and then clears his throat. “Well, my mate Varia will be…”
We all burst into laughter, nearly falling over ourselves. It takes Solair several more seconds to realize what’s going on, and then he too begins to roar with mirth.
“Am I missing the joke?” Grantian peers between us, but he only gets the glinting dawn of recognition in his big gold eyes when I blow him a kiss. “Astounding. I had no idea.”
The lights flash on the bulkheads as the Queen settles down for a landing on the rocky terrain, the pre-recorded touchdown notification is drowned out by our enthused laughter.
Chapter Eight
Grantian
Lamira, Varia, and Marion certainly did a bang-up job disguising themselves as greaser girls. Despite now being accustomed to the scent of his mate, Solair didn’t even recognize Varia, and I didn’t realize it was her until they started laughing.
Good gods, sometimes Lamira is just too much. I don’t know how I’m going to go about it, but the desire to kiss her is nearly frantic within me, rising to a fever pitch. I just want to know what I already so strongly suspect. To discover whether she feels the same. I’m desperate to know.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I never thought I’d see the day when a warrior mercenary such as me would turn into a lovesick fool over a tiny, human female. Never in my life have I been unable to control the pull of my emotions, and that change alone in me is starting me to make me question any doubts I had about the Precursor myth.
Although Lamira, Varia, and Marion are all nearly unrecognizable in their greaser getups, I’m still worried they’ll draw unwanted attention to our group. Humans aren’t common on the outskirts of League space, as they typically stick close to IHC territory unless they’ve been sold or captured as slaves or indentured servants. This is especially true of females. A male or two might not raise much suspicion, but three females with a group of Kilgari? I’m not feeling very good about this.
Especially since our culture is known to be matriarchal in nature. No one would ever believe us to be slavers.
My apprehension is further compounded by the IHC bulletins about the women aboard our ship. I’ve seen a few more of the broadcasts, each of them highlighting a different female. In all of them, the women are labeled domestic terrorists and cited as armed and dangerous. That last fact alone confirms to me that the IHC is lying, as not one of the women we now have in our charge was found to have a single weapon on their person—not even one of those tiny devices females often use to sharpen their fingernails. We hadn’t found any weapons aboard the Frontier while scuttling her before her demise. If any were on board, they were well secured.
Once Swipt has dropped the Queen down onto one of the landing pads close to the market, I look to Lamira as we wait for the hatch to open. My heart skips traitorously as she glances back at me. She’s beautiful, even dressed in a dingy, shapeless gray jumpsuit that was loaned to her from one of the engine crew and reworked by Marion to fit her lush curves. The creamy softness of her skin has been obscured by layers of grease and dirt, and her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck with oily tendrils framing the fine bones of her dirtied face.
Late last night, I saw the IHC bulletin dedicated to her profile while watching my holovid player. I’d paused the broadcast and leaned in, scrutinizing the photo carefully to commit her face to memory. It’s already been burned there for days, but having the ability to gaze upon it longer than a passing moment was a small pleasure I barely felt myself privileged enough to enjoy—or readily wanted to admit.
The bulletin said she was wanted for domestic terrorism for planning and carrying out a litany of crimes—from the attack on the IHC colony of Kaleth to selling information on cruise liners crossing the Badlands to the Reapers. I barked out a laugh upon reading it. Anyone who’d spoken to Lamira for even a minute would know she’s not capable of hurting anything, much less being a domestic terrorist.
She looks nothing like that photo now, but I still can’t shake the worry that someone will gaze upon her a little too long and figure out her identity.