Chapter 2
*** TOREN ***
He hadn't meant to introduce himself. The plan; if you could call what Toren had been doing a plan, was to observe the crashed ship from a distance, report back to his father, and let the D'Karr decide what to do about the alien visitors.
That was protocol. Protocol had served the Weredragons well for centuries.
Protocol had not accounted for red hair.
The woman who'd stepped forward and announced her name had red hair that caught the light of both suns like copper wire.
She was small; all humans were small by Weredragon standards, but she didn't carry herself like someone small.
She carried herself like someone who was used to being the smartest person in the room and who had adjusted her posture accordingly.
She'd looked up at him with green eyes that held fear and curiosity in equal measure, and the curiosity was winning.
That was what made him speak. Not the protocol, nor the plan. It was the curiosity in her eyes.
He'd read about humans. He'd done more than read about them; he'd collected their artifacts for years. He’d salvaged movies, books, photographs and music recordings.
Objects that had floated through the system on derelict ships and crashed satellites and the occasional garbage pod that Earth apparently launched into space with no regard for where it might end up.
Toren had amassed a private collection in a cave on the eastern slope of the capital volcano.
His father would've been furious if he'd known.
Boradrith didn't approve of curiosity about alien species.
He approved of caution and preparation and the firm conviction that Dobromia's problems were best solved by Dobromia.
Toren disagreed. He'd disagreed since he was twelve years old and watched a human movie about a man who taught a whale to jump over a wall.
The movie was ridiculous. It was also beautiful in a way that nothing on Dobromia was beautiful, because it showed a species that formed emotional bonds with creatures that couldn't speak, couldn't share their culture, couldn't offer anything in return except their presence.
Humans loved things that were different from themselves.
Weredragons barely tolerated each other.
He wanted to know more. He'd always wanted to know more. And now forty-seven of them had crashed on Ceylara, and the one with red hair had just asked him for help, and protocol could wait.
* * *
"You speak our language," the woman said. Marina. She'd given her name without hesitation, which was either brave or foolish. Toren was inclined toward brave.
"We've been listening to your transmissions for decades," he replied.
He kept his voice even and his hands visible.
The blonde one behind Marina had a weapon.
She hadn't drawn it, which showed remarkable restraint for someone who'd just watched an alien transform in front of her.
"through your radio signals and your broadcasts, we've learned a great deal about your species. "
"That's... slightly unsettling."
"Would you prefer I pretend ignorance? I can, if it makes you more comfortable. I could point at things and make confused faces."
A flicker of something crossed her face. Not quite a smile, but close. The guard beside her; a red-haired man who looked like he might faint, didn't seem to appreciate the humor. The blonde woman did, though. Her mouth twitched.
"I'd prefer honesty," Marina stated. "You said your name is Toren. What are you?"
"Weredragon. My species is native to a planet called Dobromia, not far from here in astronomical terms. We came to Ceylara on a scouting mission."
"Scouting for what?"
"Food and resources. Our planet is dying.
" He said it simply because it was simple.
The complexity lived in the details; the twin suns that were cooking Dobromia's surface, the food crisis that was killing his people slowly, the political divisions that were making everything worse.
But she didn't need all of that yet. She needed the basics.
He could tell she was someone who processed information systematically, and overwhelming her with data wouldn't help.
"I'm sorry to hear that," she said. And she meant it.
He could hear it in her voice. It was not diplomatic sympathy, not the careful politeness of someone talking to an alien.
It was genuine sadness. She didn't know him.
She didn't know his people. But the words "our planet is dying" had produced a response in her that was real.
This was what the movies had shown him. Humans felt things for strangers. They felt things for whales that couldn't speak. Of course they'd feel something for an alien who could.
"Your ship is damaged," Toren observed, shifting the subject. The ship behind her was listing to one side, its port hull crumpled where it had hit the rocky surface. Scorch marks ran along the underside. It wasn't flying anywhere in its current state. "How badly?"
"Badly enough that we can't leave. Our engineer says he needs parts we don't have. We need metal alloy of a specific grade."
"Ceylara has metals. The volcanic activity produces mineral deposits that might be compatible with your needs. I could show your engineer where to look."
Marina studied him. He could see the calculation happening behind her green eyes; the risk assessment, the cost-benefit analysis, the careful weighing of trust against survival.
She was deciding whether to accept help from an alien she'd met three minutes ago.
The decision was genuinely difficult, and he respected her for not making it instantly.
"Why would you help us?" she asked.
The honest answer was complicated. It involved his private collection of human artifacts, his disagreement with his father's isolationism, his belief that Dobromia's survival depended on allies rather than conquest, and the fact that her red hair was doing something to his concentration that he preferred not to examine.
He chose the portion of the truth that was most useful.
"Because your species has resources mine needs. Food and technology. It’s a planet that isn't dying. Helping you creates goodwill. Goodwill could become alliance. Alliance could save my people."
"That's very pragmatic."
"I'm a pragmatic person."
"You're also an alien who just transformed from a dragon into a man in front of my security team. Forgive me if I'm having a little trouble with 'pragmatic.'"
He smiled. He hadn't expected to smile. Weredragons didn't smile at strangers because it showed teeth, which was either a threat display or an intimacy, depending on context.
He was doing neither. He was smiling because she was funny, and nobody on Dobromia was funny.
Khrelan was certainly not funny. Auren tried, but his humor ran toward innuendo that lost its impact through repetition.
Above them, Auren circled with lazy precision.
The gray-scaled Weredragon hadn't landed because Toren hadn't given the signal.
Khrelan was further up, his navy scales nearly invisible against the brown sky.
Khrelan wouldn't land without a direct order, and even then, he'd do it with the reluctant aggression of someone who disapproved of everything that was happening.
"I have two companions," Toren said. "Auren is the friendly one. Khrelan is the suspicious one. They're staying airborne until you're comfortable. I'd like to introduce them, but only when you're ready."
"The blonde one is my sister, Athena. She's our security lead. The man beside me is Peter. He's had a rough day; an acid worm dissolved his boot."
"The tube worms. Yes, they're territorial. Avoid the sulfur vents and they'll leave you alone."
"We figured that out. The hard way."
Another almost-smile. Toren filed it away in the part of his mind that was rapidly building a profile of Marina Livingstone.
Smart, dry humor, cautious but not closed.
Green eyes that widened slightly when she was processing something unexpected.
Red hair that really was doing something to his concentration.
He needed to stop noticing the hair.
* * *
The negotiations; if you could call two people standing on alien rock making it up as they went, took about twenty minutes.
Marina proposed terms with the crisp efficiency of someone who'd been trained for this, even if this scenario had never appeared in any training manual.
Her terms were straightforward: the Weredragons would help locate materials for the ship's repairs and provide protection from the local wildlife.
In exchange, the humans would share food from their stores and allow the Weredragons to study their technology.
"Study, not take," Marina clarified. "You can look. You can ask questions. You don't touch anything without permission."
"Agreed."
"And no one enters our ship without an escort."
"Agreed."
"And if your suspicious friend up there decides he doesn't like the arrangement, he keeps his opinions to a non-violent level."
Toren glanced up at Khrelan, whose circling had tightened noticeably during the conversation. "I'll handle Khrelan. He's loyal but cautious. He doesn't trust easily."
"I can work with cautious. I can't work with hostile."
"He won't be hostile. He'll be disapproving. There's a difference, though it's subtle."
"I'm familiar with the type. I have a department head exactly like that. Dr. Vasquez disapproves of everything I do and then does it anyway because she knows I'm right." Marina extended her hand. "Do you know what a handshake is?"
"I've seen it in your movies."
"You watch our movies?"
Too late, Toren realized his mistake. The collection was private for a reason.
Knowing about human transmissions was one thing; that was intelligence gathering.
Watching their movies for pleasure was something else entirely.
It was interest, affection, even. Neither quality would play well on Dobromia.
"Your radio signals reach far," he said carefully. "We've intercepted various transmissions over the years."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer I'm prepared to give right now."
Her eyebrow rose. Just one. It was a very effective expression. "Fair enough. Handshake?"
He took her hand. Her skin was warm; warmer than he'd expected, though the twin suns might have contributed.
Her grip was firm. His scales met her fingers and she didn't flinch, which impressed him more than any political negotiation could have.
Most Weredragons flinched when they touched an unfamiliar species. This woman didn't flinch at anything.
Something happened when their hands connected.
Not the bond; he wasn't naive enough to mistake physical contact for something deeper.
But a recognition, a sense of alignment.
As though two gears from different machines had been placed next to each other and discovered, to everyone's surprise, that they fit.
He released her hand before the recognition could become anything he'd have to explain. "I'll signal my companions. Auren will introduce himself. He's enthusiastic. I apologize in advance."
"Enthusiastic how?"
"He'll probably try to charm your sister."
Athena, who had been listening to the entire exchange with her arms crossed and her weapon still undrawn, raised both eyebrows. "He can try."
Toren signaled Auren. The gray dragon descended in a spiral that was approximately three times more dramatic than the situation required.
That was Auren. He never met a moment he couldn't make theatrical.
Khrelan stayed aloft, circling with the grim determination of someone who wanted it on record that he'd objected.
Auren landed, shifted, and immediately zeroed in on Athena with the focus of a missile that had acquired its target. "Well," he said, pushing braided black hair out of his face and grinning with every tooth he possessed. "Nobody mentioned the humans would be beautiful."
"Nobody asked," Athena replied flatly.
"I like her," Auren announced to Toren. "Can we keep them?"
"They're not pets, Auren."
"I know. Pets don't carry weapons."
Marina looked at Toren. He looked at Marina.
For the first time since the Vulcana had crashed on this miserable red planet, something passed between them that wasn't negotiation or survival calculus.
It was amusement. Shared, mutual, slightly bewildered amusement at the absurdity of two species meeting on a rock in space and immediately discovering that one of them was a flirt.
It was a start. Not a great one. But on a planet with acid worms and dying suns and a ship that couldn't fly, a start was more than enough.