Punjab Paddy

Simonee tucked deep into a high-backed booth at O’Singh’s pub. A micro-cam perched on her shoulder like a glossy tick, aimed at the bar, its feed piped wirelessly into her ocular implant.

A plastic pilsner fizzed on the table with something the menu called pale ale. Bitter, but like acetone with a dishwater note. The head settled like foam insulation.

She dipped a fried starch-stick in ranch. It could be potato, zucchini, or more likely a mutant beet from the flora labs punching above its weight. She chewed without tasting.

The bar was patched metal and neon rash where Pádraig "Paddy" O’Singh wiped glasses, puffing vape from a red long-stem pipe. Clouds billowed around the fiery beard spilling from his green turban. Behind him loomed a reinforced door, his escape when the crowd got ugly.

The pub door creaked open and clacked shut. Her camera tracked a cloaked figure as it swept in. A few men looked; one chuckled about "entertainment" and "the rooster'll love this."

Simonee scowled. Checked the time on her smartcomm. Less than two hours until shift change. She should leave.

Six months on this station, and she learned how to spot trouble. A cloak that fine in a place like this? That was trouble.

Glancing at the bar, a curvy heat signature flared under the newcomer's cloak; a sharp nose jutted from the hood. The image flickered as her implant’s neural harness battled the alcohol dulling her synapses.

Entertainment indeed. Interesting to watch, but interesting rarely meant safe.

At the bar, the woman leaned in and whispered to Paddy O’Singh. He chuckled, poured. She plucked up the glass and sniffed it. Her hand rushed to her nose; she paused; sipped and nodded.

Turning, she scanned the pub. Her gaze landed on Simonee's booth.

Simonee's heart thrashed.

"Nope. Nope." She muttered into her beer.

An overlay boxed in the woman's face on the micro-cam feed, and face-rec went to work. But Simonee didn't need it. The Ice Princess. Dalia Ledas. The heir to the governorship, all hail the great lady.

Kohl eyes and hair dyed costume black tried to hide it, but that sharp nose was lit up on every screen from here to LuxHab—the Ledas family trademark.

And now she floated toward Simonee's table, blocking the cam with blue fabric and pale cleavage.

Dammit!

"Excuse me, miss. Mind a little company?"

Simonee drained her beer. "Actually, I was just leav—"

Dalia sat. Eyes shimmering, blue as thick ice. "I'm lost, and you're the least threatening person here. Safety in numbers and all that."

"You can have the table, but I'm—"

"This place is horrid. I asked for brandy." She sniffed her glass. "This smells like nail-polish."

Simonee slid and swung her legs over the edge of the bench. "Really, I have somewhere to—"

Dalia grabbed her arm, gripping tight. Simonee froze.

"Please!" She choked. "Just a few minutes. I need a friendly face."

Simonee yanked free, glaring. But Dalia's lip quivered, eyes damp at the corner. Simonee sighed, scooted back, shaking her busy black hair to shadow the purple glow of her implant. No good adding that detail to the inevitable security report.

Dalia smiled faintly, wiping her eyes with a knuckle.

Simonee's instincts screamed: serious trouble. But Dalia smelled like flowers, real flowers—the scent only wealth could afford out here. It sliced through the pub's rot.

And the tone of her voice was like song, spoken in formal language Simonee found disarming. Dalia chattered a bunch though, and Simonee missed the question.

"You do have a name, don't you?"

Good question. Giving out her name placed her at the scene of any crimes bound to take place. Dalia's people could hunt Simonee down. But—

"Simonee."

Dammit again!

Dalia straightened and looked Simonee over, but then a smirk crawled up the side of her face. "Simonee? That’s an interesting name."

"It’s a long story. Yours?"

Dalia's mouth opened halfway.

Simonee squinted at her. "You do have a name, don't you?"

Dalia blurted, "Tracy."

Simonee arched a brow. "Okay. Tracy."

Simonee grabbed another fried whatsit from the basket and nibbled it gingerly.

Dalia pointed at the basket. "May I?"

"Your funeral."

She bit in, grimaced. Simonee barked a laugh. Dalia, laughed back and rested the morsel on the edge of the basket. Her laugh rang bright, like bells. The sound entranced Simonee; she wanted more.

She tucked her hair back. Her implant a purple glare in Dalia's glass.

Dalia's face slackened. "Oh my God, your eye…"

Simonee covered it. Frowned.

"No—it’s... incredible. I've never seen one so advanced. What can it do?"

Simonee uncovered her eye again. Hesitantly, she listed some of the base functions: vision, thermal, augmented reality. But her voice quickened, and she rattled off more advanced features.

Dalia gripped the table and pushed against the booth. "Facial recognition?"

Simonee slit her eyes and lowered her voice to a whisper. "As if I'd need it. You're a celebrity, Dalia."

The color had drained from Dalia’s face, but it came back as she giggled behind her hand.

Simonee smiled back but then lost it.

"Speaking of—eyeliner and a bad dye job don't fool Ms. Aggy." She looked into her beer. "That's a lot of trouble to get to GenHab untracked. Why?" She looked up at Dalia. "And by that I mean, how much trouble am I in for talking to you right now?"

Dalia's smile flattened, and she crossed her arms.

"Don't worry. I doubt anyone's noticed I'm gone yet. Let's just say... I'm figuring something out."

Dalia leaned in. "And you? I'm lost; you're here on purpose."

"I know when not to be."

"You seem to know quite a bit. The only other person I've heard call the security system Ms. Aggy, is the man who suppressed my face ID."

Dalia leaned on the table.

"What's your trade, Simonee?"

"Well, on the net I'm listed as a hacker: coding, security consulting, occasional espionage."

Dalia smirked. "And unlisted?"

"I do identity work." Simonee jabbed a starch stick at Dalia. "For people who need to disappear."

Truth enough. The first identity she created was her own. That skill kept her fed. It kept her invisible.

Dalia shook her head. "I'm going back. I have to."

She shot a gaze at Simonee.

"I could use a guide. I don't get out much."

Simonee grinned and nodded. "That's obvious."

But Dalia held her stare. Simonee swallowed, eyes popped wide.

"No. Oh-no. I don't do that."

Dalia's brow raised. "I'll make it worth your while."

Simonee shook her head. "You need a bodyguard who can haul you back up to LuxHab. I don't know—"

"You know where not to be. That's what I need."

Simonee huffed. "Look, your people won't think twice about arresting me. They might even peg me as the one who hacked Ms. Aggy for you. That's a terrorism charge. That's death."

Dalia held her head high. "I'd never allow it."

Simonee grimaced. "You're hiding from your own security detail. You understand why I don't find that reassuring."

"Twenty-thousand scrip-credits. One day. Up front. With a signed attestation you're acting as my security advisor."

Simonee's mouth went dry. That kind of money bought some things, but an official attestation? Standing under Dalia's umbrella could be a good place to be. But official meant visible. Bad things happened when she was visible.

Six months ago, the titular captain of the ice freighter Frigid Bitch found her stealing compute, and shoved her into the airlock while the crew took bets on whether she'd suit up before having an embolism—a game they called airlock cornhole.

She barely survived.

Dalia eased forward, elbow on the table, chin resting on her palm. Her lips curled; eyes flashed. "Maybe the title becomes permanent."

Simonee could use some friends in high places. And twenty-four hours of sweet flowers and bell-bright laughter? There were worse ways to spend the day.

She sighed and reached across the table. "Deal."

Dalia clasped her hand with both of hers. "Thank you."

Simonee drowned in those thick-ice eyes until Dalia let go.

"First order of business," Dalia said, waving to O'Singh, "another round. You can tell me all about that occasional espionage. Unless you were just trying to impress me."

Simonee smirked. "Oh, I have stories."

Dalia puckered a smile. The two of them leaned close, laughter soft between them. They drank their putrid drinks.

Simonee forgot the time.

She missed the trickle of new patrons on shift change. The pub now was packed.

The time to not be here had come.

A voice crowed like a rooster, cracking the din. The laughter of a madman followed.

Simonee's blood froze as her micro-cam focused on the red mohawk swaggering into O'Singh's.

Dalia should have gone for the bodyguard.