Page 3 of Red Scale Daddy
That buys me exactly half a second of attention before the human beside me laughs again.
“She’s drunker than I am,” he says.
“I’m not drunk,” I answer. “You just have the educational disadvantages of a man who probably loses arguments to vending machines.”
That lands better than it should. Even the Alzhon beside me lowers his drink to hide a smile.
The human’s face darkens. “Careful.”
“Why?” I ask. “Will you challenge me to a duel with monosyllables?”
The half-Vakutan behind the bar bends forward, bracing his elbows on the counter. “Please keep talking. I have not enjoyed myself this much all week.”
The bartender cuts him a look without taking his eyes off me.
Interesting. He lets the other man play. He enforces only when necessary. That makes him more dangerous, not less.
I slide the compad from inside my jacket and set it flat on the bar. Several heads turn immediately. Money talks. Tech screams.
“Since some of you appear trapped in the tragic condition of needing evidence,” I say, “I brought some.”
I key the projection low and tight so only the nearest radius can see the first image bloom into the air: a rotating schematic of my ship, blue-white lines suspended over the bar in aghostly lattice of structure and intent. Hull cross-sections flicker into place. Drive rings. Shielding nodes. Heat sinks. External maneuver arrays. I do not show the full design. I am not suicidal. But I show enough.
The laughter changes.
Not gone. Just altered. Pulled thinner. More focused.
The Alzhon beside me straightens slightly. The woman with the neck scars leaves her stool and comes closer. Even the card players are watching now.
“That’s not dockyard trash,” the scarred woman says.
“No,” I reply.
The human in the harness squints at the projection. “That engine housing is insane.”
“It is mathematically ambitious,” I correct.
“It’s insane,” he repeats.
The scarred woman points at the shield geometry. “That pattern’s wrong.”
“It looks wrong because you’re assuming standard wave deflection,” I say. “It isn’t standard.”
She folds her arms. “What is it, then?”
“A modified convergence array.”
“That would tear itself apart under stress.”
“It would if I were incompetent.”
The half-Vakutan makes a choking sound that might be another laugh. The bartender is no longer polishing imaginary glasses. He is watching the schematic like a man who knows more about ships than a bartender strictly needs to.
That is useful. Potentially.
Also dangerous.
The scarred woman leans closer to the projection, eyes narrowed. “You built this?”
