3. Roma
ROMA
The room is no longer laughing at me.
That should feel like a victory, but victory implies advantage, and I am standing in the middle of a bar full of armed strangers with my hood torn, my name exposed, and Dux watching me like I am either a puzzle, a warning label, or an especially pretty explosive.
The stale heat of the room presses against my skin.
Liquor fumes sit thick in my throat. My torn hood scratches the side of my neck where the seam has split, and the spilled drink on the bar reflects the overhead lights in a wavering amber smear that makes my collapsed schematic look, for one foolish second, like a drowned star.
I do not have the luxury of embarrassment.
I have data.
I set one gloved hand flat against the bar and let the other rest near my compad, not quite touching it. Around me, the patrons wait with that predatory patience people develop in dangerous places. No one is mocking outright now. Good. Mockery is easy to manage. Interest is more volatile.
“You have heard the cost,” I say, letting my voice carry through the room. “You have heard the destination. Now you should hear the terms before anyone mistakes this for an invitation to grandstand.”
The human in the mining harness lifts his half-empty glass. “Lady, I think grandstanding is the only thing keeping half this bar upright.”
“You may continue doing it from a distance,” I say. “I need skill, not volume.”
A few snickers move through the crowd, less cruel than before.
The scarred woman near the bar studies me with narrowed eyes, arms folded over her chest. Dux remains where he is, too large and too still, his red-scaled body a wall of heat and consequence just outside my preferred operating radius.
Loklo has drifted closer again, his expression bright with shameless enjoyment.
“You keep saying skill,” the scarred woman says. “Skill at what, exactly?”
“Navigation under gravitational instability. Combat in confined environments. EVA survival. Emergency repair. Salvage identification. Triage decision-making. If your main qualification is that you once frightened a customs officer, please save us both time.”
The human in the harness grimaces. “That feels personal.”
“It became personal when you tried to read my schematic upside down.”
Loklo makes a soft noise of appreciation. “She’s mean in complete sentences. That’s rare.”
Dux glances at him. “You are very committed to not helping.”
“I help morale.”
“You are morale damage.”
Their exchange draws another ripple of amusement, but I do not let the room drift with it.
Humor is useful only if I own the pivot.
I tap my compad again, and the projection reappears, smaller this time, above the bar.
The ship forms in sections rather than all at once: spine, hull, rings, shielding nodes, maneuvering clusters.
I omit anything that could be reverse-engineered with moderate patience and a criminal disposition, which means I omit most of what matters.
“I am not hiring a crew,” I continue. “I am hiring one person. Possibly two if the second person demonstrates exceptional value and does not annoy me into an early grave during the interview process.”
Loklo raises a hand.
“No,” I say without looking at him.
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I made a probability tree.”
“Was I impressive in any branch?”
“Briefly, in one. Then you spoke.”
The scarred woman laughs under her breath. The sound is low and unwilling, which makes it more valuable. The room’s attention is no longer a loose animal; it is becoming a line I can pull.
Dux’s gaze sharpens. He sees it. Of course he does.
That is irritating.
I shift the projection to a partial simulation of the outer core boundary, a region of distorted light and layered gravitational vectors.
The display turns the air above the bar into a transparent map of lethal mathematics.
Most of the patrons will not understand the details.
That is fine. They do not need to understand the equations to recognize confidence.
“This route enters through a low-density drift corridor beyond the Nemean shear field,” I say.
“The passage opens approximately every thirty-one hours, dependent upon micro-lensing variance. The window is narrow, but not imaginary. I have mapped three emergency exits, two probable debris shelters, and one dormant IHC relay shell that may still contain salvageable power reserves.”
The Alzhon with silver hair leans closer. “Nemean shear field ate a cruiser squadron.”
“It ate three cruisers, two scouts, and a rescue cutter,” I say. “The fourth cruiser escaped after jettisoning half its aft hull and most of its crew compartments.”
The Alzhon’s pale brows lift. “You memorized the loss report?”
“I memorized all of them.”
The words land heavier than I intend.
Dux’s expression changes slightly, not softening, exactly, but narrowing around something more serious than amusement. I hate that I notice. I hate more that I know what he heard inside that sentence. Not diligence. Not research.
Obsession.
The scarred woman points toward the ship. “You said you’re retrieving someone. That part was not salesmanship.”
“No.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
The room grows quieter, but not kindly. Curiosity has weight. It leans on the body.
“Palindrome Larson,” someone mutters.
The name moves badly through the room, picking up old holonet dust and stranger speculation. Pally to his friends. Dr. Larson in formal reports. Presumed dead in government language. Gone in my mother’s grief. Alive in mine.
I keep my face still.
“He was lead adaptive systems engineer aboard the IHC research vessel Heraclitus,” I say. “Nine years ago, the mission encountered a catastrophic event near the outer core. The official conclusion was total loss.”
“And the unofficial conclusion?” Dux asks.
I look at him. “That the official conclusion was convenient.”
“That’s a hell of an accusation.”
“It is also accurate.”
“You have proof?”
“Enough.”
“That means no.”
“That means enough for me.”
Dux steps closer to the bar, and the air seems to get smaller around him.
I resent the effect immediately. Size should not alter the intellectual validity of an argument, but evolution is a vulgar little tyrant, and my body notices him before my mind can file a complaint.
Heat radiates from him. Not metaphorical heat.
Actual warmth, dense and animal, cutting through the bar’s sour air and making the side of my face prickle.
“You want someone to ride with you into the core,” he says, “because of enough for you?”
“I want someone capable of following orders under pressure.”
“Then you came to the wrong bar.”
“I am beginning to grasp that.”
Loklo slides onto the stool beside me as if he has been invited by some alternate version of events. “Since the wrong bar is currently your only bar, maybe we should talk somewhere private before the entire room starts calculating how much your ship parts are worth.”
I turn toward him. “Are you offering assistance or attempting to separate me from witnesses?”
“Yes.”
Dux says, “Loklo.”
“What? It was an honest answer.”
I study Loklo’s face. Humor, yes, but not empty humor. His eyes keep returning to my compad, then to the nearest patrons, then to Dux. He is measuring risk. He masks it with his mouth, but he is not careless.
“I do not leave my equipment unattended,” I say.
“Smart,” Loklo says. “Bring it. We have a back alcove with only two bloodstains, and one of them is sentimental.”
“That is not persuasive.”
“It’s this establishment’s premium tier.”
The scarred woman says, “If you’re still taking candidates after the private chat, I want terms.”
“So do I,” the human in the harness adds.
Dux looks at him. The human shrinks slightly.
“I want terms from a safe philosophical distance,” the human amends.
Good. They are hooked now, or close enough to hook.
I collapse the projection, retrieve the compad, and slide it into the inner pocket of my coat.
My fingers brush the torn fabric at my collar.
The loss of the hood still irritates me, but concealment was never the core of the plan. It was merely convenient.
I follow Loklo toward the back alcove.
The room presses in as I move through it.
Bodies shift aside. Scales scrape against leather.
Someone’s sleeve brushes mine, damp with spilled liquor.
The floor’s sticky pull makes each step feel louder than it is.
Dux comes behind us, not invited, not subtle, his tread heavy enough that no one mistakes his presence for an accident.
I stop at the mouth of the alcove and turn. “This was described as private.”
Dux folds his arms. “It is private.”
“You are in it.”
“That is how you can tell.”
Loklo slips past me and drops into a chair at a small round table scarred by heat rings and knife marks. “In fairness, if Dux wants to listen from outside the alcove, the wall has structural disadvantages.”
“It is a wall,” I say.
“It has met him before.”
Dux smiles. “Twice.”
I sit because remaining standing would make me look reactive, and I refuse to grant either of them the satisfaction.
The alcove smells marginally less awful than the rest of the bar, mostly because some resinous incense cone has been left to smolder near a vent.
Its smoke threads through the air, bitter and green, failing to mask the metallic tang of old cleaning solution.
The table is slightly tacky beneath my gloves.
I place my compad in front of me but keep my hand on it.
Loklo leans forward, elbows on the table. “So, Roma Larson. Nine years is a long time to chase a dead man.”
“My father is not dead.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied the galaxy thinks so. You corrected the galaxy with your face, which was educational.”