Page 34 of Red Scale Daddy
“My regards rarely survive translation.”
“I translated them as ‘do not come back unless you have made peace with your ancestors.’”
“Accurate enough.”
Loklo watches me kill the first bank of lights. The bar dims in sections, neon bleeding away from the walls until the scars show clearer: old plasma burns near the corner booth, knife marks in the counter, patched dents where heads have met architecture and lost. The air cools as the crowd heat fades, though the room still holds the sour warmth of bodies, liquor, and spent adrenaline.
“You’re really going,” Loklo says.
I keep my hand on the next switch. “Yes.”
“With Roma Larson.”
“Yes.”
“Into the galactic core.”
“That is the advertised destination.”
Loklo lets the mop fall against the counter with a hollow clack. “Do you hear yourself when you say these things, or does your brain politely step out for a smoke?”
“I hear fine.”
“Then explain it to me slowly, because I must have suffered a head injury while disposing of your consequences.” He points toward the side exit with the mop handle. “A red-haired human engineer walks into the bar, insults half the customers, gets attacked twice, admits she’s chasing a ghost through the deadliest region in known space, and your conclusion is, ‘Finally, a sensible travel plan.’”
I flip the second switch. “She hired me.”
Loklo stares at me. “She rejected you repeatedly.”
“She came around.”
“You mean you loomed near her until the paperwork surrendered.”
“That is one interpretation.”
“That is the interpretation with witnesses.”
I turn to him, wiping my hands on a bar rag that probably makes them dirtier. “You want me to say I’m not going?”
“I want you to say something that makes me believe you have not mistaken self-destruction for romance with better lighting.”
“Romance?”
Loklo’s mouth curls, but the expression has no real humor in it. “Please. You looked at her like she had walked in carrying a bomb and a hymnbook, and you wanted to know which one would go off first.”
“She is interesting.”
“Explosive decompression is also interesting from a distance.”
“She needs help.”
“She needs therapy, funding, and possibly a priest with engineering credentials.” Loklo steps closer, lowering his voice as if the empty bar might gossip. “What she does not need is a Vakutan who keeps flirting with death because he’s bored of breathing.”
I pull the last public tap offline, and the system answers with a tired hiss. “I’m not bored.”
“No, you’re worse. You’re awake.”
That lands harder than I like.
