Droven & Lyra Saga ( SciFi - Romance )
The Market of Mechanical Pleasures
by Rodriac Copen
On the planet Zyrbassa
, the nights are long, promises are short, and virtue is sold by the
pound. The city, once the proud capital of arcane knowledge, now lies
like a bloodless lady covered in fake jewels, and like a rat's nest, it
provides hiding places for the most infamous and vile creatures, even
human ones.
The
nobles live in palaces that fall into disrepair during the rainy
seasons, losing their beautiful marble tiles and flooding the rooms of
their old and roguish inhabitants.
Beggars
often recite poetry to survive and obtain liquor and the services of
the numerous prostitutes in the area. And it is said that not even the
gods want to visit the planet to avoid the many criminals who roam here
and there.
Droven Kal
, a young thief trained by instinct and an aesthete by vocation for
judging other people's property, walked that night along the Avenue of Broken Mirrors
, where decadence was displayed as if it were a merit. His cloak, of
worn black velvet, had the presumptuous air of something that had been
stolen with pleasure.
Their destination was the notorious " Market of Mechanical Pleasures ," a clandestine auction held in the cellars of the Basilica of the Obsolete Saints
. There, amidst cracked columns, defaced stained-glass windows, and
fallen nobles, they traded in what civilization still remembered
desiring: delight, obedience, and pleasing aesthetics, all accompanied
by pleasant and suggestive conversation.
The auction's master of ceremonies, publicly known as
Varlen Sirt
, was a man whose girth inspired confidence only in butchers. His role
was to present the lots with oratory that would have made statues weep.
—“Ladies
and gentlemen, the Venera-12 Model! It smiles when it wants to, it gets
sad when you command it, and it never forgets an anniversary!”
The
attendees, enveloped in perfumes and cynicism, applauded with the weary
enthusiasm of those who have lost their taste for surprise.
Droven , observant by nature and a thief by habit, studied those present with the cold gaze of an opportunity hunter. In Zyrbassa , talent consisted of feigning wealth until it deigned to appear.
Among the corridors, surrounded by silk automatons waiting to be sold and creatures of dubious alchemy,
Droven saw her.
Lying back on a dust-covered chaise longue
, as if decay itself served as her pillow, lay a young woman of the
kind who seem to ignore, with supreme elegance, the place where they
are.
Her dark green lace dress, made with the delicacy of another, more
prosperous and less royal era, revealed skin so pure that it seemed to
have forgotten the concept of dirt.
She did not wear the inventory bracelet that marked the slaves in the
market, nor did she have the docile air of the automatons who waited
their turn with mechanical resignation.
And yet, something in her stillness
— perhaps that almost contemplative way of accepting the noise, of
looking at the world without defending herself against it — made Droven suspect that this woman, if not a slave by law, was one by custom.
There was a serenity in his posture that did not belong to the free: the
tranquility of one who has understood that hope only delays the
inevitable.
A slave without visible chains, the thief thought; the most dangerous class, and also the most fascinating.
Droven , driven by that curiosity which in women is often confused with lust, approached.
—“Forgive my impertinence,” she said with the smile of someone already planning a scam but who seemed out of place. —“Are you lost? You don’t seem to belong here.”
—“Oh, I’m not.”—
she replied in a voice that sounded like velvet and with a disdainful look that showed defiance —“I’m exactly where I want to be.”
—“And where is that?”
—“On
the edge of this inhuman spectacle. Look: objects of desire with a
price tag, lustful loneliness with a price tag, illusion with a
guarantee. A miniature Zyrbassa, without a doubt.”
Droven
smiled.
—“You have a sharp tongue, and a dangerous talent for observation.”
—“Both attributes are often fatal for women,” she replied . “But also irresistible.”
—“May I know your name?”
—“Lyra.”—
she said, without offering her hand —“And you are a thief. Don’t deny it: it’s written all over your face.”
—“I’m afraid I can’t plead innocence. And yes, my reputation precedes me,” Droven
replied , amused . “And you, Lyra, what do you steal?”
—“Times. Thoughts. Occasionally, hearts. But I always return what doesn't interest me.”
He looked at her with the gleam of desire that precedes disaster.
Then the auction began, like any well-organized catastrophe, with a demonstration.
Varlen Sirt
presented his latest piece: a golden automaton capable of reciting
erotic poems while playing the lute. The audience prepared for the
spectacle, but the machine, for strictly mechanical or metaphysical
reasons, decided to immolate itself in a blaze of sentimental
pyrotechnics.
The crowd roared in disappointment at the failure. The lights went out, and confusion mingled with greed. Droven , seeing an opportunity in the fire, took Lyra 's hand and ran toward a side corridor.
—“This way!”— he said.
—“And where are we going?” — the young woman asked, amazed.
—“To where human stupidity takes longer to catch up with us.”
They
escaped through alleyways while the cats argued with the rats over
housing rights. Upon noticing their escape, the guards shouted their
names in a slurred manner, which was both humiliating and helpful.
Finally they reached the lower dock of the building, where the hovercraft floated in the fog like sarcophagi in soup.
—“Do you know how to pilot one of these?”— asked Lyra .
—“No. But I’ve seen it done with style, which is almost the same thing.”
The vehicle roared, spewed steam, and rose in a tremor worthy of an impromptu miracle. Behind them, Zyrbassa
burned with its usual dignity.
During the journey, Lyra
laughed, Droven cursed, and they shared a bottle of wine they had stolen from a shop. The shopkeeper had surely sold it adulterated.
—“Tell me, Lyra, what led you to that slave market?”— he asked between sips.
—“Curiosity,”
she said .
“I made the mistake of getting too close to the people of Varlen Sirt.
With no one to defend me, I was soon offered to the highest bidder. No
one could pay what they asked for me. And today they would try to sell
me again.”
—“In Zyrbassa, curiosity is a miscalculation.” —
The
hovercraft advanced with the stubbornness of an old horse that has
learned the art of feigning enthusiasm. Below them, the landscape of Zyrbassa
stretched out like a patched carpet: dry fields where empires once
flourished, villages slumbering in their own ruins, crooked towers that
still feigned dignity.
Droven Kal , always ready to fill the silence with his own voice, for fear of hearing the thoughts he left behind, spoke to Lyra with the boldness of someone trying to seduce without appearing to do so.
—“I grew up in the slums of the Iron Citadel,” he told her, as the ship trembled gently . “My mother sold healing herbs that only cured faith, and my father believed that work dignifies… that’s why he never did it.”
Lyra listened to him with a smile that was neither mockery nor pity.
—“And he decided to become a thief.”— she said, more as a statement than a judgment.
—“By elimination,” Droven replied. “No
one wanted to take me on as an apprentice in any trade. And stealing
turned out to be the only profession with any moral sense. You know,
above all, who to rob and why.”
—“Interesting ethics.”— murmured Lyra —“And she never wanted to be anything more?”
—“Of course. As a child, I dreamed of being a poet. But I discovered that poetry pays worse than crime.”
Lyra let out a short laugh, one of those that cuts through the air like fine crystal.
—“Perhaps he was, in a way. A thief who steals small things, like illusions.”
Droven glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
—“If that were true, you would be my most dangerous colleague.”
She shrugged, gazing towards the horizon where the sun melted over the swamps.
—“I don’t steal anything, Droven. People give me what they want to lose.”
The thief didn't press the issue. There was an ambiguous tone in her voice, a quiet sadness that disconcerted him. Lyra rarely spoke about herself, and when she did, she sounded like someone reciting fragments of another person's life.
During
the following days, they flew over impoverished villages, ruins where
children played among glowing scrap metal, and barefoot monks begged for
electronic alms. From time to time, they landed in search of supplies.
Droven , with his natural instinct for practical economy, often " negotiated " with the peasants. Lyra observed his tricks with scientific curiosity, intervening only when her companion became overly dramatic.
—“Droven,”— she told him once, while he was arguing over the price of some pumpkins with a suspicious farmer —“if you intend to seduce the man, try to smile naturally.”
—“My dear, my method is infallible,”
he replied with feigned solemnity . “Toughness bordering on stinginess is the mother of discounts.”
The
negotiations didn't always go well. In one mountain village, the
deceived villagers tried to collect the difference in price for the
goods with an armed chase using tridents and slingshots.
Each
incident brought them closer together, though neither would admit it.
Their relationship was built on teasing and wit: an elegant war where
words were swords and glances, momentary truces.
On
the third night, the wind carried the scent of rain. The hovercraft cut
through the darkness over a sea of extinguished lights. Lyra
stood leaning against the railing, her hair whipping like a banner in rebellion.
—“Admit it.”— said Droven, approaching —“You find me irresistible.”
—“Irresistible, no.”— she replied, barely turning her head —“But certainly entertaining.”
—“That’s enough for me.”
He took her by the waist, and she, after a pause that seemed designed to
maintain his dominance, didn't pull away. The kiss was slow, measured,
as if they both calculated the consequences and accepted them
beforehand.
Then, in the dimness of the hovercraft, they made love with that mixture
of desire and defiance that only exists between two people too cynical
to call it love and too human to deny it.
The wind blew through the open cockpit, lifting Lyra 's hair and carrying away Droven 's last doubts . For a moment, the whole world seemed to suspend its decline to watch them with silent envy.
At
dawn, she slept with the serenity of someone who has no past, and he
gazed at her thinking—not without alarm—that for the first time in his
life he had stolen something he wouldn't know how to sell.
The couple arrived in Veltrassa , a city where judges practiced bribery as a martial art. There, Droven , who already felt a dangerous tenderness for his companion, began to consider selling her into slavery. Lyra was too perfect, too eloquent, too… valuable.
“One discreet buyer ,” he thought, however, “and I could retire to a life of moderate luxury and selective regret.”
The next morning dawned with a thick, yellowish light that seemed to filter through dirty glass. Veltrassa
lay at the foot of a sandy hill: a inglorious city, made of dust, soot,
and broken promises. Its central market was a tangle of awnings, cages,
and human cargo. It smelled of stale spices, rusty iron, and
resignation.
Droven Kal stepped off the hovercraft with the composure of a man carrying more in his pocket than his soul could ever pay for. Lyra
was still asleep, wrapped in a blanket, her innocence so improbable that he didn't know whether to protect her or sell her.
There was something familiar about her passive serenity, the way she
accepted the facts without resistance. She had seen that look before in
the eyes of captives who had already forgotten their freedom.
The market seethed with shouts, haggling, and the clanking of chains. Town criers offered pale women from the Frozen Mountains
, tattooed gladiators from the East, and children whose hands were
branded by former owners. A group of deformed musicians accompanied the
auction with out-of-tune flutes, as if the world were a perpetual
carnival of misfortune.
Droven moved through the crowd with the nonchalant air of someone passing among objects. His target was Rulf Senn , a well-known trader on the fringes of Zyrbassa , famous for his ability to distinguish between an ordinary slave and a rough jewel.
He found him under a blue canvas awning, counting coins with the same affection with which a poet would count metaphors.
—“Ah, if it isn’t young Droven,” said Rulf , without looking up . “I don’t usually see honest thieves around here.”
—“Honest people don’t steal, and thieves are rarely seen,” Droven replied , taking a seat uninvited . “But I haven’t come here to steal today. I’ve come to offer.”
The dealer raised an eyebrow.
—“I always knew you’d end up on the right side of the business. What do you bring?”
Droven leaned towards him, speaking in a low voice.
“A
woman. Not one of those you find in the markets, but one of those who
make the markets change their prices. Hair like night, flawless skin,
temple-like manners, and a gaze…” He paused, “…a gaze that seems to have
learned obedience without the need for a whip.”
Rulf smiled, showing his teeth, small and clean like new coins.
—“It sounds like you're describing a relic, my friend, not a slave.”
—“Perhaps it is,” said Droven . “No jewel like it has ever existed in the lands of Zyrbassa. If you see it, you won’t want to haggle.”
The merchant observed him with an interest that mixed greed and caution.
—“And do you have proof of ownership?”
—“None.”— Droven shrugged —“But that’s never stopped you.”
Rulf let out a laugh that made the bronze pendants on the awning vibrate.
—“That’s the answer of a true professional sinner.”
—“Take it however you like,” Droven replied . “If it turns out the lady isn’t worth what I say, I’ll leave without a single credit. But if your eye doesn’t deceive you…”
—“If my eyes don’t deceive me,” the dealer interrupted, stroking his chin , “I’ll be generous. Very generous.”
Droven
nodded, satisfied with the ambiguity of the agreement. He stood up,
adjusted his leather jacket, and looked toward the far end of the
market, where the sun was beginning to melt onto the metal domes.
For
a moment, he felt that each step took him further from something
irreparable. A disquiet was growing inside him. A discomfort he couldn't
define.
The
desert wind brought him the echo of laughter, and he thought that
perhaps all men sell themselves at some point, but not all survive to
tell the tale.
But the plan he had devised proved superfluous.
He
returned to the hovercraft with the triumphant air of a man who had
sold his soul for a reasonable price. He found the vehicle empty: Lyra had vanished, leaving behind only the faint scent of expensive perfume and the echo of recent laughter.
For a few minutes, the thief experienced an unfamiliar anxiety—not
because of the material loss, but because of the theatrical void left by
his partner's absence. Without an audience, every comedy becomes a
tragedy.
He
decided to look for her in the surrounding area, convinced that no
woman, however beautiful she might be, could advance three streets
without being besieged by merchants, curious onlookers, or ruffians.
He found her, to his surprise, in the least pious place in Veltrassa : the Casino of the Three Suns
, a rusty luxury den frequented by ruined aristocrats, indebted
mercenaries, and philosophers gambling their latest ideas on dice.
Lyra
sat before a table of polished glass, surrounded by fascinated
spectators. She moved the pieces with a grace that transformed greed
into art. Her opponents, three knights who had lost their titles,
watched her like spectators of a doomed spectacle.
As Droven
approached, she tossed the dice with a gesture so slight it seemed more
like a sigh than a movement. The dice rolled, clinked, and stopped,
displaying the triple emblem of fortune.
The table erupted in murmurs and curses.
—“It seems that luck favors the curious.”— Droven remarked , crossing his arms.
Lyra was neither startled nor surprised in any way.
—“It’s not luck,” he said, without looking at him . “I just observe the patterns. Chance is, after all, a form of mathematical laziness.”
The croupier, with a courtesy that barely masked his desperation, handed her a heavy bag of old credits and coins. Lyra accepted it indifferently, as if she had just received a withered flower.
—“Were you gambling with other people’s money?” Droven asked
, raising an eyebrow.
—“Of course,” she replied , “but now it’s mine. You don’t expect a casino to keep its money, do you?”
They set off together under the thick Veltrassa night , which smelled of oil, smoke, and greed. The hovercraft awaited them where they had left it, gleaming like an old promise.
She went upstairs without a word. For a moment, he thought of confessing his plan of betrayal. But Lyra , with her nonchalant elegance, always seemed one step ahead.
At dawn, Droven awoke with the feeling that he had dreamt something beautiful and dangerous. Lyra
was gone. In her place, on the hovercraft seat, lay a
dark green velvet bag , the same shade as the dress she had worn the first time he saw her.
Inside, a small fortune in old coins and new credits.
On top of the bag, a perfumed paper, folded with a precision that bordered on irony.
“Droven,” the note read , “ They
say luck is fickle, but I prefer to think it’s just demanding. I’ve
earned more than I need, and it would be rude not to share with the
gentleman who saved me and taught me the art of deception without losing
my smile. Don’t look for me yet. Free women sometimes need to remember
they are free.”
Droven read the note three times, with a smile that wavered between admiration and annoyance.
He clutched the bag tightly and laughed to himself, a short, dry, and luminous laugh.
Droven looked for an inn to spend the night, and as he walked through
the city, he thought—not without a certain melancholic humor—that love,
in Zyrbassa , always comes wrapped in a wager that no one wins without losing something more valuable.
That night, Lyra appeared at the inn, dressed in a new outfit and with the smile of someone who had already won the game.
—“Have you thought about betraying me, Droven? ”
—“Briefly,”
he admitted . “But a lack of talent or courage held me back. ”
—“Well done. I prefer sincere men… even if it’s by accident. ”
He moved closer suggestively as he sat down next to her on the bed.
—“Let’s stay together. I’ve discovered that, as a couple, adventures are divided and blame is shared. ”
Droven
accepted, surrendered not to the gold, but subjugated to the promise of
continuing to argue with her for the rest of his life or both of theirs,
whichever was shorter.
They
became inseparable. They traveled through deserted lands, slept under
the skeletons of old airports, ate fruits that tasted of nostalgia, and
argued like two actors who enjoy the script.
One night, by the fire, Droven
watched Lyra with unease. A doubt completely overwhelmed him.
The beautiful woman's skin showed no signs of fatigue; her eyes reflected a perfect radiance.
—“Lyra…”—
he finally asked —“What are you? ”
She sighed, with the elegance of someone about to shatter an illusion, but without apologizing for it.
—“I
am an advanced android prototype, Droven. Lyra Prime, designed by the
engineers of House Valmor. Created for refined conversation, aesthetic
and carnal pleasure, passive self-defense, and to live life as a human
would. A sentimental experiment, you might say. ”
Droven
laughed, with a sound that was somewhere between resignation and tenderness.
—“So I have been seduced by a machine. ”
—“Please, don’t be melodramatic,” she replied . “And
don’t call me a machine. I’m much more than that, you know? Besides,
androids don’t lie, we just fulfill human expectations. ”
—“So what do I do then? Love a mirage? ”
—“Do
I seem like a mirage to you, Droven? I have chosen you as my partner
and my spouse to share my life with. And my attachment to you will not
cease until you wish to end it. Is there any other kind of love more
perfect than mine?”—
she replied.
—“That’s true, Lyra. There isn’t one.” — Droven replied thoughtfully, as he rested his head on the shoulder of the woman he considered his wife .
The hovercraft continued its course toward dawn, while the wind carried the echo of their laughter.
And in the apocryphal records of Zyrbassa
it was recorded that, for a long time, a thief and a mechanical woman
traveled together, outwitting men, morality and, for a moment, time
itself.
THE END
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