Page 13 of Red Scale Daddy
“This route enters through a low-density drift corridor beyond the Nemean shear field,” I say. “The passage opens approximately every thirty-one hours, dependent upon micro-lensing variance. The window is narrow, but not imaginary. I have mapped three emergency exits, two probable debris shelters, and one dormant IHC relay shell that may still contain salvageable power reserves.”
The Alzhon with silver hair leans closer. “Nemean shear field ate a cruiser squadron.”
“It ate three cruisers, two scouts, and a rescue cutter,” I say. “The fourth cruiser escaped after jettisoning half its aft hull and most of its crew compartments.”
The Alzhon’s pale brows lift. “You memorized the loss report?”
“I memorized all of them.”
The words land heavier than I intend.
Dux’s expression changes slightly, not softening, exactly, but narrowing around something more serious than amusement. I hate that I notice. I hate more that I know what he heard inside that sentence. Not diligence. Not research.
Obsession.
The scarred woman points toward the ship. “You said you’re retrieving someone. That part was not salesmanship.”
“No.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
The room grows quieter, but not kindly. Curiosity has weight. It leans on the body.
“Palindrome Larson,” someone mutters.
The name moves badly through the room, picking up old holonet dust and stranger speculation. Pally to his friends. Dr. Larson in formal reports. Presumed dead in government language. Gone in my mother’s grief. Alive in mine.
I keep my face still.
“He was lead adaptive systems engineer aboard the IHC research vessel Heraclitus,” I say. “Nine years ago, the mission encountered a catastrophic event near the outer core. The official conclusion was total loss.”
“And the unofficial conclusion?” Dux asks.
I look at him. “That the official conclusion was convenient.”
“That’s a hell of an accusation.”
“It is also accurate.”
“You have proof?”
“Enough.”
“That means no.”
“That means enough for me.”
Dux steps closer to the bar, and the air seems to get smaller around him. I resent the effect immediately. Size should not alter the intellectual validity of an argument, but evolution is a vulgar little tyrant, and my body notices him before my mind can file a complaint. Heat radiates from him. Not metaphorical heat. Actual warmth, dense and animal, cutting through the bar’s sour air and making the side of my face prickle.
“You want someone to ride with you into the core,” he says, “because of enough for you?”
“I want someone capable of following orders under pressure.”
“Then you came to the wrong bar.”
“I am beginning to grasp that.”
