger hover a breath longer, then tap the toggle.
A small schematic appears on my screen, showing a sealed crawlspace along the port side. Roma rises from her chair withremarkable speed and slaps my hand away before I can tap it again.
“Dux,” she says, voice low and dangerous.
I look up at her. “Roma.”
