Princess of the Void

“I am going to conference with my husband now,” Sykora says, with gunmetal calm. “Give me a moment.”

“Yes, Majesty. We, uh—” Vora’s full of foreboding. “We’ll await your command.”

“Grant, dove.” Sykora’s grip is claw-tight on his arm. “Would you kindly press that mute for me? You have the wingspan to reach it.”

Grant leans over to the console by their window into the firmament and pushes the red mute button.

Sykora flips onto her stomach and screams into a pillow. She rolls onto her back and throws the cushion against the far wall of the cabin. “God fucking damn it to fucking Hellfire,” she snarls. “May my sister’s tail rise up and throttle her!”

Grant rests a hesitant hand on Sykora’s foot. “So this is bad.”

Sykora sits up. Her eyes are wide and burning. “She knows, Grantyde. About the immunity. She knows Maekyon’s secret. I bet you she planned this. I’ll bet as soon as she learned she started plotting to take Maekyon. I bet this is all her.”

That seems unlikely to Grant, considering the circumstances, and considering the way Narika spoke to him last time they met, when he saved her life. But he knows better than to disrupt his wife while she’s on a tear.

“Fuck my life.” Sykora flops into the bed. “We can’t let her have your homeworld. We absolutely can’t. God. I should have blown her head off on Ptolek II.”

“I know you don’t actually think that,” he says.

Sykora sighs. “No. I don’t.” She makes grabby hands at him. “Come squish me.”

Grant obeys, laying between her legs and resting his head on her chest. He listens to her heartbeat.

“One day,” she says, making little whorls in his hair, “Maekyon’s secret is getting out. We’ll work as hard as we can, you and I, to delay it. But it’s on the map now, and the more attention you receive, the more attention it will receive. You and I will slip up, or some faction will petition for early uplift, or an unscrupulous noblewoman will sneak through the Empire’s defenses and swipe a Maekyonite for herself. And on that day, the Empire will descend upon it far, far earlier than it ought to. No time to forge your own interplanetary society, not even a token chance at any sort of negotiation. The Eqtorans, at least, have the technology to be a costly nut to crack, if it comes down to it. Maekyon hasn’t had the time it needs to grow. The moment we wanted it, we’d have it.”

Grant links his arms beneath the curve of Sykora’s back and tries to keep from shivering.

“I refuse to let any other Void Princess guide your world’s uplift. Certainly I won’t entrust it to Narika. No.” Sykora shakes her head. “I’m the one who introduced the first Maekyonite to the firmament. I have an obligation to your species. Your world must be mine, Grantyde.” She puts a hand on his. “It must be ours. All I have is yours, and that will include Maekyon. We’ll decide together, when it’s time, how your cradle-world joins the Taiikari Empire.”

Ideally, Grant thinks, it doesn’t. But he’s aboard an invincible mile-long warship that can depopulate entire planets. You have to be realistic about the fights you pick. “So the ZKZ Black Pike is paying a visit to Eqtora,” he says.

“I didn’t want to do this.” she whispers. She closes her eyes for a stabilizing breath. He hears her heart picking up speed. “I’m afraid.”

He lifts his head from his squishy little pillow and scoots to her side. He takes her into the hollow of his arms.

“I think it’s here.” She draws his arm across her body. “Our marriage’s big test. I think you’re going to see me at my worst.”

He rests his palm on the delicate curve of her stomach. She’s trembling.

“Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise you won’t hate me.”

“I won’t,” he says. “I could never.” And he knows it’s true.

But he’s afraid, too.

***

The Black Pike comes alive in resolute preparation for the task ahead. The sweep will take them across the sector, from the relative hubbub of the metropole to the outer edge of the firmament, the frontier of the frontier. The last time Grant was this far out, he was a prisoner aboard the Pike. He’ll be returning as its first gentleman.

Amid the humming glow of the Pike’s engine deck, engineers meet with navigatrixes to discuss burn trajectories and exo loads. Across urban-warfare obstacle courses, Sykora’s marines sink headshots into holographic targets of Eqtoran commandos, their figures and formations downloaded from distant spy drones. Within the rectories, hooded monks lead hymns of safety and prudence before chiseled geometric abstractions of the Gods of the Firmament and the Gods of the Pike and the Heavenly Court of Empresses Past.

In the hangar bay, a steady firefly stream of shuttles arrive and depart, as crew return from shore leave or depart in order to spend a final day in the Ptolek system before they leave Imperial civilization behind. Their destination has no tributary lanes leading to it, no civilian-safe routes. The ZKZ Black Pike’s membrane is indestructible; if, on its sweep out, it should run into any unmapped anomalies or debris, it will run straight through them. No smaller vessels are cleared to make the journey. Until the Eqtoran annexation fleet arrives, they will be alone in the system.

Grant and Sykora join the outward throng, accompanied by the scarred and somber Brigadier Hyax. She insists on sitting shotgun as Sykora flies: “I don’t want you two playing such forceful footsie you crash us into an exo ring.”

Sykora rolls her eyes.

The shuttle breaks from the ruddy clouds of the gas giant through a thrumming repulsorcraft field. It coasts to a halt by a sturdy pier, fashioned to appear rustic and wood-built, and settles on an invisible pad of antigravity.

Hyax struts from the shuttle and snaps a salute to the marines who await them. Up a set of limestone steps, a cozy bungalow sits atop a grassy cliff. The home (and temporary jail) of Wenzai, Countess of Korak, and her husband Tikani.

“Take your time gathering your men, Brigadier.” Sykora nudges Hyax as they ascend. “I have some recompense to make with this woman. We’ve been keeping the poor thing cooped up under house arrest.”

“Cooped up.” Hyax snorts. “The Sergeant tells me she and that Kovikan of hers have been screwing half the island.”

“That’s cooped up, when you’re used to screwing half the firmament.”

Tikani, Count of Korak, a gentle alien who looks like a squid crossed with a poet, waves at the approaching party from the garden, where he’s working with a trowel in his hand and a daughter clinging to his back like a spider monkey. He stands and wipes dirt from the knees of his canvas overalls. “Afternoon, Majesty.” He bows, keeping one lime-green arm around his kid to keep her secured. “Prince Consort. So good to see you both again.”

He leads them through the bungalow to the kitchen, nodding to the black-clad soldiers stationed throughout. This house felt a lot bigger, Grant remembers, before a detachment of marines crammed themselves into it.

Countess Wenzai hosts them in the obsidian-walled kitchen. Her generous curves are sheathed, as always, in black. “It’ll be odd, not having the soldier boys around.” She sips a steaming mug of coffee. “I’ll almost miss it. Always someone in the room to talk to, even if they didn’t talk back much.”

“You accommodated this troublesome staycation with such grace,” Sykora says. “I’m very grateful.” Being a tea drinker, she’s passed her own mug to Grant. He doesn’t mind; the Count is an artist with caffeine.

Two more kids chase each other into the kitchen, stopping short when they see the Void Princess and her consort.

Mava bows with a haste that suggests she was trying to beat her brother to the motion. “Majesty.”

“Hello hello, kiddos.” Sykora places her oblong gift box on the kitchen counter to crouch and picks the girl up. “How have we been?”

“I know how to whistle really loud now,” Mava says. “But mom said don’t demonstrate please unless her Majesty asks you to.”

Orlo, who seems to have inherited his father’s moroseness along with the eye color, looks morosely at Tikani. He speaks in a burbling flow of syllables, finishing out with a pop of his tongue.

“Orly,” Tikani says, with gentle reprimand. “It’s not polite to speak Kov when we have guests who can’t understand it.”

Orlo switches to Taiikari. “Mom and dad are grounded.”

“I never told him that,” the Count of Korak clarifies.

“Yeah, but you are,” Orlo says.

“The Princess was just being careful. We’re not in trouble anymore, okay?” Tikani gives his son a gentle push toward the garden door. “How about you guys go play outside real quick?”

Lady Lakai of Kyin is sauntering down the stairs, in leggings and a slouchy tunic. The slinky little copper-headed pilot is brushing her teeth. An overnight bag is slung across her shoulder. “Oh, hi.”

“Oh.” Sykora cocks a brow as she settles Mava back to the floor. “Hi.”

Lakai reaches the bottom of the steps and delivers a bow. She spits into the kitchen sink and turns the tap. “I was just about to take off and be out of everyone’s hair. Just had to get cleaned up.”

“You’re such a hazard, Lakai.” Wenzai laughs. “We were hoping to hustle her out before you got here, Majesty, but she kept finding excuses to delay so she could be seen.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Wen.” Lakai waves at Mava. “Bye, kids.”

Mava waves back. “Bye, milady.” The little Taiikari scampers from the room, seeking her siblings.

Lakai giggles. “Look at them. Already with the proper titles.” She winks at Tikani; her other eye flashes. “Take a knee, Greenie.”

He kneels. The Korak estate’s ginger guest strolls into Tikani’s arms and kisses him, with conviction.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she says.

His hand brushes the small of her back. “Of course, milady.”

Lakai turns to Wenzai and kisses her, too. “Thanks for your husband’s coffee,” she says. She starts to pull away. Wenzai grabs a handful of her ginger hair and holds her in place.

“You’re welcome,” she says, and pulls Lakai into a second kiss, longer and deeper. Her tail winds possessively around the base of the Lady’s, looping like a caduceus. The paintbrush tufts on the ends press together. Wenzai finally pulls away. “We’ll see you again this fifthday.”

Lakai smirks. “I don’t know. Will you?”

Wenzai tilts the younger woman’s head back, lengthening the arc of her lilac neck. She plucks the toothbrush from Lakai’s hand. “We will.” Her eyes flash for effect.

“Um. Fine.” Lakai scoffs to cover the tremor in her voice. “Whatever. See you then.” She turns on her heel and brushes past the bemused Princess, giving her another brief bow as she goes. “Majesty. Prince Consort.”

“Where’s my bow, missy?” Wenzai calls. Lakai flashes the Countess a metal-horns hand gesture—the one Grant has been advised not to use in polite company. The stubs of her actual horns peek from her curls as she flounces from the bungalow.

Tikani shuts the door behind her. He breaks his own rule against Kov in front of the guests to Wenzai, who smirks and pops a short phrase back. “My lovely husband just called the lady a, uh—floozy for attention,” she translates. “I hope I didn’t scandalize you, Majesty. But I had to call her bluff.”

Sykora cocks her eyebrow. “I see you’ve kept busy out here.”

“Not much else to do when you’re under house arrest.” Wenzai says it breezily; then the blood drains from her face. “That—that came out petulant. Thank you for the visitation rights, Majesty. And I understand the need for security.” She ducks her head. “Truly, I do.”

Sykora takes her tricorne off. “You don’t need to be afraid of me, Wen. Now that the bloody business with the Marquess of Entmok is finished, I’d like to go back to building a friendship with you, if you’d let me. With both of you.”

Color is returning to Wenzai’s cheeks. “We’d like that.”

Tikani nods vigorously. “And if there’s any lingering doubt, if you wanted to compel me again, or anything—”

“That won’t be necessary, Count.” Sykora cuts him off. “I recognize your sensitivities around it. And I’m tired of distrusting my subjects. Can’t stay paranoid forever.”

“It was an awful betrayal,” Wenzai says. “We were bowled over when we heard. And Thror, too. God. I’d never have guessed.”

“I’d like someone to talk to about her,” Sykora says. “To compare notes, I suppose. You were her friend.”

Wenzai’s ears flatten against her head. “Has the investigation not closed?”

“No, no.” Sykora holds her hands up. “I only mean that I was her friend, too. I thought I was. And now, it’s just—I’m mourning a story, I suppose. The lie she told of our friendship. And I wonder if you are, as well.”

The Countess’s spine decompresses gratefully. “I am.”

Sykora retrieves the gift from the counter. It sloshes. “Would you care to mourn over a glass or two?”

Wenzai bows. “I’d be honored, Majesty. Sure you have the time to spare?”

“Hyax will make faces at me, but I’m used to it.”

“Great. We’ll use the balcony.” Wenzai holds up the toothbrush. “Just have to go put that harlot’s toothbrush upstairs.”

“A toothbrush at your place. Goodness.” Sykora grins. “From that alley kindek?”

“Sure.” Wenzai’s tail wags as she ascends the stairs. “You feed an alley kindek often enough, eventually it wants to be let in.”

“Would you care to join us, Count? Prince Consort?” Sykora looks Grant’s way. “It’s likely to get maudlin, I warn you.”

“That’s all right, Majesty,” Tikani says. “I knew Thror better than I knew Paxea. And I’ve shed enough tears for them both.” He puts his chipped mug on the kitchen counter. “I was thinking of getting out to the javelin range, Prince Consort, if you throw.”

“Throw?” Grant rubs his thumb along the handle of his own mug. “I never have, but you’ve got me curious.”

“Oh, it’s a grand time,” Sykora says. “You should go, Grant. I’ll be all right here.”

“May we borrow the Sergeant, Majesty?” Tikani indicates Ajax. “I’ve been trying to convince him to hurl a few. It’s my last chance.”

“You may.” Sykora fires a quick salute to her marine. “I leave my husband in your capable care, Sergeant.”

He bows. “Majesty.”

Grant follows Ajax to their hovercar. Tikani crouches in the garden to be buried in hugs from his kids. “Just like old times, huh, Ajax? Babysitting the Maekyonite.”

Sergeant Ajax favors a full anticomp face shield at all times—Grant’s never actually seen the guy’s face. Still, he thinks he hears a wry smile when Ajax replies. “Yes, sire.”

The marine gets behind the twin-lever steering wheel. Tikani slides into the shotgun seat and punches an address into the console GPS. “It’s good to see you again, sire.”

“Likewise. You seem like you’re holding up all right. Despite the Thror thing.”

“I meant what I said to the Princess,” Tikani says. “Part of my fellowship with the man was in bonding over the exploitation we felt. Now I realize he was exploiting me the whole time.”

The hovercar thrums to life and coasts silently across the turf.

“I hope you don’t feel like I’m trying to slot you in as a replacement for Thror or anything, sire,” Tikani says.

Grant stretches his legs out in the back of the hovercar, slouching to keep the top of his head from brushing its roof. "We can make Ajax the Thror replacement."

Ajax doesn't look away from the road. "Not enough arms, sire."

“You're halfway there, marine," Grant says. "Don't give up."

Tikani chuckles. "I’m glad we can pick up where we left off.”

“Same here.”

Grant's glad to be heading out on this quick excursion for another reason, too. He has a question. One that he’s been brooding over ever since the Eqtoran mission began. And he suspects the Kovikan count is the only person he can get his answer from.