Princess of the Void

Grant starts and nearly jerks to his feet.

Sykora points at him. Her eyes do that reverse-blink that makes them shine. “Stay.” She raises her voice: “Is that Vora?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Enter.”

Another Taiikari woman shuffles into the room. Even shorter than Sykora, with larger ears, night-sky skin, and her silver hair in a complex, plaited updo. Her uniform is trim and black, with a high stand collar and a set of red pips along her sleeveless tunic. She has an owlish pair of round spectacles on. “I can come back, Majesty. If you’re busy.”

“Never busy for you, majordomo.” Sykora’s hair drizzles on the carpet as she strides across it. “God, Vora. I never thought I’d see you again.” She clamps the little woman into a tight hug.

Vora returns it with a timid pat on the back. “It has been far too long, Majesty.”

“How long has it been, Vora?” Sykora breaks from the hug. “I lost track of time on Maekyon.”

Vora flinches. “Majesty—”

“Don’t spare me. I’m braced.”

“Fifteen cycles, Majesty.”

“Fifteen cycles.” A shake enters Sykora’s voice. “Fifteen cycles in Hell.” She shuts her eyes. “So much to be done. Is Narika still pressing her claim?”

“She is, Majesty. She has made progress.”

“That mad bitch. And I suppose the Ptolek business isn’t over with.”

“No, Majesty. A few more deaths. Our assassination theory seems likely.”

“God. So much time lost.” When Sykora’s eyes open, they dart to Grant’s face with renewed iciness.

“This is Vora of the Black Pike, Grantyde. My worthy majordomo. Without her, I wouldn’t be able to find my ass with both hands, ample as it is. Vora, this is Grantyde, my groom.”

“Oh!” Vora gives him a short bow. “Congratulations to you both. Did you take him from Maekyon?”

“Indeed.” Sykora wears a smug grin. “Some minor consolation for my time on that wretched world.”

“If you’ll forgive my saying, Majesty, he certainly doesn’t look

“Oh, yes. Terrible accommodations, backward technologies, but quite gorgeous, the inhabitants. Thank you, Vora. My remarks will come shortly.”

“Of course, Majesty.” Vora bows as she shuffles backward.

“And Vora.”

“Yes, Majesty?”

Sykora folds Vora into another embrace. “Thank you,” she whispers. “All that I clung to in my imprisonment was the knowledge that the Pike was in your hands. You have honored me. More than I know how to say.”

“Oh—Majesty. Really.”

“It’s just us and my husband, Vora. Sykora will do.”

Vora looks nervously, apologetically even, to Grant. “As you say, Sykora.”

“Were it not for our different stations, I am sure you’d be a better Princess than I could ever be. I must work hard not to disappoint the crew, I think. They’ll miss your hand on the tiller.”

“Sykora, please.” Vora’s flushed a dark violet. “You overpraise me. They’re breathless for your return.”

“I’d better get on with it, then. You may go.” Sykora plants two quick kisses on either side of her majordomo’s face.

“Is your husband—is everything okay?”

“I’m not,” Grant says, “her husband.”

“He’s quite willful.” Sykora titters. “But he’ll be a wonderful companion, I think, once he’s learned his place.”

“Do you think he’s— uh—” Vora mutters into Sykora’s ear, blocking her lips with her tablet. It’s not like Grant could read them anyway.

Sykora bites back a giggle. “Vora, my dear, I intend to find out.”

Vora peers over Sykora’s shoulder at him. “Will you compel him?”

Sykora binds her voluminous hair in another fluffy towel. “I don’t think so. They were so proud of their bare civilization. And so callous in their dealings with me. I intend to extract every dram of pleasure I can from taming this one.”

Grant feels a stab of anger twist his gut. He saved her. He fucked his life up to save her. And this is how he’s repaid. Lumped in with the bastards.

Sykora sees Vora out and insists upon a third and final hug before the majordomo departs. Again, another flash of that warmth he remembers. Why has it twisted so darkly in his direction? What does she think he did?

She returns to him as her door slides shut. She unhooks some kind of heat-element wand thing from the wall by the tub and passes it over the long silky rivers of her hair.

“You’ve never been in the void, Grantyde,” she says. “It’s vast, and dark, and cold.” She switches sides and draws out another long lock. “You’ve never been in me. I’m small, and soft, and warm.” She wiggles her toes at him. “And clean now.”

“My answer doesn’t change.”

She hums. “That’s all right. You’ll come to understand how truly far from your home you are, and the comfort I offer. An existence of ease and pleasure, and the wonders of the firmament laid before you. And all you’ll have to do—” She leans forward. Her cleavage swells from the front fold of her robe. “is submit.”

He refuses to entertain her presentation with a glance.

“Say yes, and I will give you the first night of your voluptuous new life as my bedmate.” She indicates her massive, jewel-toned bed. “Say no, and you sleep in a cell. I’ll even provide you a cot and a bathroom door. I trust you know what those are, despite their absence in my enclosure.”

She sits on the edge of her bed. It sinks subtly under her butt. It looks very soft.

“Will you share yourself with me?” she asks.

“No,” he says.

She clicks her tongue and steps past him to a console on her wall. She presses a button on it. “Ajax,” she says. “Fion. Enter.”

The door hisses open and two musclebound armored stormtroopers step inside.

“Highness,” Fion grunts.

“Remove the alien to his cell, please,” she says. “And if you could inform the quartermaster to have the curry sent to him there, instead. I’ll dine alone.”

The other steps forward and plants a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “As you command.”

“Thank you, Ajax.” She nods to her prisoner. “You’ll be brought to me again tomorrow, husband. For now, please enjoy the curry, and if asked, report that it was fantastic so that my beloved quartermaster doesn’t quit. It’s always an artistic crisis with him, but the entrees are worth it.”

In the glare he gives her as they take her away, he tries to channel the same chill that she did, the first night he saw her trapped.

“Bathroom’s that door.” Ajax points. “Going to need to duck, big man.”

Grant cracks the hatch and glances inside. It’s not exactly one-to-one with the shitters he’s used to, but there’s enough resemblance that he imagines he can figure it out.

The rest of the cell is, he has to admit, nice. Better described as a dorm room than a cell. There’s a little cabinet with his go-bag deposited at its foot, sat next to a cot made up of the same memory foam stuff his shuttle seat was. It’s thin but it’s surprisingly comfortable. On an unrolled woven mat atop the cabinet is a steaming tureen of bright green curry.

Ajax’s shiny maskplate reflects Grant’s face back to him. “You get hungry again, you hit that button. We are watching and listening. If you need anything, ask. If there’s no response, assume the answer is no.”

“Okay,” Grant says. “Fine.”

“One more thing.” Ajax steps into the room. His fellow guard keeps a wary stance as he pulls a rolled-up scroll from under the bed and tapes it to the wall next to the starscape window.

It’s a poster of the forest. Just like the one that hung in Sykora’s cell. He sits in front of it and stares. He looks up at the bulbous camera, where—presumably—a Taiikari version of the same working stiff he was a week ago is sitting and watching him. “Very fucking funny, folks,” he says.

“Glad it lands.” Ajax shrugs as he departs. “I don’t get it.”

They slide the glass door shut behind him. The lock engages with a red beep. And Grant Hyde is Batty’s prisoner.

He picks at his curry with the wide-bottom soup spoon provided. It’s smoky and buttery and ought to be quite delicious, he imagines, but he barely tastes it. After a few bites to give his stomach something else to complain about, he crouches by his go-bag. Someone’s picked through it, removed his utility knife and his gun, of course, and a few other things you’d want to keep from a captive.

He finds one of his paperbacks. A John Carter of Mars thing. He opens it to the dog-eared page—

And he can’t read it. Not a word of it. He barely remembers to look left-to-right; the characters swim on the page. That dementia feeling returns.

A wet mark lands on a drop cap. That’s the letter— the letter— what letter is that? He sniffs. Then he snorts. The tears are coming unbidden down his face.

These are his father’s books. The last of them. He doesn’t know what will happen to the rest, the ones at the Colorado apartment.

He has a sudden burning urge to call the guard back and go back upstairs to the only familiar thing in this place. To the beautiful little despot in her silk chamber, whose only demand of him is the thing he’s been aching to give her.

And then he’d be her property for the rest of his life.

Besides these books, his refusal is the only thing he has left. He needs to be smart in spending it. He needs to figure out his way in this world. And who this woman really is, and why she’s treating him this way, and whether there can be something real and decent between them.

Out the window, Maekyon isn’t even visible anymore. Just one glowing dot among many.

Earth. Maekyon’s name is Earth. Earth Earth Earth Earth. He will not forget that.

He looks at the backlit panel by his door. Bathroom, it says, in glyphs he’s never seen before. But that’s the bathroom. He can read it. Or he could, if his eyes weren’t blurred by his tears.

The window’s view of the stars disappears. In its place is the face of the alien calling herself his wife.

“Company of the ZKZ Black Pike. Your Princess has returned. I am resuming command of the vessel, effective immediately.” Sykora’s expression is regal and serious. Her eyelids are marked with rings of dark maroon.

“Majordomo Vora has regaled me with stories of your competence and loyalty. All probational positions and promotions are hereby confirmed. For the next tenday, starting tomorrow morning, half-duty is in effect. The precepts are relaxed accordingly. Boatswains: break out the kegs. Sergeants: overlook modest breaches of code. And be as joyful in your days as I am, to finally be among the most peerless crew on the frontier once more.”

She allows her stern face to soften.

“You have kept the ship and the sector. You have awaited me faithfully and heeded the orders of my command group. I am humbled by your faith and awed by your loyalty. Reap your rewards fully and without shame.”

Her eyes gleam. And for a moment it’s as if she’s looking directly at Grant, huddled on his cot. A full smile melts through the formal air, full of predatory promise.

“I know I intend to,” she says. “Glory to the Black Pike. Glory to the Empress.”

The broadcast ends.