16. Dux #2
Behind me, I hear Roma moving through the corridor, her steps controlled and deliberate as she positions herself just outside the immediate line of the breach.
Her attention splits between the handheld interface in her grip and the unfolding fight, her eyes tracking both the system readouts and the drones forcing their way into the ship.
The air pressure stabilizes slightly as she reroutes internal systems, smoothing out the uneven pull that had been dragging at the edges of the corridor.
“She’s adjusting the ship around me,” I realize.
“Dux,” she says, her voice steady despite the urgency threaded through it, “three additional drones are attempting simultaneous entry.”
“I see them,” I reply.
The next wave presses through the breach together, their limbs tangling briefly before separating with coordinated precision. The confined space forces them into each other’s path, slowing their advance just enough to give me the opening I need.
I step forward to meet them.
“Stay behind me,” I say without looking back.
A brief pause follows.
“Understood,” she replies.
That lands differently than I expect.
I push it aside and focus on the movement in front of me.
The first of the new drones lunges, and I move with it.
Its forward limb arcs toward my head, fast enough to blur in the low emergency lighting, but the movement carries a pattern now that I recognize.
I shift my weight just off center and let the strike pass close enough to feel the displaced air along my cheek before catching the follow-through at the joint.
The impact drives into my grip, heavy and sharp, and I turn with it, redirecting the force downward into the deck.
The limb slams into the metal floor with a dull, concussive crack.
Before it can retract, I bring my heel down across the joint with enough force to collapse the structure beneath its plating.
The material fractures under the pressure, splitting along a line that exposes the softer tissue beneath.
The drone reacts immediately, its body convulsing as it attempts to withdraw, but the confined space works against it, trapping its own movement.
I drive forward, closing the distance completely.
My hand finds the exposed seam, fingers forcing into the gap, and I twist hard enough to disrupt whatever internal system governs its movement. The resistance breaks in a sudden, violent release, and the drone shudders before going slack.
I don’t let it drop cleanly.
Instead, I shove it sideways into the second drone pushing through behind it.
The impact tangles them together in the narrow breach, their limbs colliding in a brief, chaotic knot of motion that stalls their advance just long enough to give me another opening.
The second drone reacts faster than the others, adjusting its posture mid-contact, its limbs repositioning with unsettling coordination as it attempts to climb over the first.
It almost manages it.
I step forward again and drive my shoulder into its center mass before it can fully separate, forcing it back into the frame of the airlock. The metal groans under the combined pressure, the already-damaged structure bending further as the drone’s body slams into it.
Behind it, a third drone forces its way into the gap.
“They are increasing pressure on the breach point,” Roma says, her voice cutting through the corridor from behind me, steady despite the escalating threat. “Structural integrity is degrading faster than projected.”
“Then we finish this before it matters,” I reply, not taking my eyes off the movement in front of me.
The second drone recovers first.
It drives one of its rear limbs toward my torso, aiming lower this time, adjusting its attack pattern to the way I’ve been intercepting its upper strikes.
The change is fast enough to be dangerous, but the space works in my favor again.
There isn’t enough room for it to fully extend, and the strike clips against the side of the corridor before reaching me at full force.
I catch the limb mid-motion and yank hard, pulling the creature off balance.
It crashes forward into me instead of through me.
That’s exactly where I want it.
I twist with the impact, shifting my stance and using its own forward momentum to turn it sideways into the wall. The plating along its body scrapes hard against the metal surface, sparks flaring briefly where friction bites deep enough to shear material.
I bring my elbow down across the same weakened seam I exploited on the others.
The first strike cracks the outer plating.
The second drives through it.
The third opens it wide enough to reach inside.
The drone convulses under the force, its limbs striking wildly against the corridor walls, but the confined space traps its movement just enough that it cannot gain leverage. I push in harder, forcing my hand into the exposed interior and crushing down until the resistance collapses completely.
It drops.
The third drone clears the breach as the second falls.
This one does not hesitate.
It launches immediately, its movement sharper, more direct, as if the loss of the others has refined its approach rather than deterred it. Its limbs strike in a rapid sequence, testing angles, searching for an opening in my defense.
I shift backward half a step, not retreating, but creating just enough space to read the pattern.
It adjusts again.
Good.
That means it’s predictable.
I let the next strike come in closer before intercepting it, catching the limb just below the joint and pulling it off line. At the same time, I drive my knee upward into the center of its body, forcing its structure to fold inward just enough to break its balance.
The impact carries through both of us, the force echoing through the deck beneath my feet.
It tries to recover.
I don’t let it.
I pivot, using the rotation to bring it down hard against the floor, then follow immediately, dropping my weight across it to pin its core structure long enough to gain purchase on its armor.
The plating resists harder this time.
The material flexes under my grip, shifting instead of cracking cleanly, as if the drone is compensating for the damage it has already observed in the others.
“They are adapting to structural compromise,” Roma says behind me, her voice sharper now as she tracks the changes in their behavior.
“Yeah,” I mutter, adjusting my grip. “I noticed.”
I change my approach.
Instead of pulling directly against the plating, I shift my hands to the edges of two overlapping segments and force them apart at the seam where they meet. The movement creates a different kind of stress, one the structure isn’t compensating for as effectively.
The material gives.
Not all at once, but enough.
I force the opening wider, then drive my hand into the exposed interior and crush inward with controlled force.
The drone jerks violently beneath me.
Then it stops.
I push back to my feet, drawing a steady breath as I reset my stance.
Behind me, Roma steps closer into the corridor, her presence more immediate now, the glow from her handheld interface casting shifting light across the walls. Her attention moves between the readouts and the breach, her expression tightly focused as she recalculates in real time.
“They are beginning to withdraw from the immediate breach,” she says, her voice quieter now but no less controlled. “Their movement patterns indicate reassessment.”
“Good,” I reply, rolling my shoulder once as I watch the remaining shapes cluster just beyond the opening. “Means we hit them hard enough to make them think.”
“They are not retreating,” she says. “They are evaluating alternative points of entry.”
“Then we make this one too expensive to use.”
Another drone edges forward, slower this time, its limbs testing the damaged frame before committing its weight. It does not launch immediately. Instead, it adjusts its angle, probing for a different approach vector.
“They’re getting cautious,” I say.
“Yes.”
“That won’t last.”
“No.”
The drone commits.
It comes in low, its limbs striking toward my legs in a coordinated attempt to destabilize my footing.
I shift my stance and absorb the impact through my center, letting the force travel through my frame rather than breaking my balance.
My hand drops to catch the leading limb, and I pivot with the motion, redirecting it just enough to throw its alignment off.
At the same time, I feel the deck stabilize beneath me again.
Roma.
She’s compensating for the shift in force distribution, adjusting the ship’s systems in real time to support my footing in the corridor.
“Keep that up,” I say.
“I am,” she replies, her tone tight with concentration.
The drone tries to recover, but the narrow space limits its options. I close the distance before it can reset, driving forward and forcing it back into the damaged airlock frame.
The metal groans again under the pressure.
I bring my fist down across the seam beneath its plating, once, twice, then drive through on the third strike with enough force to break the structure open. The resistance collapses under the impact, and I finish it the same way as the others—fast, direct, decisive.
When it stops moving, the corridor settles into a strained quiet.
Beyond the breach, the remaining drones shift.
They do not advance immediately.
They do not retreat.
They hold position just outside the opening, their bodies angled in a way that suggests calculation rather than hesitation.
“They are reorganizing,” Roma says.
“Let them,” I reply, stepping forward to the edge of the breach, my gaze fixed on the shapes moving just beyond it. “If they want another round, they can come get it.”
For a moment, nothing moves.
Then, slowly, the nearest drone withdraws from the edge of the opening, its limbs releasing their grip on the hull as it pulls back into the warped darkness outside.
The others follow.
Not in panic.
Not in disorder.
In sequence.
“They are disengaging from this entry point,” Roma says, her voice carrying a note of cautious relief that she does not quite allow to surface fully.
“Means they’ll try somewhere else,” I say.
“Yes.”
I exhale slowly, letting the tension ease just enough to think clearly again.
“Then we don’t give them another place to get in.”
Roma steps up beside me now, her attention already shifting to the internal systems as she begins rerouting power and sealing compromised sections of the ship.
“I am reinforcing all external access points and redistributing structural load,” she says. “The damage to this section is contained, but additional stress will?—”
“I’ll handle anything that gets through,” I say, cutting in before she can finish the projection.
Her eyes flick toward me.
“You already are,” she says quietly.
I meet her gaze, something settling between us that wasn’t there before.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I am.”