Page 2 of Red Scale Daddy
“I’m not here to make friends,” I say.
A laugh barks out from two stools down. The human in the harness leans back and raises his voice.
“You hear that? Hooded little grease-rat’s not here to make friends.”
The table behind him joins in. Someone claps once, slow and mocking.
The bartender studies me for one long moment, golden eyes narrowed slightly, and then he props one forearm on the bar.
“You have exactly one minute before I decide whether you’re entertaining enough to keep,” he says. “After that, you either buy something, leave, or learn what the floor tastes like.”
Fair. By criminal den standards, that is practically generous.
I tap two fingers against the bar for projection, not nerves, and raise my voice without shouting.
“I’m hiring.”
A hush does not fall. I am not that lucky. But the nearest conversations snag and kink around the word.
“I require a pilot or combat-capable escort with experience in unstable space conditions, salvage environments, or long-rangesurvival operations,” I continue. “Pay is substantial. Hazard is extreme. Departure is immediate upon successful vetting.”
A Kiphian from the card table calls, “That all? Thought for sure you were selling religion.”
“Only to people with money,” I say.
A few people laugh at that, but it is the laugh reserved for a street performer who has not yet started bleeding. Not admiration. Anticipation.
The human beside me swivels his stool fully toward me. “What kind of hazard?”
“The kind that kills people who ask that question first.”
“That sounds expensive,” he says.
“It is.”
The bartender folds the rag and sets it aside. His face gives me nothing. The younger man with him is openly watching now, eyes bright.
The human says, “And where exactly is this mystery job going?”
I let the silence stretch just long enough to sharpen it.
“The galactic core.”
The room breaks like a wave against stone.
Laughter slams into me from three directions. Not nervous laughter. Not disbelieving laughter. Cruel laughter. The kind that strips flesh from dignity and hangs it up for decoration. Someone nearly chokes on a drink. One of the Pi’Rell lowers his cards and actually smiles, which I suspect is the immortal equivalent of rolling on the floor.
“Oh, sweetheart,” a woman near the back says. “That is adorable.”
“Core?” somebody else bellows. “Why not ask for volunteers to fist a supernova while you’re at it?”
A gravelly voice from the corner adds, “Depends on the rate.”
Even I almost smile at that one.
I plant both hands on the bar and wait for the noise to spend itself. Mockery usually burns hot and fast. It is insecurity in carnival paint.
When they settle enough to hear again, I say, “The vessel is purpose-built. I designed it myself. Its shielding geometry compensates for lensing stress and particulate shear, and its drive housing has been modified for repeated gravitational deviation without catastrophic coil degradation.”
