5. Roma
ROMA
By the time I reach Docking Bay Twelve, the ache along my cheek has settled into something steady and persistent, a dull pulse that syncs unpleasantly with my heartbeat.
The corridors outside Shot in the Dark feel cleaner, but only in the way a surgical table feels clean after a bad operation.
The air is colder, stripped of the bar’s suffocating humidity, and carries the dry, metallic tang of recycled oxygen and overheated circuitry.
Each breath rasps faintly against the back of my throat.
Overhead vents hum with mechanical indifference, while somewhere deep in the station’s spine, cargo lifts grind and lock into place with heavy, echoing finality.
My boots strike the floor in controlled rhythm, though the faint stick of spilled residue still clings to the soles.
I adjust the torn edge of my hood, then stop bothering. Concealment is no longer part of the equation.
Improvisation never should have been.
My ship waits below the gantry, exactly where I left her, untouched by chaos, indifferent to it.
The Lamplight rests beneath sterile overhead lights, her hull absorbing brightness rather than reflecting it, her shape compact and deliberate.
There is no ornamentation, no excess curvature meant to impress or comfort.
Every surface exists to serve a function.
Every line exists because I put it there.
For a moment, the pressure in my chest loosens.
“You’re still here,” I murmur under my breath.
The ship answers with a low, reassuring hum as systems recognize my proximity and begin to wake. That sound settles something inside me more effectively than any human voice could manage.
My compad pings.
I already know who it is.
I let the call linger just long enough to irritate him before answering.
Harl Venn’s projection blooms into existence above my palm, polished and composed, his expression carefully curated into something that passes for warmth in transactional environments.
“Roma,” he says smoothly. “I hear your evening has been… eventful.”
“You sent armed collectors into a public bar.”
“I sent representatives to address an overdue concern.”
“They escalated to violence.”
“How unfortunate,” he replies, tilting his head slightly as if considering a minor scheduling conflict. “Some individuals lack restraint.”
“One of them suggested payment in body parts.”
His smile widens a fraction, controlled but unmistakable. “Creative negotiation is common in less refined sectors.”
“You sold my debt prematurely,” I say. “That violates contract.”
“My dear, you are approaching launch with incomplete crew certification and outstanding balances. I have demonstrated remarkable patience.”
“I am not your dear.”
“No,” he says, voice softening in a way that feels deliberate. “You are a liability with ambition.”
“I will pay upon mission completion.”
“And if you fail?”
“I won’t.”
A soft laugh escapes him, polished and faintly indulgent. “Confidence is admirable. Misplaced confidence is profitable.”
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.”
“That assessment stands.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying the cockpit, the displays, the structure of the space. “You don’t believe that.”
“I do.”
“No,” he says, voice quieter now. “You don’t.”
I step closer, closing the distance deliberately. “Leave.”
“Make me.”
That is not a threat. It is an invitation.
I ignore it.
“You have no respect for command.”
“I have no respect for bad command.”
“You have no evidence mine is flawed.”
“You think it isn’t.”
“I know it isn’t.”
“Same difference.”
I exhale slowly, controlling the rising frustration before it manifests in something inefficient. “You do not value survival.”
“I value the attempt.”
“That disqualifies you.”
“To you.”
“To reality.”
His gaze shifts briefly to the forward viewport before returning to me. “Survival without purpose isn’t much of a victory.”
“That is not your decision to make on my mission.”
“It becomes my decision if I’m on your mission.”
“You are not.”
“Not yet.”
I study him.
Every metric I have tells me this is a mistake. Every calculation flags him as unstable, unpredictable, and incompatible with structured command.
And yet?—
“You need someone capable under pressure,” he says. “You saw that.”
“I saw you create additional variables.”
“I saw you adapt to them.”
“That is not a sustainable strategy.”
“It is when the plan stops working.”
“The plan will work.”
He lets out a quiet, almost amused breath. “You really believe that.”
“I know it.”
“And when it doesn’t?”
“It will.”
“And when it doesn’t?”
The repetition presses against something I refuse to acknowledge.
“It will,” I say again.
He watches me for a moment longer, then shifts slightly, resting his weight against the frame with deliberate ease. “You’re not afraid of dying.”
“I am not planning to.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I am not interested in philosophical distinctions.”
“You should be,” he says. “They keep you alive longer.”
I turn away before irritation sharpens into something less controlled. “If I were to consider this—which I am not confirming—I would establish terms.”
His eyes change, interest sharpening. “Good. I like terms.”
“You do not.”
“I like testing them.”
“That is precisely the problem.”
I begin outlining conditions anyway.
“This is my vessel. My mission. My command. You follow instructions without deviation unless immediate survival requires otherwise.”
“That’s a big exception.”
“It is a necessary one.”
“And if your instructions are wrong?”
“They won’t be.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one you are getting.”
He studies me, then nods once, slow and thoughtful. “All right.”
I narrow my eyes slightly. “That was too easy.”
“I didn’t say I’d enjoy it.”
“You will not undermine me.”
“Depends.”
“It does not depend.”
“It depends on whether you’re right.”
I step closer again. “You do not get to decide that in the moment.”
“I always decide that in the moment.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with friction.
Then I say, “If you cannot follow command structure, you cannot come.”
He considers that.
Then, quietly, “I can follow you.”
That lands differently than it should.
I ignore it.
“Final condition,” I say. “You act to preserve life and mission integrity. Not for thrill. Not for personal justification.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It is not.”
“It is when you’ve got nothing else.”
Something in his voice shifts there, subtle but real.
I choose not to examine it.
“Then you are free to leave,” I say.
He looks around the cockpit again, slower this time, taking in the systems, the structure, the intent behind every design decision.
“What’s her name?” he asks.
“The Lamplight.”
“That’s softer than I expected.”
“It is precise.”
“Sure it is.”
I ignore him again and finalize the crew contract.
“Place your hand here.”
He does.
“Name.”
“Dux.”
I enter it.
The system processes, then confirms.
His name appears beneath mine.
It feels wrong.
It also feels necessary.
I close the display and bring up launch preparation.
Behind me, the station continues its endless mechanical rhythm. Ahead of me, the path into the core waits, silent and unforgiving.
I do not look back.
“I am not taking a partner,” I say.
Dux settles into the secondary chair with a faint creak of protest from the structure. “Good.”
“I am taking a risk.”
“Better.”
I allow myself one final breath of stillness before everything changes.
Then I begin.
“Prepare for departure,” I say.
And this time, when he answers, there is no hesitation.
“Ready when you are.”