28. Dux
DUX
Pally brings us in under Throgg’s belly with the kind of flying that makes a man rethink every unkind thing he has ever said about engineers.
His little ship slides through the outer turbulence of the Thorn Shelf with every system whining under pressure, hull plates shivering as debris dust skates across the shields in a constant, glittering hiss.
The Reaper vessel fills the forward viewport in pieces at first: a black curve of armored plating, a row of recessed shield emitters, a maintenance spine lit by cold blue service lights.
Then it becomes the whole sky ahead of us, massive and predatory, moving through the field with the calm arrogance of something used to smaller things getting out of its way.
Pally kills the main thrust.
The sudden drop in vibration makes my teeth ache.
“We drift from here,” he says, both hands resting lightly over the controls. “Any engine flare inside their recalibration window gives us away.”
I tighten the seal at my wrist and watch the distance marker shrink. “You always this cheerful before suicide?”
“This is not suicide.”
“Bold claim.”
“This is infiltration.”
“Same road, nicer sign.”
He cuts me a look over his shoulder. “If you treat my plan like a tavern brawl, we die before you get to hit anyone.”
“If your plan depends on me not hitting anyone, it needs revision.”
“It depends on you hitting the right people at the right time.”
I grin inside the breathing mask. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
The ship drifts closer. The Reaper hull slides beneath us, black plating passing close enough that the surface details sharpen: heat scoring, welded repairs, sensor nodes folded into seams, and the faint shimmer of shield residue bleeding off during recalibration.
The maintenance spine waits ahead like a dark rib, half-exposed while the external plates vent heat.
Pally’s hands move in small corrections, each one careful enough to look like nothing.
The whole cabin holds its breath.
A timer glows on the console.
Thirty-one seconds.
Pally’s voice drops. “Magnetic clamps on my mark.”
I brace one hand against the bulkhead and grip the manual clamp trigger with the other. “I know.”
“You trigger early, they detect the impact.”
“I know.”
“You trigger late, we bounce off and spin into the vent wash.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that while looking far too pleased.”
“I enjoy being trusted with important buttons.”
“You are not trusted. You are being supervised by necessity.”
“Story of my life.”
The timer hits twelve seconds.
Pally angles us down, drifting into the shadow of a shield emitter housing.
The Reaper hull looms close enough now that I can see tiny flakes of frost burning away along the vent seams. My pulse slows, not from calm, but from focus.
The ache in my ribs settles into the background.
The bruised muscles in my neck stop mattering.
Roma is somewhere inside that monster’s ship, likely surrounded by armed Reapers, probably insulting their engineering while planting knives into the software.
She is alive.
She has to be.
The timer hits three.
Pally’s jaw tightens.
“Mark.”
I hit the clamp trigger.
The little ship lurches as magnetic anchors slam into the Reaper maintenance spine.
Metal groans through the frame, deep and dangerous, then holds.
Pally kills every nonessential system in a fast, practiced sweep, dropping the cabin into dim standby light.
For a few seconds, nothing moves except the timer counting past zero.
No alarms.
No weapons fire.
No vaporization.
I exhale through the mask. “Well, look at that. We’re only mostly dead.”
Pally unclips his harness. “Move.”
The access lock is barely wide enough for my shoulders, which Pally seems to consider a personal failing on my part.
He opens the hatch into the crawl interface, and cold air slips in, carrying the sterile-metal bite of the Reaper hull beyond.
I duck low and squeeze into the transfer tube, the pressure rig scraping along both sides as I push forward.
Every movement pulls at the wound in my ribs, but the pain has become useful now, a bright line keeping me sharp.
Pally follows with a compact tool rig strapped across his chest. He moves quicker than I expect, fingers already working at the first external access panel before I fully clear the tube.
“Security lock,” he murmurs.
“How long?”
“Longer if you keep breathing on my neck.”
“That your delicate way of asking for space?”
“It is my delicate way of saying your head is blocking the maintenance light.”
I shift just enough to let him work. “Better?”
“Marginally.”
His tools whisper against the panel, cutting and probing with quiet precision.
The outer casing releases with a soft click, and a narrow service conduit opens into darkness beyond.
A wash of air passes over my faceplate, filtered and cold, carrying a faint chemical tang from Reaper atmosphere systems.
Pally extends a sensor wand into the conduit. “Motion grid cycles every eight seconds. Thermal sweeps every twelve. Pressure alerts on major displacement.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you are too large to move through this elegantly.”
“I do most things inelegantly.”
“That is not reassurance.”
“Never claimed it was.”
He slides in first, which irritates me until I realize the conduit angles sharply around a sensor relay too delicate for my weight.
His body disappears into the crawlspace, boots scraping softly against the interior plating.
I follow slower, shoulders compressing against the walls, forearms braced carefully to keep from tearing through something important.
The Reaper ship hums around us, a deep and orderly vibration so different from Pally’s patched little survivor vessel that it feels less like machinery and more like a disciplined threat.
“Left hand on the lower brace,” Pally whispers through the comm. “Do not touch the upper conduit.”
I move my hand. “This upper conduit?”
“Dux.”
“Kidding.”
“I am armed.”
“With tools.”
“With tools I understand.”
“Fair point.”
We crawl for several meters while the maintenance spine shudders around us.
Somewhere beyond the walls, heavy systems shift power through the ship in controlled pulses.
I hear it through my palms: shields cycling, coolant surging, weapons charging and relaxing in readiness. The whole vessel feels awake.
Pally stops ahead of me.
“What?” I ask.
“Internal junction. Two guards beyond the hatch.”
“Good.”
“No.”
“No?”
“We avoid guards.”
“You said hit the right people at the right time.”
“This is not the right time.”
A muffled clank echoes beneath us as something large moves through the adjacent corridor. The sound repeats, closer, paired with the faint scrape of armored boots.
I lean near the hatch seam and listen. Two Reapers, maybe three if one stands farther back. Their voices come through low and clipped, too distorted for words, but their rhythm is relaxed. Perimeter duty. They think the outside threat is outside.
Lucky bastards.
Pally angles his head toward me. “We wait until patrol rotation.”
The hatch’s sensor light shifts from amber to green.
The guards pause outside.
One says something sharp.
Then a soft tone chirps from the conduit wall beside my shoulder.
Pally’s eyes widen.
I look at the light. “That bad?”
“Pressure anomaly.”
“Us?”
“You.”
“Rude.”
The hatch begins to unlock from the other side.
Pally’s hand flies toward a tool, but I am already moving.
I drive my shoulder into the panel as the first Reaper opens it, turning the hatch into a weapon.
It slams outward into the guard’s faceplate with a crack that I feel up my arm.
The Reaper staggers back, and I surge through the opening before the second can bring its weapon up.
The corridor is wider than the conduit but still tight for a fight, lit in cold strips along the floor and ceiling.
The first guard crashes into the wall, visor fractured.
The second raises a compact rifle. I catch the barrel and shove it upward as it fires, the shot carving a burning line across the ceiling panel.
My other hand closes around the Reaper’s throat armor, and I slam him backward into the bulkhead hard enough to dent both.
“Subtle,” Pally snaps behind me.
“Situation evolved.”
The first Reaper recovers fast and drives a shock blade toward my side.
I twist, letting it score across the pressure rig instead of my ribs, then trap his wrist and wrench downward.
The joint gives under armor with a wet crunch.
He makes a sharp sound, and I headbutt him before he can make another.
Pally darts past me while I keep both guards occupied, moving straight to the wall interface. His fingers work fast over a stolen access chip, bypassing whatever alarm my entrance just offended.
“Third incoming,” he says.
“I’ve got two.”
“You are about to have three.”
A door at the far end opens, and the third guard steps through with weapon raised.
Pally does not look up. “Duck.”
I do not ask questions.
I drop.
A burst of white static arcs from the wall interface to the corridor’s overhead strip, jumping through the ceiling grid and striking the third Reaper’s weapon.
The rifle overloads in his hands with a bright flash.
He staggers, and I launch forward from the crouch, driving into him before he can recover.
We slam into the doorframe together, and I finish the matter with one hard strike under the helmet seal.
He drops.
I turn back to Pally. “Nice.”
He yanks the access chip free. “That was a diagnostic pulse.”
“Looked violent.”
“It was diagnostically violent.”
“I respect that.”
“Move before someone respects us back.”