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“More than a few of which have been broken,” Reza mutters.
Mai elbows him in the ribs. “Just want to ensure we’re not going to ruffle any feathers on our little field trip.”
“I know the rules,” I say, “and you know Taraven couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“I’ve watched Taraven here take out more than his fair share of soldiers with a machine gun,” Mai says. “But that aside—I don’t know where he would hide a gun in those pants anyway.”
Taraven wiggles his brows, his eyes sparkling blue with mirth while his tail twitches. “There are all kinds of hiding places in here,” he says.
Mai rolls her eyes and Reza grunts in warning—as if Taraven is actually flirting. Reza doesn’t realize that Taraven relentlessly flirts with everyone and it doesn’t mean anything.
At least I get one more laugh in before we meet our new Lyran friend.
The hatch opens and steam pours out, cool air from outside smacking me in the face. According to Reza, this is the rainy season in his home city of Saga, when a fine mist falls over the city for the better part of three months. A diplomatic cohort waits for us outside, all uniformed in shades of grey. I immediately recognize the Councilor from the holoscreen a few days ago, but I don’t see any other familiar faces. Everyone is somber and serious, their inky black eyes cold and lifeless.
But somehow, I know who our new crew member is before we’re even introduced.
My eyes are drawn to his, locking onto him in seconds. His white hair is roughly shorn off on top, stubble on his jaw. I didn’t even realize that the Lyra could grow beards, but he wears it well. The skin on his face is a soft grey-blue where it isn’t peppered with silver scales, his fringe—the vestigial gills that both the Lyra and the Skoropi have—flaring slightly and showing bright turquoise underneath. His eyes widen slightly when our gazes meet, and I realize his irises flash like labradorite in the darkness of his sclera.
He’s pretty. I would be lying if I said he wasn’t pretty.
There’s a conversation happening somewhere in the background, but I’m totally distracted. It’s like a tether has just attached me to this man’s chest, drawing me closer. I even stumble a little, losing my balance…
…which makes me shoulder check Taraven, who seems to have had a very similar reaction.
Mai is the only one who notices, and she narrows her eyes slightly and gestures me forward. I stand at attention, feeling incredibly undisciplined for how much training I’ve had. The cohort of Lyra walks toward us, the scent of sea salt and flower hitting me with the force of a fucking truck.
“Captain Zandro,” the Councilor says.
“Councilor Va’lora,” Zandro returns. He offers her the Lyran salute like he did last time, ever the gentleman. The Skoropi at least have that going for them—they never fail to hold up to formalities.
“I wanted to introduce my liaison to your crew, Malix Va’lora,” she says. “He is my most trusted bodyguard.”
Zandro peers over at him. “You are family?”
Mai translates for him; Zandro is working on learning Lyran, but he hasn’t managed to nail it yet and the Councilor isn’t wearing a translator. Still, Mai is quick with language and the point gets across quickly enough.
“My nephew,” Councilor Va’lora confirms. “Malix has been my protege since his youth. Not only will he be helpful in providing a connection with our people, but he is a fine warrior—one of our best.”
“It is good to see you again, Malix,” Reza says. “I always admired your work ethic.”
“And I enjoyed serving under you when you were our commander on Halla,” Malix says.
Why do I feel like there’s a lie there? I feel like there’s more going on here than they’re saying, but it’s hard to tell. I’ve known Reza for well over two Earth years and I still can’t read him. I see Malix’s fringe flaring slightly and showing us another glimpse of turquoise.
“We should go inside and examine the shard,” the Councilor says. “Come along.”
I don’t know who the others are with her—two other people in the same black uniform as Malix. They stay silent, flanking the Councilor as she strides away.
We have no choice but to follow.
Lyran architecture is blunt and flat, the building ahead of us blocky and made of a chalk-white stone. The corridor is lit with algae lamps, producing a weird underwater effect that makes my head swim. The Lyra are all about sustainability; their lights are all designed from a form of algae that lights up when stimulated by a certain sound, thus they don’t use a ton of electricity. It casts everything with a greenish pallor, the walls around me turning light green.
“I like the lights,” Taraven says, looking around. He walks beside me, his clawed feet clicking on the stone. “It’s…kind of fun, actually.”
“I think it’s creepy, to be honest,” I murmur. “I used to have something that made a light like this—it’s called a lava lamp—and we would always tell ghost stories around it at sleepovers.”
“What is aslee-poffer?” Taraven asks.
