Page 18 of Red Scale Daddy
Loklo’s eyes move to Dux. “Oh, that sounded ominous.”
“It sounded premature,” I say.
Dux smiles, but there is nothing lazy in it. “You came here for someone useful.”
“I did.”
“I’m useful.”
“You are uncontrolled.”
“Only by people who don’t know what they’re doing.”
I lean back, forcing space into the conversation by posture alone. “You assaulted a drunk patron with the efficiency of a man swatting an insect, exposed my identity in front of a room full of opportunists, insulted my work, and are now attempting to insert yourself into a mission requiring discipline, discretion, and respect for chain of command.”
“You forgot handsome.”
“I did not forget.”
Loklo coughs into his fist. “For the record, she declined to confirm or deny.”
I ignore him. “You are precisely the kind of variable that destroys missions.”
Dux rests one hand on the back of the empty chair beside him. The wood creaks under his grip. “And you’re precisely the kind of commander who thinks the universe gives a damn about her checklist.”
I stand before I decide to. The chair legs scrape softly over the sticky floor. “My checklist is why I am still alive.”
“No,” he says, voice lower now. “Your checklist is why you made it this far. It won’t be why you come back.”
For an instant, I have no answer.
Not because he is right.
Because part of me understands the shape of what he means, and I hate him for giving it words.
I retrieve my compad and slide it into my coat. “This conversation has stopped being useful.”
Loklo rises too, more slowly. “Roma.”
I pause at the mouth of the alcove.
His voice has lost its teasing edge. “Why now?”
I look back.
He does not elaborate. He does not need to. Why after nine years. Why tonight. Why walk into this bar with a half-burned plan and too much money. Why risk exposure.
I could lie. I am good at lying when the truth is nobody’s business.
Instead, I give him a piece of it.
“Because three days ago, I found a repeating signal in a dead band near the inner drift field,” I say. “It carries my father’s old engineering checksum. Not a memory. Not a memorial beacon. An active sequence.”
Loklo exhales. “Hell.”
Dux’s face changes again, and I cannot name the expression fast enough to protect myself from noticing it.
“My launch window opens in thirty-six hours,” I continue. “After that, the corridor collapses for at least seven months. I am done waiting for other people to become brave.”
