16. Dux
DUX
The stars do not hold still.
They smear across the forward display in long, bending arcs, stretching into pale ribbons that slide over one another as the ship advances.
Light warps and folds in slow, deliberate distortions, as if the void itself has thickened and begun to drag everything passing through it.
The effect unsettles the eye in a way that resists adjustment; every instinct expects fixed points, something stable to anchor against, but nothing here stays where it should.
The vibration beneath my boots runs deeper than before, no longer a steady hum but a layered pulse that rises and falls in uneven intervals.
It travels up through the deck plating, into my legs, and settles in my chest with a dull, persistent pressure that makes every breath feel slightly out of sync.
The ship holds together, but it does so with effort now, every system working harder than it was designed to admit.
Roma leans forward in the pilot’s chair, the glow from her console catching along the edge of her jaw and the bridge of her nose.
Her hands move in precise patterns across the controls, each adjustment placed exactly where it needs to be, each correction made without hesitation.
The efficiency in her movement never slips, yet something beneath it runs tighter than before, a restrained urgency that sharpens the edges of her control.
I watch her longer than I should.
“You planning on pretending that didn’t happen,” I say, my voice low in the confined space, “or are we going to deal with it before it starts affecting your decisions?”
Her fingers continue moving, tapping, sliding, recalibrating the ship’s course through the shifting gravitational corridor ahead.
“We are maintaining operational focus,” she replies, her tone even and deliberate. “Any deviation from that priority would be inefficient.”
I push off the bulkhead and step closer, bracing one hand against the back of her chair as I study the tight line of her shoulders. “You’re pushing it down so hard it’s going to come back up at the worst possible moment.”
“My decisions are not compromised,” she says.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her jaw tightens, and for a moment her fingers pause above the console before resuming their controlled motion. The interruption lasts less than a second, but it’s enough to tell me exactly how close the pressure is sitting under the surface.
“You are introducing unnecessary variables into a situation that already contains more than enough,” she says. “If you intend to be useful, I suggest you redirect your attention accordingly.”
A faint grin pulls at the corner of my mouth despite the tension sitting heavy in the air. “You always talk like that when you’re trying not to feel something, or is that just for special occasions?”
Her head turns just enough for her to look at me, her green eyes sharp and bright under the console light.
“Focus,” she says.
I hold her gaze for a second longer, then ease back, letting my hand drop from the chair.
“We’ll come back to it,” I tell her.
Her shoulders shift by a fraction, the smallest release of tension, before she locks everything back down and returns her full attention to the navigation display.
The ship lists hard to starboard.
The motion runs through the hull like something dragging across the exterior, not an impact that strikes and passes but a sustained disturbance that presses along the surface. My body reacts before my mind finishes processing it, muscles tightening as I turn toward the forward display.
Roma stills.
Her head tilts slightly, her attention shifting inward as she listens past the noise of the ship’s systems.
Another vibration follows, sharper this time, localized along one section of the hull. The sound reaches us a heartbeat later, a high, metallic scrape that cuts through the ambient hum and sets every nerve on edge.
Roma’s types quickly on the console, pulling up external diagnostics and routing visual feeds to the main display.
The image resolves in a flicker of warped light.
Movement crawls across the hull.
Zenos drones cling to the outer plating, their six-limbed bodies anchored by hooked extremities that dig into the metal with deliberate force.
Their segmented armor shifts as they move, overlapping plates sliding over one another with a mechanical precision that suggests coordination rather than instinct.
Several cluster along a seam near one of the external access points, their limbs striking the same location in repeated, measured impacts.
“They have identified a structural weakness,” Roma says, her voice tightening slightly as she tracks their movement.
“They’re working together,” I reply, watching the pattern of their strikes.
One of the drones slams its forelimb into the seam again. The metal dents inward, a shallow deformation that deepens with each successive blow. Another joins the first, their strikes falling into rhythm, each impact landing just after the last.
Roma’s fingers fly across the controls, rerouting internal pressure, reinforcing the surrounding structure, and shifting system loads to compensate for the stress.
“They are adapting to resistance,” she says.
“They’re learning,” I correct.
The seam fractures.
A sharp crack spreads along the line where the metal has weakened, branching outward under the repeated force. The next strike drives deeper, splitting the plating just enough to expose the underlying structure.
Then the hull gives.
The rupture tears open with a harsh metallic snap, followed immediately by the hiss of escaping pressure.
Roma’s attention snaps to the internal layout. “Airlock three has been compromised.”
The outer hatch buckles inward on the display, folding under the pressure from outside as the drones force the breach wider.
I turn toward the corridor.
“Dux,” she calls.
I glance back.
“Do not discharge your weapon,” she says, the urgency in her voice threading through her control. “The pressure differential and structural integrity?—”
“I’ll handle it,” I cut in, already moving.
The corridor narrows as I move deeper into the ship, the lighting dimming to emergency levels that cast long shadows along the walls. The air carries a faint shift in pressure, a subtle pull that brushes against my skin as the ship works to stabilize the breach.
The sound reaches me before I reach the airlock.
Scraping. Clicking. The harsh grind of metal forced beyond its tolerance.
I slow as I approach the corner, setting my footing before stepping into the line of the breach.
The inner airlock door has already begun to deform, the metal bending inward under the pressure from outside. A jagged opening splits along the seam, wide enough for something to force its way through.
The first drone emerges slowly, its limbs anchoring into the frame as it pulls its body into the corridor. Its head turns as it clears the threshold, locking onto me with an unsettling stillness.
Then it moves.
The lunge comes fast, its forward limbs striking toward my upper body with enough force to break bone if they land clean.
I step into the attack, catching one limb mid-strike and redirecting the momentum sideways.
The impact travels through my arm as I twist, using the force of its own movement to slam it into the bulkhead.
The metal dents under the impact.
The drone recoils, its body flexing as it tries to regain balance. I close the distance immediately, driving my fist into the seam beneath its plating where the armor thins near the joint. The resistance shifts under the strike, less rigid, more vulnerable.
It lashes out with its remaining limbs, one catching my side and slicing through fabric into skin. The sensation registers as a sharp line of heat, but I keep my focus on the point of weakness.
I strike again.
The plating fractures with a sharp crack.
The drone emits a high, vibrating screech that echoes through the corridor. I grab the edge of the damaged armor and wrench it back, exposing the softer structure beneath.
My hand drives into the opening, and I crush inward with as much force as I can generate.
The creature convulses.
Then it goes slack.
I shove it aside and step forward as another drone forces its way through the breach behind it.
Roma’s voice comes through the comm again, closer now, less filtered by distance. “Multiple additional contacts are converging on the breach point.”
“Keep them coming here,” I say, adjusting my stance.
“I am stabilizing internal pressure and reinforcing the corridor structure,” she replies. “I cannot guarantee full containment.”
“I don’t need containment,” I say. “I need space to move.”
The next drone lunges as soon as it clears the opening.
I meet it head-on, catching its strike and driving my shoulder into its center mass. The impact sends it crashing back into the frame of the airlock, tangling briefly with another drone trying to force its way through behind it.
The confined space works in my favor.
They cannot spread out.
They cannot surround me cleanly.
They come through one at a time, or not at all.
I grab the nearest limb and twist, using the leverage to pull the creature off balance.
It hits the deck hard, its body slamming against the metal floor with a force that reverberates up through my legs.
I follow it down, driving a knee into its center mass to pin it long enough to get my grip under the edge of its plating.
The armor resists, flexing under the strain.
I adjust my position, bracing my foot against the deck for leverage, and pull harder.
The plating tears open in a jagged split.
The drone thrashes violently, its limbs striking the floor and walls as it tries to break free. One catches my shoulder, driving me back just enough to loosen my hold.
I shift my grip and drive my hand into the exposed interior, crushing down until the movement stops.