Page 47 of Red Scale Daddy
“You believe I should correct now,” I say.
“I believe the hauler’s wash is spreading wider than your model says.”
“My model uses live telemetry.”
“Your model uses what that hauler admits to emitting.”
I look more closely at the vessel in question. Old hull. League registry. Freight class with aftermarket shield modifications and a heat bloom around the port aft array suggesting either poor maintenance or deliberate underreporting. I adjust scan resolution.
The wake is broader than declared.
Damn him.
I correct three seconds earlier than planned. The Lamplight responds smoothly, sliding beneath the outer ripple with only a faint shiver through the deck. A weaker ship would not have noticed. A less prepared pilot would not have bothered. The correction is minor, irritatingly valid, and observed by a man who immediately looks far too pleased with himself.
“Do not smile,” I say.
Dux smiles. “I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
“I was experiencing private professional satisfaction.”
“Experience it privately.”
“I am. This is my private face.”
“Your private face takes up half the cockpit.”
He laughs, and the sound rolls through the confined space with warmth I do not want there. It disturbs the crisp rhythm of the instruments. It makes the cockpit feel less like a controlled environment and more like a room occupied by another person. That should not be notable, but it is. I have flown simulations alone for years. I built this chair, these panels, these protocols around the assumption that solitude was not merely likely, but optimal.
Dux’s presence is not optimal.
It is, however, data-rich.
I pass marker seven and engage the first plotted acceleration curve. Stars stretch imperceptibly across the canopy as the Lamplight leaves station-regulated speed and enters the long dark between systems. The engines settle into a deeper harmonic, a clean vibration that makes the ship feel awake from nose to drive core. My hands move through launch sequence confirmation, primary navigation lock, drift corridor alignment, and pre-gate drive warmup.
Dux watches.
It would be easier if he did not watch so well.
“Your right-hand panel is redundant,” he says.
“It is not.”
“It has navigation, propulsion, and shield summaries. All of those are already primary on your center display.”
“The right-hand panel is dedicated to emergency cross-reference if central projection fails.”
“Then why is it angled toward you instead of shared?”
“Because I am the pilot.”
“What am I?”
“Temporary.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “You have a gift.”
