Page 7 of Red Scale Daddy
I twist his arm up behind his back until the joint starts making promises it cannot keep. “I said let go.”
His fingers open. The scrap of hood falls.
The woman snatches it from the bar and steps back, breathing hard through her nose. Her red hair is loose now on one side, bright against the dingy collar of her coat. Green eyes. Sharp face. Young. Too young for the kind of death she is selling.
And familiar.
Not because I know her. I would remember knowing her. I remember most bad decisions with red hair.
But I have seen that face in old holonet captures, in memorial articles, in IHC engineering forums Loklo reads when he is pretending not to be sentimental. Palindrome Larson’s daughter. The one who kept insisting the official report was wrong. The one everyone called brilliant until she became inconvenient, and then they called her unstable because it was easier.
My mouth moves before my caution catches up.
“Well, hell,” I say. “Roma Larson.”
Her eyes cut to mine.
There is the mistake.
The whole room hears me.
A murmur rolls outward, gathering names, guesses, old gossip. Larson means something in certain circles. Not enough to protect her here, but enough to make her more valuable than she was ten seconds ago. Her jaw tightens, and for a moment I get a clear, clean look at the woman under all that control. She is not embarrassed. She is not frightened of being known.
She is furious that I have altered the variables.
“Thank you,” she says, voice cold enough to frost glass. “That was discreet.”
“My apologies,” I say. “Usually when someone tries to recruit lunatics for a core run in my bar, I assume they’ve already abandoned subtlety.”
Varkun groans beneath my hand. I press his wrist higher until the groan becomes a whine.
“Loklo,” I call without looking away from Roma. “Take our ambitious philosopher here to the alley and explain the house policy.”
Loklo comes around the bar with a sigh that has years of practice in it. “Is the house policy still ‘don’t start fights unless Dux looks bored,’ or did we revise it after the chair incident?”
“We revised it to ‘don’t put hands on paying possibilities.’”
“Possibilities,” Roma repeats.
Her voice makes the word sound like a diagnostic error.
Loklo grabs Varkun by the collar with both hands and gives me a look. “You know, one day you’re going to call someone a possibility and they’re going to take it personally.”
“I am already taking it personally,” Roma says.
Loklo beams at her. “See? Fast work.”
I shove Varkun toward him. The drunk staggers, catches himself badly, and makes the mistake of looking as if he might object. I show him my teeth. He reconsiders his options with admirable speed for a man whose brain is currently floating in cheap liquor.
Loklo herds him toward the side exit. “Come along, sunshine. We’re going to discuss consent, property damage, and why your face keeps making appointments with hard surfaces.”
As they pass, Varkun mutters, “She’s insane.”
Roma says, “And yet I remain upright.”
I laugh despite myself.
She notices. Of course she does. Her attention snaps back to me, sharp and assessing, and I feel the oddest sensation under my ribs. Not softness. Not yet. Interest, maybe. Irritation with a pulse.
