Page 14 of Red Scale Daddy
Loklo slides onto the stool beside me as if he has been invited by some alternate version of events. “Since the wrong bar is currently your only bar, maybe we should talk somewhere private before the entire room starts calculating how much your ship parts are worth.”
I turn toward him. “Are you offering assistance or attempting to separate me from witnesses?”
“Yes.”
Dux says, “Loklo.”
“What? It was an honest answer.”
I study Loklo’s face. Humor, yes, but not empty humor. His eyes keep returning to my compad, then to the nearest patrons, then to Dux. He is measuring risk. He masks it with his mouth, but he is not careless.
“I do not leave my equipment unattended,” I say.
“Smart,” Loklo says. “Bring it. We have a back alcove with only two bloodstains, and one of them is sentimental.”
“That is not persuasive.”
“It’s this establishment’s premium tier.”
The scarred woman says, “If you’re still taking candidates after the private chat, I want terms.”
“So do I,” the human in the harness adds.
Dux looks at him. The human shrinks slightly.
“I want terms from a safe philosophical distance,” the human amends.
Good. They are hooked now, or close enough to hook. I collapse the projection, retrieve the compad, and slide it into the inner pocket of my coat. My fingers brush the torn fabric at my collar. The loss of the hood still irritates me, but concealment was never the core of the plan. It was merely convenient.
I follow Loklo toward the back alcove.
The room presses in as I move through it. Bodies shift aside. Scales scrape against leather. Someone’s sleeve brushes mine, damp with spilled liquor. The floor’s sticky pull makes each step feel louder than it is. Dux comes behind us, not invited, not subtle, his tread heavy enough that no one mistakes his presence for an accident.
I stop at the mouth of the alcove and turn. “This was described as private.”
Dux folds his arms. “It is private.”
“You are in it.”
“That is how you can tell.”
Loklo slips past me and drops into a chair at a small round table scarred by heat rings and knife marks. “In fairness, if Dux wants to listen from outside the alcove, the wall has structural disadvantages.”
“It is a wall,” I say.
“It has met him before.”
Dux smiles. “Twice.”
I sit because remaining standing would make me look reactive, and I refuse to grant either of them the satisfaction. The alcove smells marginally less awful than the rest of the bar, mostly because some resinous incense cone has been left to smolder near a vent. Its smoke threads through the air, bitter and green, failing to mask the metallic tang of old cleaning solution. The table is slightly tacky beneath my gloves. I place my compad in front of me but keep my hand on it.
Loklo leans forward, elbows on the table. “So, Roma Larson. Nine years is a long time to chase a dead man.”
“My father is not dead.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
“You implied it.”
