Page 56 of Red Scale Daddy
Her chair pivots back toward the console. “You have an astonishing talent for making insight sound like vandalism.”
“I learned from war.”
“I learned from engineering.”
“Then we should both be less annoying by now.”
She almost smiles. It is tiny, viciously suppressed, and gone before it can become evidence. I count it anyway.
For several minutes, she works through recalculation. The lower lane costs us six minutes and forty-three seconds, not the eight she feared. She routes around a secondary shear pocket and updates the drift model with the new debris behavior. Every adjustment is exact. Every note is useful. Watching her work is like watching someone sharpen glass until it becomes a weapon.
Rigid, yes.
But not brittle.
That matters.
When the route stabilizes, I say, “What happens after?”
Roma does not look away from the display. “After what?”
“After we find him.”
“We bring him home.”
“And after that?”
She inputs a course confirmation. “He receives medical evaluation. The IHC receives proof of survival and operational negligence. Creditors receive payment. Vendors receive remaining balances. I revise the ship’s post-mission maintenance schedule.”
“That is errands.”
“That is logistics.”
“That is errands wearing boots.”
She gives me a sidelong look. “What answer would satisfy you?”
“I didn’t ask for satisfaction. I asked what happens after.”
“I answered.”
“No, you described tasks.”
“Tasks are what happens after events.”
“No, Roma. Life happens after events. Sometimes against everyone’s better judgment.”
Her hand stills over the console. This time she does not pretend I am not hitting near something.
“I do not plan that far past mission completion,” she says.
“That is strange from the woman who plans how to breathe.”
“It is not relevant.”
“Your life is not relevant?”
“My life is the mission.”
