Page 83 of Sky Song
The place was once again packed.
“I don’t see Lyle.” Cricket’s eyes roved around once they got to the aliens floor, but in the low light it was hard to pinpoint one person among the undulating, loud crowd.
A new band was performing a lively routine, and the dance floor was busy.
“He’ll come. He wants the files.”
Paloma’s flippant tone made Cricket even more disconcerted, hinting at the ease with which her friend navigated this shadier side of life. Even more disconcerting was Paloma’s conviction that Lyle was equally well-versed in clandestine meetings at underground clubs and the swapping of dubious services for questionable gains, and just plain knowing the game rules within the world so foreign to Cricket.
Paloma snagged a waitress and conversed with her intently. As the result, a small table in a dark corner became available to them.
“Ale?” she asked as they sat down.
Cricket shook her head in negative. She was too nervous and didn’t want to be impaired.
The band erupted in another song, and the crowd went wild. Three lead singers, waif-like aliens of some kind swathed head to toe in identical gauzy outfits, moved rhythmically on the stage, coming together and forming intricate figures, sometimes pressing so closely to each other as to merge into one undulating being before suddenly splitting apart.
It was a remarkable performance, but Cricket couldn't relax enough to enjoy it.
A man slid into an empty chair at their table, and it wasn’t Lyle. He folded his hands on the table as his light hazel eyes assessed Cricket. It was the bartender, a.k.a. the guy she had chased around their neighborhood.
“Hello there. Cricket?”
She opened her mouth to correct that her name was Emma, but changed her mind. Here, with these people, her mantle of a new resolute identity didn’t fit for some reason. It was almost like they could see the real Cricket, insecurities and all.
“Yes. And you?”
“Schirrenth. Ren for short.”
He was tall and thin, gaunt in appearance. At a first glance, he looked very young, but his light eyes gave away life wisdom that could only be gained with age. When he smiled, he gave her a glimpse of small pointy teeth that were widely spaced apart as if they refused to grow when the man did.
“How do you do, Schirrenth?”
“Very well, thank you. I hope I didn’t spook you on the street near your home.”
“No. I hope I didn't spook you?”
He laughed in response. “No. It’s all good.”
Ren spoke their language with no discernible accent and he was very human looking. Very. But then he moved, unfolding his hands and turning toward Paloma, and every motion he made screamed alien. Impossible to describe, Ren’s otherness came not through his looks but through his body mechanics that operated under a different set of standards.
“And how have you been?” He smiled tenderly at Paloma.
Paloma glanced at him from under lowered lashes, and although she didn’t touch him physically, that one look was as tangible as an embrace. It revealed such depth of feeling that Cricket got a strong twitch of pity for Paloma. Such adoration for an alien who worked at Atticus had all the markings of ending in disaster.
“Ren was the one who took a look at your files,” Paloma said.
It surprised Cricket. “I thought you were a bartender?”
He chuckled. “Sometimes.”
“Ren is Zaron’s son,” Paloma informed Cricket, to which he wrinkled his nose.
“I’m not his son, but yes, he raised me.”
That explained his unaccented speech but raised a lot of other interesting questions.
“Is the Rix coming?” Ren asked.
