Chapter Twelve — Two Drones Walk Into A Corridor (Space, As Usual, Is A Dick)The maintenance bay hatch sealed behind them with a heavy, felt-through-the-boots thump.
There was no sound.
Just vibration.
Blake stared at the door anyway, because staring at things made them less likely to murder you. Probably. He knew there was no atmosphere, no air to carry noise—but his brain stubbornly expected echoes anyway.
"We can still turn around," he said, his voice flat and oddly intimate in his helmet. The suit routed it to the others over internal comms, but it felt like speaking into his own skull.
Gunny checked his weapon, movements smooth and relaxed, like he was on a firing range instead of inside a dead warship that had already tried to kill them once.
"I would judge us," Gunny replied.
Booth drifted a little closer to Blake, positioning himself very deliberately behind Blake's shoulder.
"I would not," Booth said quickly. "I would applaud. Possibly cry. Respectfully."
Elenor moved ahead, scanning the corridor with practiced calm. Her suit lights swept over exposed cabling and scorched bulkheads.
"Maintenance access is clear," she said. "Engineering is four junctions forward, then down."
Blake swallowed. His HUD helpfully displayed his heart rate in a climbing red arc.
"Four junctions," he said. "That's fine. That's not a lot of chances to die."
Gunny pushed off the deck, gliding forward with a controlled burst from his thrusters.
"Let's make some."
"That is not how odds work," Blake muttered, hurrying after him.
The Dreadnought Remembers What It Was Built ForThe corridors were narrow and brutally utilitarian—designed for drones, tools, and exhausted engineers who didn't get paid enough. Emergency lighting bathed everything in amber, turning the place into a long, silent artery.
No sound.
Just the soft hiss of Blake's breathing in his helmet.
The dull thud of boots transmitted through metal.
Vibrations instead of noise.
Booth frowned at his handheld scanner.
"Okay," he said, voice tight. "Good news and bad news."
Blake didn't even look at him. "Bad news first."
"There's power."
Blake's stomach dropped. "Why is that bad?"
Booth didn't answer.
Because the corridor ahead answered for him.
Two ceiling panels irised open.
No warning sound.
No alarm.
Just motion.
Two security drones dropped cleanly into the corridor, hovering in perfect formation. Sleek. Compact. Paired. One unfolded a plasma cutter arm; the other rotated a pulse emitter that began to glow.
Blake stopped dead.
"Those are new," he said.
Gunny didn't stop.
Gunny lit up.
"Oh," he said pleasantly, "missed you little bastards."
Targeting indicators flickered across Blake's HUD.
"Contact," Elenor said calmly, already raising her weapon.
Gunny launched himself forward.
Drone Pair One: A Very Quiet Mistake
The pulse drone fired first.
There was no sound—just a violent flash of blue-white light tearing down the corridor.
Gunny's antigrav-assisted footwork snapped him sideways, thrusters flaring just enough to make physics look embarrassed. The blast scorched the wall where his head had been.
Gunny slammed into the cutter drone shoulder-first.
Metal deformed.
Sparks bloomed silently.
He tore the cutter arm free and used it to beat the drone like a malfunctioning appliance.
The pulse drone tried to reposition.
Gunny grabbed it mid-hover, slammed it into the deck, and stomped.
The impact shuddered through the floor.
Smoke drifted lazily.
Gunny straightened, brushing debris from his chest plate like he'd bumped into furniture.
Blake stared.
"That was… fast," he said.
Gunny rolled his shoulders. "Pair tactics. Predictable."
Booth peeked out from behind Blake. "Are there more?"
The scanner pinged.
Twice.
Booth swallowed. "Yes."
Drone Pair Two: Slightly Smarter, Still Wrong
The next pair deployed differently—one flanking left, the other right.
Elenor fired once. A clean, precise shot that stripped armor plating without wasting energy.
Gunny vaulted over Blake.
Blake yelped, instinctively ducking as Gunny's boots skimmed past his helmet.
"PLEASE WARN ME BEFORE YOU USE ME AS COVER," Blake snapped.
Gunny landed hard, grabbed the damaged drone mid-spin, and hurled it down the corridor.
It collided with its partner in a silent explosion of sparks and twisted metal.
Gunny followed, boots hammering the deck.
He loomed over the tangled wreckage, posture unmistakably aggressive even without sound.
"Stay. Down."
They didn't.
Gunny corrected that.
When it was over, both drones lay in drifting pieces.
Gunny turned back, calm again.
Blake's HUD informed him his heart rate was inadvisable.
"How many of those do you think there are?" Blake asked.
Booth didn't look up. "Based on dreadnought security doctrine?"
Blake waited.
"…A lot."
Drone Pair Three: Blake Does Something Stupid (It Works)
They moved slower after that.
Too slow.
Wall panels burst open at waist height.
Two more drones.
Blake recoiled, boots skidding.
A pulse emitter fired.
Blake didn't think.
His Repairman sense flared—not repair, not upgrade—understanding. He grabbed a loose conduit panel and shoved.
Metal flowed under his hands, bending impossibly, snapping into a new angle just as the pulse bolt struck—
—and deflected.
Blake stared at it.
"I can do that?!" he blurted.
Gunny laughed, a sharp bark that vibrated through Blake's suit. "Congratulations, Skipper. You improvised."
Elenor dropped one drone cleanly.
Gunny handled the other with extreme prejudice and a flurry of very expressive body language that suggested a lecture about poor life choices.
Engineering Is Close. Unfortunately.
The corridor opened into a broader junction.
Heavy blast doors loomed ahead, marked clearly:
ENGINEERING ACCESS
Blake exhaled shakily, visor fogging for half a second.
"Okay. We're close. That's good."
Booth checked his scanner again.
His shoulders slumped.
"Bad news."
Gunny rolled his shoulders, armor shifting. "Lemme guess."
"Security escalation."
The lights dimmed.
Power surged somewhere deeper in the dreadnought.
Something woke up.
Gunny straightened, eager.
Blake felt his stomach drop.
"I want it on record," Blake said, voice tight, "that I hate this ship."
Gunny clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, the impact rattling Blake's teeth.
"That means it's workin'."
They moved forward anyway.
Silent.
Armored.
Heartbeats loud inside their helmets.
Because turning back had stopped being an option the moment Blake decided fixing things was better than leaving them broken.
__________________________________
The Ship Gets Mean
The blast doors to Engineering didn't open.
They considered opening.
Lights flickered along the seams. Lock indicators pulsed amber, then red, then amber again—like the door itself was trying to decide whether it hated them enough to commit.
Blake hovered in front of the control panel, hands up, not touching anything.
"Okay," he said carefully, "nobody move. This is the part where the ship decides whether we're maintenance personnel or intruders."
Gunny leaned closer, peering at the door. "I can help it decide."
"No," Blake and Elenor said simultaneously.
Booth swallowed. "For the record, doors that hesitate like that usually mean they're stalling while something loads."
Blake closed his eyes. "…I hate that sentence."
As if offended by his tone, the dreadnought made its decision.
The floor shifted.
Not violently—just enough for Blake to feel it through his boots. A subtle vibration, like something massive had adjusted its posture.
Panels along the walls slid open.
Not drones this time.
Turrets.
Ceiling-mounted. Compact. Mean.
Blake looked up.
"Oh come on," he said. "You're guarding engineering. That's like putting a bear trap in a toolbox."
Gunny's posture changed—focused, coiled, happy in a deeply unsettling way.
"Finally," he said. "Proper resistance."
The first turret fired.
No sound. Just light and death.
Gunny moved.
He didn't charge this time—he weaved, suit thrusters pulsing in short, precise bursts that made his path look less like movement and more like aggressive suggestion. The shot scorched past where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.
Elenor fired twice, targeting mounts instead of barrels. One turret tore free, drifting uselessly.
The second adjusted.
Blake flinched as another pulse bolt slammed into the wall beside him, close enough that his HUD flashed a polite STRUCTURAL STRESS WARNING like it was apologizing.
"I AM NOT A COMBAT CLASS," Blake yelled, ducking.
Gunny launched upward, grabbed the turret housing, and ripped.
The entire assembly came free in his hands.
He drifted for a moment, legs bicycling slightly, then hurled it down the corridor where it struck another turret mid-rotation.
Both stopped existing in any meaningful way.
Gunny landed, smoke curling lazily from his armor.
He looked pleased.
Blake stared at him.
"…You enjoy this."
Gunny tilted his head. "Yes."
The dreadnought did not like that.
Power surged again—stronger this time.
Booth checked his scanner, face draining of color.
"Okay," he said weakly. "So. Good news: we're definitely in the right place."
Blake squinted at him. "Bad news?"
"This section just promoted itself."
"Promoted to what?"
Booth swallowed. "Active combat zone."
Right on cue, the far end of the corridor unfolded.
A heavy security unit detached from its wall cradle—larger than the drones, bulkier than the turrets. It moved with deliberate slowness, like it knew it didn't need to rush.
Gunny's eyes lit up.
"Oh hell yes."
Blake grabbed his arm. "No. Absolutely not. That thing is bigger than you."
Gunny looked down at him. Slowly smiled.
"That's rude," he said. "I'm right here."
The unit's weapon array powered up.
Elenor shifted position, calm as ever. "Blake. Options?"
Blake's brain screamed.
His Repairman sense flared—not screaming danger, but opportunity. The unit wasn't just a weapon.
It was machinery.
Complex. Old. Angry.
"I… might be able to make it worse for itself," Blake said uncertainly.
Gunny grinned. "I like that plan."
"I don't," Blake replied, already moving.
He slammed a hand onto an exposed conduit junction as the unit fired.
Metal flowed.
Not repairing—rearranging.
Power feedback screamed through the system. The unit staggered as its own weapon draw spiked uncontrollably.
Its targeting arm locked.
Its stabilizers fought themselves.
Gunny didn't waste the moment.
He charged.
The collision sent a shock through the deck that Blake felt in his teeth. Gunny drove the unit backward, punching, tearing, dismantling with brutal efficiency while Elenor stripped armor plating with precise shots.
The unit tried to recover.
It didn't get the chance.
Gunny planted a boot, twisted, and ripped the core assembly free.
The lights died.
Everything went still.
For a long moment, nobody moved.
Then Blake exhaled so hard his visor fogged completely.
"…I need a chair," he said. "And maybe a lie-down. Possibly a new nervous system."
Gunny clapped him on the back—gentler this time, but still enough to jolt him.
"Good teamwork," Gunny said approvingly. "You break it. I finish it."
Blake looked at the wreckage. At the silent corridor. At the blast doors, now slowly cycling open.
"I hate this ship," he said again.
The doors parted, revealing Engineering beyond—dark, vast, and very much awake.
Somewhere deep inside, systems rerouted.
Security escalated.
_________________________________
Engineering, Or How Blake Regretted Every Decision He'd Made Since Breakfast
Engineering was… bigger than Blake expected.
Which, in hindsight, was a stupid expectation to have aboard a dreadnought.
The blast doors fully retracted, revealing a cavernous chamber that stretched both outward and down, layered with gantries, hanging cranes, and massive reactor-adjacent assemblies that made Blake's inner sense of scale curl up and cry. Thick power trunks ran along the walls like arteries. Half a dozen inactive machine platforms sat around a central pit that disappeared into darkness.
No sound.
Just light.
And power.
Active power.
Blake floated just inside the threshold, staring.
"…Okay," he said finally. "Hear me out. Maybe we take one thing and leave."
Gunny drifted past him without slowing. "Negative."
Booth's voice wobbled slightly. "I would like to formally submit a request to be literally anywhere else."
Elenor scanned calmly, already tagging potential salvage points. "This is the core engineering hub. Booth was right. If we're looking for high-grade components that aren't impossible to sell, this is it."
Blake pinched the bridge of his nose inside his helmet. It didn't help.
"Of course it is," he muttered. "Of course the good stuff lives in the murder room."
The Ship Tries One Last Time
They hadn't gone ten meters in before the floor shifted again.
Not a tremor this time.
A lock.
Blake felt it through his boots—magnetic anchors engaging, stabilizers compensating. The dreadnought was done playing whack-a-drone.
"Uh," Booth said, staring at his scanner. "We've tripped a perimeter escalation. Full lockdown."
Blake stopped dead. "Define 'full.'"
Booth swallowed. "Bulkheads sealing. External exits closing. Internal defenses rerouting."
Gunny cracked his neck, suit servos whining softly. "Good. Hate unfinished business."
Blake stared at him. "You are not allowed to enjoy this."
Gunny shrugged. "I am enjoying it anyway."
Lights along the far wall flared to life.
Something big disengaged from a recessed cradle.
Not a drone.
Not a turret.
A guardian unit.
Heavy. Broad. Bristling with redundant weapon systems and layered armor. It moved with slow, deliberate confidence—like it had been waiting centuries for someone to finally piss it off.
Blake's HUD helpfully labeled it:
ENGINEERING SENTINEL — ACTIVE
"…That's new," Blake said faintly.
Elenor adjusted her stance. "Blake. Ideas?"
His Repairman sense screamed.
Not danger—complexity.
"That thing's tied into half the engineering grid," Blake said quickly. "Power flow, security logic, probably environmental controls. If it fires at full capacity, it'll turn this entire chamber into soup."
Gunny leaned forward slightly. "Can you break it?"
Blake hesitated. Then nodded. "Yes."
Gunny grinned. "Good."
Blake Does Something He Absolutely Shouldn't
Blake pushed off toward a secondary control node, heart hammering.
"I'm not fixing it," he said rapidly, more to himself than anyone else. "I'm not upgrading it. I'm just… adjusting expectations."
The Sentinel powered up its primary weapon.
Gunny launched.
Elenor fired in controlled bursts, peeling armor layers, forcing the unit's targeting to constantly readjust.
Blake slapped both hands onto the control node.
His Repairman ability flared—hot, electric, terrifying.
Systems unfolded in his mind.
Old code.
Military logic.
Failsafes stacked on failsafes.
He didn't repair.
He re-prioritized.
Power routing shifted. Safety tolerances tightened. Weapon draw caps slammed down like bureaucratic guillotines.
The Sentinel tried to fire.
It… didn't.
The unit stuttered, servos locking as its own systems argued violently with themselves.
Gunny hit it like a freight train.
Armor tore free.
The Sentinel reeled, trying to compensate, trying to escalate—
—and failed.
Gunny ripped the core assembly out with both hands.
The lights across Engineering dimmed.
Then steadied.
Everything went quiet.
Aftermath (Or: Everyone Breathing Again)
Blake floated there, hands still pressed to the node, visor completely fogged.
"…I think," he said shakily, "I just bullied a war machine into submission."
Gunny drifted past the wreckage, smoke curling from his armor. "You did fine."
Elenor exhaled slowly. "Engineering security is down."
Booth stared at the Sentinel's remains. "That unit alone could've wiped a boarding party."
Blake nodded weakly. "Yeah. Let's not tell anyone we were here."
They took stock.
Crates.
Component racks.
Sealed storage units packed with mid-tier military tech—valuable, but not mythical. The kind of stuff that would sell well without starting wars.
Booth practically vibrated. "This is perfect. Power regulators. Control matrices. Stabilizer cores. All legit salvage."
Blake forced himself to straighten. "Okay. We take what we can carry. Then we leave. Before the ship decides to escalate again."
Gunny looked around. Thoughtful. "Shame."
Blake pointed at him. "No."
Gunny nodded. "Understood. For now."
Exit, Stage Left
They moved fast after that.
Bots would come later.
Aubrey would plan.
But for now, they were alive—and that felt like winning.
As they reached the corridor back toward the maintenance bay, Blake glanced once more at Engineering.
At the dormant machines.
At the silent power.
At the ship that had tried very hard to kill them.
"I hate this dreadnought," Blake said fervently.
Gunny clapped him on the shoulder—careful this time.
"That's mutual," he said.
They pushed off toward extraction.
Behind them, deep in the dreadnought's systems, emergency protocols downgraded from ACTIVE THREAT to ANNOYANCE RESOLVED.
And Blake had the uncomfortable suspicion that the ship was already planning for next time.