Volume 4: Taiikar

Princess Sykora of the Black Pike will escape. She will.

She paces her cell, invisible, shivering with deprivation and rage. Dripping with the frigid water the beautiful monsters hose her down with before lights-out.

She will see the Pike again. She’ll reunite with Hyax and Waian and Vora. And then she’ll bring the physical embodiment of the Empress’s wrath to this loathsome backwater world and show these beasts exactly how deeply they have erred.

She allows herself a moment of rage. She lets out a yowling, wordless wail of it, wringing her hair, racking her spine with trembling, impotent anger. She vents it all out and is empty again. The burly, spotty Maekyonite in the monitoring room jerks out of his fugue and hastily jots a note. Fine. Try to piece her together. The new ones still think she’s some feral beast.

Perhaps she is.

She curls up on the elevated bars at the center of her cell—do Maekyonites all sleep on things like this?—and launches her simmering contempt and her determination at the beachhead which grief threatens to establish every night. She won’t let these monsters see her weep anymore. She’ll murder all of them. She lets that lull her to sleep.

She awakens in the middle of the night and swings off the scaffold to take a piss.

There is a muffled sound coming from the monitor room. Sometimes she hears voices from there, and strains to make out any syllables and sense, and wishes she’d been a cleric like her brother, so she’d know better how to learn new languages (or not be in this rotten situation in the first place). Her head jerks toward it.

The night shifters, she’s deduced by now, are the weak link. She presumes it’s nighttime, anyway; the lights dim and the noises from outside stop and nobody bothers her for a few hours, so her circadian rhythm has been set accordingly.

The daytime camera guards are armed and alert and have a doughy amplitude to them that suggests at least a modicum of martial training. The night shifters seem more like drudges. If—when—she makes her escape, she’ll go at night. No Maekyonite guns to take then, but they’ll be a quick and simple first kill and the alarm won’t be triggered before she can escape the door sealers.

The limited language she’s put together, she repeats in her head every night until the lights go out. Stepthru. Stohp. Invizible. Wirreadingyu. Fukn hail. Beethirdy Won. That’s her.

Best to stay hidden until she has more.

The figure beyond shifts and pauses as her sad little commode auto-flushes. The noise stops for a while, long enough to drift her back to the edge of sleep; then it begins again, and there’s a jolting somersault inside her, like someone has thwacked her heart with a downy pillow, when she realizes it’s music.

She inspects the Maekyonite in the room beyond—what she can see of him through the dark glass. He’s playing some kind of stringed instrument laid in his lap. His willowy fingers track up and down its fingerboard. He sways to the song he’s making.

It’s beautiful.

Drowsiness is creeping back across her mind. Her eyes are drifting shut. Usually she welcomes sleep, longs for it to come and steal her away from the hell she’s landed in.

She fights it tonight. She stares at her indistinct jailer and listens to his song until she can’t anymore.

The next night she wakes up and the music is playing again. Something jauntier this time, upbeat. He’s singing along, in a voice with a warm creak to it like the porch swing of a half-remembered childhood home.

A cascade of relief washes across her at the sound. To her annoyed surprise, her eyes are misting up. This is the first thing that has made her feel like a person in—how long? A decacycle at least.

You’re killing him, remember? Bide your time, Sykora. Find your contingency. Don’t walk closer to him. What are you doing?

Her skin ripples. With a sensation like a fist unclenching, she slips back into visibility.

The song stops.

“Look at me,” she says. “Kom hir. Stepthru. Come on.”

The Maekyonite is frozen with prey-animal panic.

“Come out here,” she says. “Come look at the alien.”

A clattering noise and the door opens. She gets a good look at him standing in the entry way, his face full of shock and horror.

Oh, no.

“You’re too beautiful,” she says.

He stammers a syllable.

“You’re too beautiful,” she repeats, and flattens herself against the glass. “You’re too beautiful to kill.”

He staggers backward like she’s already trying to kill him anyway, and slams the door. “Wait,” she calls. Her eyes flash, but he’s already turned from her. “Stohp!”

The steel shutters come slamming down to the floor and she jerks backward away from them.

No, no, no. No, Sykora, you fool. Why did you do that? Why? Did she think he was different, somehow? Somehow not the enemy, just because he’s a work of art?

At the very least, they’re going to punish her. They punish her after every time they hit the shutter button. It’ll be the shock prod again. And this Maekyonite might be smart or trusted enough to reveal to her captors that she’s not just a dumb beast. That she speaks and reasons.

She’s thrown her last advantage away. She hates herself for that.

She is an empty-headed idiot. She is the dross of the Empire, the superfluous garbage they shuttled away to the frontier. And now she’s been disposed of. She’s where she belongs.

***

Sykora steps behind the thick, crimson curtain; the applause of the Void Congregation becomes a muffled rainstorm. She takes a deep, detangling breath and tries to exhale out the anxiety and the building squall of panic.

Where is he? Where is he where is he where is my husband?

Distract yourself. You are Void Princess of the Black Pike sector. Do your job.

She turns around to the Eqtorans who are following her off the stage, and gives as steady a smile as she’s capable of. She catches the eye of Governess Qilik—

[Threat level: Nil]

[Control Vector: Still enervated and submissive after her Republic’s defeat. Be gracious and even-handed while ensuring she witnesses the Empire’s might and haughtiness. Reinforce that you are her people’s buffer from the Imperial Core.]

[Contingency: The thick layer of tissue around Qilik’s neck complicates strangulation; use teeth instead. A deep enough bite will reach the jugular. Be quick and lethal; you’re legally clear, especially if she aggresses, and an example will be made.]

—and gestures to an imaginary satchel at her own waist. “Kqani-qik kiv translator, Qilik.”

Qilik digs into her real satchel and pulls a letter-sized panel from it, which she unfolds and attentively switches on.

“That wasn’t so bad, now, Governess, was it?” As Sykora speaks, the blocky Eqtorish alphabet crawls across Qilik’s translator.

Her reply spills Taiikari glyphs onto the surface’s other side. The title still chafes, Majesty. There’s really no way to keep me as a High Councilor?

“Within your system and people, you may call yourself whatever you please,” Sykora says. She leads the group through the hubbub of the backstage area; the Eqtorans in her train vainly attempt not to be oversized obstacles to the hurrying Taiikari crew preparing the next presentation. “To the firmament you are the Governess of Eqtora, and it’s best to maintain the title at any interstellar social function. Perhaps when our official translations are published we can find a quiet compromise.”

They re-emerge into the vibrant pageantry of the convocation floor. Taiikari nobles and alien diplomats and frontier magnates mingle in a multicolored mass across a grand and echoing hall, whose vaulted ceiling displays a starmap of the Imperial Core.

“You did well, you know,” Sykora says.

Qilik shrugs helplessly. All we did was stand there.

“That’s all the Empire expects of you. Just stay by me, and I’ll make sure that they receive exactly as much as they require and no more. If we’re smart and play our parts, the council and its elections might remain in place. A vassal state, trusted to run itself, is afforded a measure of democracy.”

The Empire would allow such a thing?

“The Prince and I are the Imperial Authority on Eqtora. And we prioritize results. I wouldn’t have put on a bandeau and done a dance for you otherwise.” Sykora’s tail curls at the memory. “Give me the results I want, and the deference I expect, and the protectorate can remain self-governing.”

“Black Pike,” comes the bubbly call. “How lovely your presentation was.”

Sykora turns from her newest subjects. Standing beside a cocktail table in a flowing gray-and-blue gown is Void Princess Kanori of the Cloud Gate.

[Threat level: High. ]

[Control Vector: High self-worth. Appeal to her vanity. She knows your reputation as hot-tempered and will try to provoke you; don’t let her.]

[Contingency: Kanori’s a southpaw; holster on the left. Flip the table forward with your tail in order to stun her long enough to disarm her; when the pistol is secured, retreat to the East corner of the hall and force negotiation. Kill only if there are sympathetic witnesses.]

[Addendum: On your list of suspects. As a neighboring sector's Void Princess, she had both the means and motivation to maroon you on Maekyon.]

Sykora refreshes her staling smile and gives a shallow bow. “Kanori. I’m honored to hear it.”

“Everyone is so abuzz about the annexation.” Kanori fires off a windchime laugh over the rim of her wineglass. “Conquering a civilization with the power of song. I adore that.”

Sykora steps to the table. Behind her back she gives a warning halt sign to Qilik and hopes the Eqtoran understands. “I daresay you inspired me, in a way, Kanori.”

Kanori’s lips purse. “Really? I don’t recall throwing any concerts.”

“The bespoke approach, I mean. You achieved a similar cultural victory with the Saktei, yes? The monument bombardment campaign.”

Kanori’s eyes twinkle. “You know, I suppose a parallel can be drawn. You’ve done your homework, Black Pike.”

“And my duty, Cloud Gate.” Sykora twists the hand around behind her back and gestures Qilik forward.

“Ah. And here’s the charmed darlings.” Kanori cranes her neck to show her fanged grin to the Governess. “I should love to visit Eqtora some day. I’m so desperately curious what it looks like, a solar system that can be so… whimsically controlled. I’m sure it’s just charming. Like a fairy-tale kingdom, almost, isn’t it?”

Sykora ignores the twitch of her talons and the acrid reply on her lips. A few cycles with them, and she already feels strangely protective of these aliens. It’s the Grant Effect.

Qilik’s brows knit as she watches Kanori’s words unfold. She chisels out a careful reply. We would be honored to accommodate a Princess of your stature.

“How marvelously rustic it would be.” Kanori beams at the Eqtorans. “But oh—who has the time, eh? Busy, busy.”

Qilik bows. Of course, Majesty.

A few more empty pleasantries and Sykora shuttles her charges away. For all her trepidation, Qilik is grasping her role and subsuming her ego quickly enough. Good.

Hurrying toward her across the floor are her command group, thank God—minus Waian, who’s stayed on the ship, ostensibly to command it but mostly because she hates these sorts of events.

Vora, her majordomo—

[Threat level: Low]

[Control Vector: Absolutely loyal.]

[Contingency: Vora is a talented fencer, but inside her reach she has a tendency to panic. Close distance and don’t let up. Bring her to the floor if possible. Favor nonlethal resolutions.]

—slips into train with her, a glass of effervescent root wine in her hand. “You look like you need this,” she whispers, and presses it into Sykora’s hand.

“Empress liberate me from these preening Princesses.” Sykora takes a grateful drink. “Do we know where Grantyde is, yet?”

“Majesty.”

That’s Hyax.

[Threat level: Low]

[Control Vector: Absolutely loyal.]

[Contingency: Hyax has the strength advantage. Do not let your love for her hesitate you; any attack must be thwarted quickly and decisively. Exploit the stiffness in the war wound on her left hip; she’s unsteady there. Favor nonlethal resolutions.]

“The Prince has been released.” She gestures with one gauntleted hand. “That’s what we came to tell you. He’s in the atrium with—someone. An Imperial agent, we think. Shall we secure you a private room?”

“There are no private rooms in the Imperial City, Brigadier. You know that. We need to return to the Pike as soon as possible.” Sykora hurries toward the atrium with a haste that forces her confused delegates to stride after her. Her head is on a tactical swivel. Where is he? Where is he where is he.

There.

Grantyde—

[Threat level: Husband]

[Control Vector: He’s your husband and he’s so cute and big and he’s your husband, and he’s in love with you, and you’re his wife, and you can kiss him whenever you want.]

[Contingency: Play-fight for one to three minutes, then let him win and pin you down and discipline you. Respect the no-tickling nonaggression pact.]

—stands below the apex of an archway made by two great statues’ crossing spears. He sees her as she sees him and his gaze is like a balm on a burn. Her heart skips a tri-beat.

She wants to sprint into his arms, but this is a public function of the Void Convocation so instead she does a ridiculous striding power walk as fast as propriety allows.

Her husband is less attuned to such niceties and takes no such caution. He seizes her as soon as she’s within his wingspan, kneeling and pulling her close and tight against his chest in a shipwreck-survivor embrace. “Hey, Batty,” he whispers.

“Grant.” She inhales his chest and tries not to wag her tail so quickly she knocks something over. “I was so terrified.”

The raspy scratch of his beard on her cheek. She wants to melt, wants to turn into a little puddle in his hands and have him carry her away to their cabin. A little longer, Kora. Just a little longer and you’ll be back on the Pikewhere you can be his.

“So this is Void Princess Sykora.” Grant’s escort has her hood pulled over most of her face, but Sykora can see her leer. “The things I have heard about you.”

[Threat level: Unknown, presume high]

[Control Vector: Unknown. Likely she’s a representative of a Princess Palatine at a minimum; make no attempt to pull rank.]

[Contingency: Separate Grantyde from her and remove him from danger as quickly as possible. Use her hood and cloak as impediments to blind and destabilize her. Favor nonlethal resolutions until you know who sent her.]

“Grantyde,” she says. “Who is this?”

Grant releases his tight hold on her, though his hands linger on her waist. “This is Gefreiter-Specialist Axyna of Taiikar, I think.”

“Well done, Maekyonite.” The Gefreiter-Specialist puts her hands on her hips. “Yes, ma’am. That’s me.” She jerks a thumb toward a wall. Sykora sees there’s a servant’s entrance seamed into it. “You and your husband. Quick chat. None of the goon squad.”

Sykora gives a hesitant look to her command group, then back to Grantyde, who nods. “Right,” she says. “Majordomo, Brigadier. Stay with the delegation, yes? I’ll be back shortly.”

Vora bows and Hyax salutes and Sykora is off, following this hooded bint into the guts of the Imperial Hall.

Grantyde’s touch has never departed her. It’s like an adapter’s been plugged into her. Every step, she feels herself drawing more strength from the quiet, steady supply he offers. Her heart is calming. Grant is here, and everything will be okay.

They cram into a little interview room and Axyna locks the door. “Okay. So.” She elbows past them and takes a seat atop a folding table. She pulls her hood off. Why is she wearing anticomps? Some kind of affectation, maybe. “I already spent the dramatic reveal juice I had on your husband. So here’s the short version.” She points at Sykora. “Empress Zithra knows everything.”

Sykora feels the ground fall out. “Everything about what?”

“Everything about what. Honestly.” Axyna snickers. “The thing you’re thinking about. You and your husband.”

Sykora is plummeting. It’s over. It’s all going away. She’s going back in the cell.

“Kora. Hey.” Grantyde’s grip tightens, a life preserver hurled into a freezing lake. “It’s okay. We’re gonna be okay. We’re not in trouble.”

“Well. Mostly not in trouble.” Axyna crosses her legs. “You owe a favor now. If it was anyone but you, I think we’d be having a very different conversation. But the Empress knows your loyalty, Princess. Your husband wasn’t in any danger. Your failure to inform her—”

“I had every intention—”

“Your failure to inform her, let me finish, is excused as understandable diplomatic caution. You had every intention to inform her eventually, is what you were going to say, yes?”

Sykora can’t keep her glare corked any longer. “As soon as was feasible.”

“Feasible. Sure. Good word.”

Grantyde draws himself up to his full height (and nearly scrapes the ceiling). “Ease up on my wife, Gefreiter-Specialist. We’re complying.”

“What are we complying with?” Sykora tugs his pant leg. “Grantyde. What’s this favor? How can we serve?”

Grantyde glances at the horrible little woman, who leers bigger and nods.

He crouches again. “The Empress, uh, she—”

His voice cracks momentarily. His hands fold across her waist and knit at her back.

“She wants us to have kids,” he whispers. “To combine the genome. She wants compulsion-proof Taiikari males. She’s giving us permission.”

Sykora thinks:

Grantyde’s babies I’m going to have Grantyde’s babies Grantyde full of my nectar and breeding me Grantyde with my scar on his neck Grantyde fucking me for hours and making me a mother Grantyde claiming me Grantyde on top of me and filling my belly with his babies Grantyde changing me forever Grantyde teaching our kids how to play guitar Grantyde holding us while we sleep, his wife and his children, holding his family, and I am going to wake up one day, one day soon, to Grantyde holding our babies in his arms in his big warm arms. I am going to wake up with a family. My family.

Sykora says: “I see.”

She looks past him to Axyna. “I require a moment to discuss this with my husband. Kindly depart.”

“Are you gonna tell her the rest?” Axyna asks.

“Fine.” Grantyde’s voice is hard. “Go.”

Sykora keeps it together just long enough for the door to shut behind Axyna; then she falls apart. “Grant.” She sobs into his chest. “Grant I—it—”

She’s just spent an entire day fencing with the entire Void Peerage. How can she be at a loss for words now? Why can’t she tell him how much this means? A family with him. A family that loves her. A family that won’t throw her away.

His warm, calloused touch caresses her spine. “Shhh. I know. I know, Batty.”

They hold one another until her shaking subsides.

“What—” She sniffs and sputters momentarily at the tears she’s accidentally inhaled. She wipes her face. “What’s the rest?”

“Two things. The first is we need to consent to at least one son, and him having regular check-ins with Doctor Fuckenstein out there.”

Sykora hears what’s unspoken in there. Grant is not going to permit that Imperial agent to interfere with their family. Good. She isn’t, either. “And the second?”

“The second is that Void Princesses can’t have kids,” he says. “And that’s not changing.”

She blinks. “What does that mean?”

“It means we need to make you a Princess,” Grant says. “A Princess Margrave, specifically, so you can keep the Pike. Which means you need to be put back in the Core Peerage. And the Empress is willing to do that, but we need someone else’s signature, too.”

He sighs.

“We need your mom,” he says.