Page 24 of Red Scale Daddy
Three men stand near the entrance. I recognize one from the docks, a narrow-faced human named Pell who runs errands for creditors too cowardly to collect in person. The other two are League-space gutter work: one Kiphian with mottled gray scales and a shock baton tucked along his forearm, one squat Fratvoyan with a smile too cheerful for his eyes. Not regulars. Not welcome. They must have followed Roma in or caught the name when I spilled it across the room like an idiot.
Pell looks at Roma and smiles. “Larson.”
Roma’s face goes blank. “I don’t know you.”
“No, but some people know you.”
Dux, you dumb bastard, I think. Out loud, I say, “Pell, this is not a collection office.”
He gives me a nervous glance, then tries to puff himself back up. “Not here for you.”
“You are standing on my floor.”
“Then charge rent.”
Loklo mutters, “Oh, he chose death with garnish.”
Roma’s hand is already inside her coat. Not panicked. Not fumbling. She is mapping distance, weapons, civilians, exits. Good.
Pell points at her. “You owe serious money, Larson.”
“I owe contracted funds to vendors upon delivery completion,” she says. “If one of them sold the debt prematurely, that is their clerical failure.”
The Fratvoyan giggles. “She talks fancy.”
“She pays fancy too,” Pell says. “Or she pays in parts. Ship parts. Body parts. We’re open-minded.”
I sigh. “You really should have stayed outside.”
The Kiphian snaps the shock baton open.
That is enough.
I move before Pell finishes drawing his pistol. My left hand catches his wrist and drives it upward, the shot blasting into the ceiling instead of Roma’s chest. Hot ozone and pulverized plaster spill into the air. Someone screams. Someone else cheers because my clientele has the collective survival instinct of decorative moss.
I break Pell’s wrist against the bar edge and kick his knee backward. He drops with a wet howl.
The Kiphian lunges for Roma.
She does not retreat the way I expect.
She pivots toward him, which is insane until I see why. The baton arcs where her head was, spitting blue charge. She ducks under his arm, slams her compad into the inside of his elbow, and the projection unit flares hard enough to blind him for a heartbeat. Clever. Risky. Mean.
I like mean.
The Fratvoyan launches himself at me with a knife in each hand, chattering something about bonuses. I catch himby the front of his vest and use him to block the Kiphian’s second swing. The shock baton discharges into the Fratvoyan’s backside. He squeals so loudly three bottles crack behind the bar.
Loklo shouts, “That is coming out of somebody’s deposit!”
Roma grabs the Kiphian’s wrist with both hands. She cannot overpower him. She knows that. Instead, she steps on his forward foot, twists his thumb against the baton grip, and drives her knee into the joint of his leg. He grunts, more surprised than hurt, but surprise is currency if you spend it fast.
“Left!” I bark.
She does not ask why. She drops.
Pell’s second shot passes through the space above her shoulder. I throw the Fratvoyan at him. They collide in a heap of limbs, curses, and financial disappointment.
The Kiphian recovers and backhands Roma across the face.
