Page 20 of Red Scale Daddy
“I have extracted all available usefulness from this establishment.”
Loklo drifts closer behind me. “That is the nicest review we’ve had in months.”
Roma’s gaze flicks to him. “You are included in the establishment.”
“I feel seen.”
I step into her path, not close enough to touch, but close enough that she has to acknowledge mass, heat, and inconvenience. She is much smaller than I am, which makes the fact that she does not move back more impressive than sensible. Her red hair has escaped the damaged hood in a loose spill along one side of her face. The bar light catches in it, turning strands copper, blood, and flame. Her eyes are green and furious and too awake.
“You still have not answered the important question,” I say.
“I answered several.”
“No, you answered the ones you liked.”
She folds her arms. “Ask quickly. My tolerance for theatrics is rationed.”
“What happens when your plan fails?”
Her expression shuts down. I do not mean she looks offended. Offense has movement. Offense breathes. Roma becomes very still, the way a pressure door becomes still right before it seals a compartment from fire.
“It will not fail,” she says.
“There we are.”
“That is not arrogance. It is preparation.”
“That is exactly what arrogant people call arrogance when they file the paperwork.”
Her mouth tightens. “You’ve mistaken cynicism for wisdom again.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I have been inside enough bad missions to know plans do not fail all at once. They fail politely at first. A sensor misreads. A corridor isn’t where the chart says it should be. Someone lies because they’re scared. Someone else hesitates because they’re in love with the version of the mission that exists in their head. Then the walls start screaming, and suddenly all that preparation becomes a very tidy list of things that used to matter.”
A few nearby patrons quiet down to listen. Roma notices, of course. Her chin lifts as if attention is a weight she can balance perfectly.
“My redundancies have redundancies.”
“Cute.”
“My ship can survive systems degradation across multiple critical networks.”
“And if it cannot?”
“It can.”
“And if it cannot?”
“It can.”
I lean closer. “And if it cannot?”
The words hang between us, ugly and useful. Her eyes flash, but something behind them flickers too fast for most to catch. Not doubt. Never that. Roma does not allow herself doubt. What I see is the violence she does to herself whenever doubt tries to live.
“If the ship suffers catastrophic loss,” she says, each word precise enough to have serial numbers, “I will execute the best available contingency based on the specific nature of the failure.”
“That is not an answer. That is a prayer dressed as a procedure.”
“I do not pray.”
