13. Roma
ROMA
The drones do not stop testing the hull.
They scrape, tap, strike, and retreat, turning the Lamplight into the center of a patient, many-legged argument.
Every few seconds a claw drags across exterior plating with a shriek that travels through the frame and settles under my teeth.
The cockpit smells of overheated circuits, sealant smoke, suit dust, and Dux’s blood beneath the chemical bite of the compression patches.
Emergency blue light washes over the consoles, cold and surgical, while the damage displays pulse in layered warnings that refuse to quiet.
My ship is alive.
Barely.
I kneel beneath the secondary routing panel with half my torso inside the access bay, a coil of replacement conduits looped around my wrist. The edge of the housing presses into my ribs while heat radiates from the damaged junction in dry, prickling waves.
Sweat gathers beneath my collar despite the lingering chill in the air.
My left hand braces the bypass line while my right threads a replacement coupler through a space too narrow for proper leverage and too hot for patience.
Something slams onto the hull above us.
The ceiling dents inward with a dull, protesting groan.
I shut my eyes briefly, steadying my breathing before speaking. “If that drone punctures my upper coolant exchange,” I say, my voice tight with restraint, “I am going to be very cross.”
Dux does not hesitate. He shifts his stance, raises his weapon, and fires upward at a precise angle that skirts disaster by the narrowest margin.
The shot reverberates through the cockpit.
A wet, furious shriek answers from outside, followed by the scraping slide of something losing its grip on the hull.
Lowering the weapon, he exhales through his nose. “Problem relocated,” he says.
I pull myself partially out from the panel and glare at him. “You fired inside my ship.”
Dux tilts his head, glancing at the dent before looking back at me. “I fired from inside your ship,” he corrects, tapping the ceiling lightly. “Important distinction.”
“It is not,” I reply, tightening the coupler until the tool chirps green. “The ceiling disagrees.”
He studies the dent as if considering its feelings. “The ceiling is alive because of me.”
“The ceiling is dented because of you.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Alive and dented is still a win.”
I slide fully out and rise to my feet, brushing dust from my gloves. His armor is torn along the shoulder and side, and the compression patch over his ribs has darkened again where blood presses against it. He stands like the damage is an inconvenience rather than a concern.
“Stop making philosophy out of property damage,” I say, turning back toward the console.
“Then stop owning fragile property,” he replies, though his weight shifts slightly as if the movement costs him more than he wants to admit.
“The ship survived a gravitational anomaly and a crash landing,” I counter, already reaching for the next panel.
“And now drones are chewing on it.”
“They are not chewing.”
He glances upward as another claw scrapes across the hull. “They are enthusiastically evaluating.”
I ignore him and refocus on the routing. The replacement coupler seats, but the bypass line resists calibration. I adjust voltage tolerance manually, reroute through the tertiary stabilizer, and lock the connection before another impact can disrupt it. The panel flickers from red to amber.
“Routing junction three patched,” I say. “Temporary stability achieved.”
Dux leans against the hatch frame, eyes flicking toward the display. “Temporary as in stable,” he asks, “or temporary as in we should say something meaningful before we explode?”
“Stable if we avoid another crash,” I reply.
“Ambitious.”
I climb into the pilot’s chair, ignoring the stiffness in my legs. “We need another thirty-two minutes.”
Dux turns toward the canopy, where faint movement shifts beyond the dust haze. His posture tightens, attention sharpening. “They are not giving us thirty-two minutes.”
“They are not consulted.”
He glances back at me, a flicker of reluctant respect in his expression. “Rude of you.”
“They damaged my ship.”
“So did the asteroid.”
“I am also angry at the asteroid.”
That earns a low, strained laugh from him before his hand presses against his side again.
I notice.
I should not.
“You need another patch,” I say, already moving toward the medkit.
He straightens slightly, watching me approach. “I need a lot of things.”
“You are getting medical care.”
His eyes narrow slightly, studying my face. “Is this concern?”
“This is inventory preservation,” I reply, pulling back the damaged armor.
“Of your only combat specialist?”
“Of my only useful liability.”
“You keep refining the insult.”
“Do not become sentimental.”
“Too late,” he murmurs.
I peel away the old patch. Blood wells immediately. He inhales sharply, his shoulders tightening for a fraction of a second before he forces himself still.
“That hurt,” he says.
“Yes.”
“No apology?”
“I did not design your nervous system.”
“You wound me emotionally.”
“I am treating you physically.”
I spray sealant across the wound. He exhales through clenched teeth, the tension visible in the way his hand grips the edge of the hatch.
“Selective service,” he mutters.
I press the new patch into place and hold it until the seal bonds. His skin is hot beneath the glove, the heat radiating through the material.
Then I step back.
“Patch will hold,” I say. “Unless you do something unnecessary.”
He lets out a slow breath. “No promises.”
“Then bleed quietly.”
He studies me for a moment longer, something more serious settling into his expression. “You’re shaking.”
I glance down.
My hands appear steady.
Mostly.
“That is incorrect.”
“You’re forcing them steady,” he says, his tone quieter now. “Your breathing changed when the routing went amber.”
“That is focus.”
“That is nearly losing your ship.”
I turn back to the console. “We need eleven minutes without interference.”
“They won’t give it to you.”
“Then we create a reason.”
That shifts him immediately. He pushes off the wall, interest sharpening. “Now we’re talking.”
I pull up the terrain mapping. The mineral veins form a lattice beneath the surface, brightest near the ridge and crash gouge. The drones avoided the charged zones earlier, which suggests reactive learning rather than blind aggression.
“They respond to vibration and heat,” I say. “Possibly electromagnetic changes.”
He folds his arms, considering. “So we fake dinner somewhere else.”
“I can overload the sealant patch near the ridge and pulse heat through the vein,” I reply, adjusting the parameters. “It should draw them away long enough to recalibrate the vane.”
“Should.”
“It may.”
He nods once. “Better.”
I trigger the pulse.
The ground beyond the ship flares with blue-white light as the mineral veins ignite with energy. A low hum rises through the structure. The drone on the canopy freezes, then shifts its attention away from us.
One by one, they peel off.
Dux exhales slowly. “That worked.”
“Begin vane calibration,” I say.
He glances at me. “You want me involved?”
“You have external visual confirmation I do not.”
He smirks faintly. “Promotion suits me.”
“Do not become accustomed to it.”
He leans toward his display. “Hinge angle twelve degrees.”
“Commanding fifteen.”
“Thirteen… fourteen… holding just under.”
“Acceptable.”
“You don’t look convinced.”
“My expression is irrelevant.”
He continues reading as I increase power. The vane moves, grinding but responsive.
“Seventeen… nineteen… twenty-one,” he says, his voice tightening slightly. “That does not sound healthy.”
“I am aware.”
“Twenty-three,” he adds. “Stabilizing.”
The system locks.
Partial control restored.
I draw in a breath?—
—and the scanner chirps.
Not an alarm.
A signal.
I freeze.
Dux notices immediately. His voice lowers. “Roma… what is it?”
I do not answer. I reroute, isolate, filter.
The tone repeats.
“It’s him,” I say in a tight voice.
Dux straightens. “The signal?”
“Yes,” I reply, turning toward him. “It’s his checksum.”
He studies my face. “You’re sure?”
“It’s his work,” I say, my voice unsteady despite my effort to control it.
He folds his arms slowly. “Could someone fake it?”
“Yes,” I snap, then force myself calmer. “But not easily.”
“So it could be bait.”
“It’s him.”
Dux watches me for a moment, then nods once. “I believe you.”
That almost breaks me.
I turn back to the console.
“He’s alive,” I say.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t waste nine years.”
“No.”
The signal flickers.
Panic surges.
I lunge forward. “I need to lock the vector.”
“The drones are coming back,” Dux says, stepping closer.
“I need thirty seconds.”
“Roma—”
“I need thirty seconds.”
His voice sharpens. “Roma.”
I look at him.
“What happens after him?” he asks.
The question hits hard. “Now?”
“Yes.”
“This is not the time.”
“It is exactly the time.”
“My father is alive,” I say, my voice rising.
“And what happens after you save him?” he presses.
“I bring him home.”
“And after that?”
I hesitate.
“That’s what I thought,” Dux says quietly.
“This is all I have,” I admit.
His expression hardens. “That’s hollow.”
“No,” I snap.
“Yes,” he fires back. “Because you gave everything to one outcome.”
“My father?—”
“Would want you to be more than this,” he interrupts, his voice rough. “Not just a mission wearing a person.”
I lock the vector, my father’s mark steady on the display, faint but undeniable.
“We finish this later,” Dux says, turning toward the hatch.
“Yes,” I say, forcing my voice steady again.
Outside, the drones return.
Inside, everything has changed.