Princess of the Void

“Two salt-passings,” Grant says. The shuttle anchors on a plate-glass platform emerging from a canopy of Ptolek II's blood-red trees. “Or a seasoning of your choice.”

“Let’s say… one salt-passing and one hand-feeding,” Sykora says. “What’s the going rate on those?”

“Depends on the hand food.” Grant unbuckles from the shuttle “I’d do a grape if you let me put a dartboard in the cabin.”

“Dartboard, fine. But you’ll have to do some furniture stuff for the darts.”

“Furniture stuff?”

“Let me sit on you,” she says.

“At lunch?”

She winks. “We could do it in private.”

“Will they believe you need to compel me just to pass the salt?”

“Compulsion feels pleasant,” she says. “For the husband. Newlyweds often overdo it. It’s a flirtation and a flex. Two public compulsions will be enough, I think. Though if you need to leave the table, I may compel you to respect the groom’s code.”

“Groom’s code?”

“Be well-behaved, go nowhere you shouldn’t, touch nothing that isn’t ours, and come right back,” she says. “It’s a traditional courtesy in the Imperial houses that the husband may go un-escorted through the grounds as long as he’s compelled. In your stead, I’d need a guard.”

“Even to go to the bathroom?”

“Oh, yes. Can’t be too careful. We can go invisible, darling, remember? Much room for skulduggery. It’s an escort for every Taiikari guest, or you fill your manor with infrared cameras, and there’s ways to fool those. But in your case, dear Maekyonite, our biases will be your invisibility. They’re expecting an obedient fish out of water. Act airheaded and gormless, and they’ll excuse any social mistakes. They’ll underestimate you. And when my eyes flash…”

“I feed you those grapes,” he says. “Maybe I toss and you catch it in your mouth.”

Sykora stifles a giggle. “Insufferable Maekyonite.”

“I need to prove my aim’s good,” he says. “For the dartboard.”

They sit in an echoing dining room, sized for dozens of guests. Their end of the table is a little island of activity in the grand, polished chamber. The grand giant of Ptolek shines through the arched windows, dying the feast set before them a russet pink. Garuna’s serving them a Taiikari variation on a salad bar—ripe berries and leafy roughage in great grassy beds, crusty loaves still steaming from the oven, glistening slabs of caramelized protein. Grant doesn’t ask what anything is, just copies Sykora’s spread. Everything is fresh and delicious, if a little bland for his taste.

Garuna’s husband Jumail is a meek and unobtrusive man, whose only words that afternoon are a stiff “Majesty. Prince Consort. Welcome.” upon his introduction. He tucks in and eats with the air of a worker on his lunch break. He’s the first Taiikari male Grant has met whose eyes are visible, and it’s a minor shock to see that they’re gold rather than the red of every female he’s met.

Two couples, and Garuna’s mother, a primly dressed and imposing woman named Lady Frelle. The servants outnumber them.

“I do wish we’d had more time to create a full to-do,” Garuna says. “There’s many, many ladies who would love to welcome you back.”

“I’m sure.” Sykora smiles prettily. “Something I was keen to avoid, in fact. I appreciate the intimacy.”

“Me too. Oh, I’m sure they’d just be mobbing your husband.” Garuna giggles. “What a fabulous prize you’ve found, Sykora.”

Sykora sips her water. “He is one-of-a-kind.”

“I can’t imagine this is anywhere near the grandeur you’ve experienced as a husband-of-the-void, Prince Consort,” Garuna scoops a dollop of chutney across her plate. “But we are so grateful you accompanied Sykora.”

“On the contrary,” he says. “It’s the finest terrestrial hall I’ve ever been in. And the food is just delicious.”

“How kind of you to say.” Garuna beams. “Your Taiikari is very good.”

“I can’t take any credit for that.” He taps his temple. “Sykora provided me an implant.”

“Fascinating,” Garuna says. “The technology of the voidships.”

“Grantyde.” A gentle tug on his sleeve. He turns to a flash gilding Sykora’s pupils. “Pass the salt, please.”

Garuna gives a catty grin to Sykora as Grant reaches across the table and slides it over to her. “His wingspan is so impressive.”

“Thank you, darling.” Sykora winks at Grant as she gives her roasted vegetables some much-needed seasoning.

“It has been fascinating,” he says. “The implant, I mean. Getting used to it is faster than learning a new language, I’m sure. But there are remarkable differences.”

“Such as?” Garuna’s mother takes a break from nibbling her salad to ask it.

“For one thing,” he says, “I was never the type to say remarkable.”

“What would you say?” Garuna asks.

“Something pithier, I think. Maybe wild.” He grins. It’s strange—he was never much of a talker in his original tongue. But ever since he got this implant, the words have come easier and easier. As if his mind had been waiting for the right language to unfurl itself.

“Wild.” Garuna guffaws. “Oh, how delightful. That’s so wild.”

“And firmament,” Grant continues. “In my language, that’s antique.”

“Oh?” Garuna spoons a candy-colored bushel of sauteed leaves onto her plate. “What would you call it, then?”

“Space,” he says.

Garuna blinks. “Oh. That’s rather… verbatim.”

He leans forward a little. “Do you want to know what the Maekyonites’ word for Maekyon is?”

“Please.”

Grant gives an insider grin. “Earth.”

Garuna claps delightedly. “A world called Dirt that calls the firmament Space. Was your original name Man?”

He laughs along with her. Sykora’s smile is flinty on its edges.

“So much of what I do is so dreadfully boring, I’m sure.” Garuna giggles. “Your wife is sweeping around the sector, blasting malefactors out of the firmament and exploring alien frontiers. I host balls and watch numbers move around.”

“Numbers of great import, of course.” Lady Frelle cuts in. “What we lack in excitement, we make up for in utility.”

“It’s all exciting to me, ma’am,” Grant says. “Maekyon hasn’t even expanded into its solar system yet. The firmament is still such a novelty. Do you ever deal with space pirates? Thank you.” He scoots backward to give a servant access to his water glass. “Or smugglers?”

“Pirates, certainly.” Garuna looks up and her eyes flash. “Water.”

The servant cuts quickly across the close end of the table to attend her glass.

“Or should I say your good lady wife deals with them,” Garuna continues, as if the man didn’t exist. “But smuggling, no. No, I shouldn’t think so.”

“Our refiner clans keep very thorough records,” Frelle adds. “Her Majesty is always welcome to audit them.”

“The clans serve at the Empress’s pleasure,” Garuna says. “There’s simply no market for smugglers to sell into. We have no customer but the Empire, and the Empire’s rates are set. And quite generous. No undercutting, no gouging, no dramatics. The only way to maximize profit is to maximize production. It promotes healthy competition.”

“Ah, of course.” He sponges up a spot of chutney with a crust of bread. The state of affairs Garuna describes would encourage smuggling, he thinks, but there’s a party line she’s sticking to. “I apologize for my presumption.”

Jumail coughs as a scrap of pilaf escapes down the wrong hole.

“Oh—” Garuna’s hand covers her mouth. “Oh, dear. There’s surely no need for that, Prince Consort.”

Sykora’s toe nudges Grant under the table as she issues a nonchalant laugh. “My husband is a new acquisition. The first Maekyonite to join the Empire. He’s adjusting quickly. But naturally, there’s a bump here and there.” She pats his leg. “We refrain from apology outside of rather severe circumstances, darling.”

“I’m—” He bites down before the repeated faux pas can pass his lips. “I see.” He rises from his seat. “May I excuse myself, ladies? Could you direct me to the bathroom?”

“But of course.” Garuna gestures with her spoon. “Past the greenhouse door and to your right, Consort.”

“Remember the groom’s code, dear.” Sykora’s eyes flash. “No doors beyond the one you’ve been directed to, no touching anything that isn’t ours.”

He makes a show of bowing low at the waist and kissing her ring. “Of course.”

Grant wanders from the room, past the armed guard on the banquet hall door. The man just gives him a brief nod. Nobody moves to escort or intercept him.

He’s dangerous. He’s a fly in the imperial ointment. A glitch in their mainframe. It’s a welcome feeling.

He peeks into the greenhouse window as he passes. The foliage beyond is red and shaggy, like a vine meets a conifer. The creepers appear like oversized moth caterpillars.

He does his business and emerges back into the hallway. He dawdles again at the greenhouse door. Some catty part of him wants to go through it and look around, just because he can.

“Prince Consort.”

The voice snaps him from the thought. He turns toward it. Frelle curtseys a greeting. Here, out of the light of Ptolek, he sees how vividly magenta her skin is beneath her elegant, pleated gown.

“Lady Frelle.” He bows back.

“It’s my good fortune to run across you here.” Frelle takes a smooth step closer. “I’d hoped we might speak, away from the ladies of import and station.”

His hands are still damp. He wipes them surreptitiously in his voluminous pockets. “Sure.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, as a husband-of-the-void? The adjustment period can be severe for newly uplifted species. But you and the Princess seem to be getting on well.”

“Sykora is being very accommodating with me,” he says. “As are you and your daughter.”

Her smile transforms her face, from sharp and severe to kind and matronly. “We’re all just so pleased to see our void princess finally together with someone. We had thought she’d be chaste all her days. That’s not uncommon among the voidship coterie, you know. They sip Kabira’s wort to muffle the heart, and occupy all their spare time with dominion. But I should have guessed a woman of her high taste was simply holding out for a fine specimen like you.”

It catches Grant off-guard, every time another compliment arrives on his looks. He’s not an eyesore, but few people ever gave him a second look on Maekyon. “I’m humbled by her attention, ma’am.”

“You’re comfortable aboard the Black Pike?”

“It’s a wondrous vessel, ma’am.”

“And the compulsion? She isn’t abusing it?”

“No, ma’am. She’s being quite judicious.”

“Do Maekyonites have the warmth, I wonder?”

“The what, ma’am?”

“The compulsion warmth,” she says. “Taiikari gentlemen experience it. My husband tells me it feels like the first sip of mulled wine after a frigid walk.”

“Oh. That warmth.” He nods. “Yes. It’s very nice.”

“Tell me, then. And don’t lie.” Her eyes flash. “Is your wife here on suspicion of foul play?”

She’s compelling him.

She thinks she’s compelling him.