Princess of the Void

2.23. Treason

The silence stretches following Sykora’s pronouncement.

When the Baroness finally speaks, her words are tight and strained with anger. “You’re bluffing.”

“I have evidence of your treason,” Sykora says. “Treason not only to the Empire and the Empress but to me. Me, you mad bitch. Did you think I’d allow that? It will take a little time to prove, but I’m confident I will. Confident enough to accuse you. And your daughter, I’m afraid, faithful defender of your family’s honor that she is, will be furious at such an accusation.” She reaches out and brushes Azkaii’s hair with the hand that isn’t holding the gun to the girl. “Furious to the degree that her valor will take the better part of her wisdom, leading to a physical altercation with one of my guards. And in the process—regrettably and accidentally—she’ll lose her life, Baroness.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Mother, don’t say that.” Azkaii is looking frantically from Sykora to the Baroness. “She—”

“I wouldn’t dare?” Sykora sneers as she cuts Azkaii off. “I wouldn’t fucking dare? I’ve heard that so often lately. I am coming to understand the degree to which the sector has forgotten me in my absence. I am not some pliant administrator to be browbeaten. I am Sykora. I am the Princess of the Black Pike.”

Azkaii’s breath is shallow and frantic. “Majesty, I don’t know anything. I’m nobody.”

Sykora puts a finger to her lips. “Shhh. Quiet, now, milady. Your mother needs to decide whether you’ll live.”

“You will regret pulling that trigger for the rest of your life,” Baroness Trimond snarls. “You suppose yourself untouchable? You have no idea how readily the peerage will fight back against these overreaches.”

“Spare me the bluster.” Sykora puts the hand that isn’t full of iron on her hip. “You may fight and fight and fight. She’ll still be dead, and I’ll still win. My story will be the official story.”

“Nobody will believe it. Your ego has blinded you.”

“I don’t want them to believe it, you dumb hen,” Sykora says. “I want them afraid. You may rail at your injustice to the coterie, while I take pieces of you, bit by bit. That’s fine. The louder you cry out, the clearer my message will be.” She circles behind Azkaii, keeping the barrel of her gun trained on her captive’s cranium.

Tears are welling up in Azkaii’s eyes. Suddenly, she looks very young.

“I’ll find you guilty of treason,” Sykora says, “and take your life from you in the slowest, most painful manner my executioners can discover. I’ll seize your refineries for the Empress. I’ll make penniless beggars of your surviving clan, pleading for stale crusts of bread from the same workers they once domineered. I’ll pry your signs from the walls and bulldoze your estate. This weakness you imagine in me—I will make you an object lesson, to ensure the next proud fool isn’t as blind as you are. One way or the other, Baroness, you will be of use to me.”

“What happened to you on Maekyon?” The Baroness leans forward until her face is taking up the whole camera. “What fires were you harrowed in to turn you like this?”

“I was always like this, Baroness,” Sykora says. “You benefitted from it. From the safety my nature afforded you. Now you find yourself on the other side of it. But perhaps I’m wasting my time.” She takes a step away from Azkaii and tilts one volcanic eye down the gun’s sights. “The blood of your clan is thick on your hands already. What’s one more?”

“Mom.” Azkaii’s syllable comes out as a sob.

“Enough.” The Baroness’s high-backed chair scrapes a loud complaint across the teak tile as she stands. “You heartless whore. Fine. Enough.” She doesn’t so much sit back down as deflate. Her face returns to the frame, a mask of resentful exhaustion.

Sykora inclines her head. “Go on.”

“The Yellow Comets are targeting my interests. I am arming my house to defend myself.” An indignant flicker sparks in Trimond’s dulled eyes. “There, my confession, damn your ears.”

Sykora’s all cold, stately patience, now, like she’s sussing out whose baseball broke a window. “Why are they targeting you, Baroness?”

“Azkaii was unaware of this. I will not have this stain fall on Azkaii. Give me your word. And promise you’ll free her.”

Sykora shakes her head and keeps the firearm trained on the Baroness’s daughter, who’s shaking with half-suppressed sobs. “I give you nothing until I know what you’ve already taken.”

“At least lower the gun, for pity’s sake.” The Baroness is purple-faced and desperate.

Grant shifts. Sykora glances at him with that same question-mark look she gave him at the gallery party when she was waiting for permission to eat. The frozen mask of cruelty slips, for an imperceptible moment. Beneath it, he sees the woman he loves. He’s certain he’s off-camera, but he tries to keep the placating shake of his head as subtle as he can, regardless.

Sykora holsters her pistol.

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Her life remains in your hands, Baroness. Tell me what I need to know.”

Trimond forces the words from her like she’s keeping a trembling temple door open to let them out, Indiana Jones-style. “The Yellow Comets have been extorting my family for decacycles now. We’ve been… we have supplied them with exo. Enough to keep them out of the Imperial dragnets. I put my foot down and cut the flow. And ever since, they’ve been at my throat. Deep void raids. Assassinations. I have been fighting your battles for you, Majesty.”

“Extorting you with what, Baroness? Why have you been fighting my battles? Why did you never come to me, or to Garuna?”

“Have I not paid penance enough, Princess? Have my mistakes not been washed away in the blood of my family and my servants?”

Sykora sneers. “Your early deliveries to them weren’t extorted, were they? When they first came to you, you were a willing saleswoman. You made a deal with the devil and you blinked. And you blinked again, just now. When I said the Governess’s name.”

“When I feared your wrath,” the Baroness says, “I knew I could depend on her friendship. She was there when you weren’t. You ask me why I didn’t come to you? How could I have, when you weren’t there?”

“Excuse your shame in whatever way your ego demands,” Sykora says. “Only have sense. Every piece you give me stretches my mercy further, and leaves more of you and your clan intact once this crisis ends. Where have you been holding these weapons?”

“They’re at Trimond West, aren’t they?” Grant steps into the frame. “The scab refinery.”

“They are. In the exo warehouses.” Trimond scoffs. “Scab refinery. You talk like a commoner.”

“I am a commoner, Baroness.” Grant straightens his back and tries to project the same sort of imperious chill his wife does. “Maybe once your mansion’s repossessed, I can give you some tips on apartment hunting.”

Sykora’s tail nudges his calf. “In your dealings with the Comets, did you meet the Comet Queen?”

The Baroness’s voice is ash and lead, now that her fire’s gone out. “I only ever dealt with intermediaries. Never the Queen herself.”

Sykora narrows her eyes, but doesn’t press. “What about Garuna? Give me something on the Governess and you have a chance at my mercy.”

“Garuna’s only crime is in trusting a friend. I’ve never involved her beyond the request for funds, which she gave in the understanding I was using them to solve my clan’s issues internally and discreetly, without relying on the servants of the Imperial Core.”

Sykora’s rigid posture clues Grant in to how she feels about being called a servant of the Imperial Core.

“I don’t believe you,” she says. “And if I learn you’ve lied, it will come down harshly on you. But you’ve given me enough to spare your daughter, at least. Send me your datacrypted confession. Reproduce all you have admitted to today. If it satisfies, Azkaii will be released. For appearances’ sake, you will remain at your estate until the conclusion of my investigation, at which time I’ll render my final judgment upon you. If I learn you’ve spoken publicly about this, or if you make any attempt to flee, I’ll strip your citizenship from you and call for your head.”

Trimond’s eyes glow under the dark shelf of her brow as she fans what embers remain. “I won’t go anywhere. I’ll stay right where I am and watch your hubris eat holes in your imperious little delusions. Narika is going to take everything from you. And you’ll deserve every hurt. Monster.”

Sykora turns to Waian. “Cut this call off.”

The Baroness’s face disappears like a wrathful ghost’s.

Azkaii’s trembling knees finally give way. She sits heavily on the floor. Sykora’s icy mien develops a few spiderweb fractures. “Put her back in her cell,” she says to one of the marines. “Charter a flight to Ptolek for her.”

He looks to his partner. “Are we not waiting for—”

Sykora’s tail lashes the air. “I gave you anorder, corporal.”

He snaps a chastened salute. The marines help a benumbed Azkaii to her feet and toward the lift.

“I want a detachment of soldiers stationed at Trimond’s manor.” Sykora dictates this to Vora, who tak-taks away on her tablet. “Keep them incognito. I don’t want anyone to understand the degree to which we’re on top of this, and I don’t want to prevent any further attempts against them. I’d love to capture a would-be assassin. We’ll use the Trimonds as bait.”

Vora nods. “Prudent, Majesty.”

“Lorimare we’ll keep captive. She’s too self-serving to allow freedom of movement. One prisoner for another.” Sykora scratches her chin. “That luxury cell is earning its use quite well. I shouldn’t have dallied in outfitting it.”

“Very good, Majesty. How ought we treat her?”

“I’ve been merciless enough today, I think. We’ll levy penalties and ensure her fear and compliance, but I don’t imagine after stripping her assets from her she needs to see us in blood-and-thunder mode. Cruelty is wasted on women like her; you turn them by making them understand you’re their last hope. I’ll save the withering stuff for women like the Baroness.”

Waian raises her mechanical hand. “Lorimare was breaking the fuck out of the law, Majesty.”

“Well, yes. But so was I.” Sykora smirks. “And if she’s one of Narika’s contacts, I want to turn her. Use her.”

Grant steps to Sykora’s side as she triggers the command deck to slide back down to the bridge.

“I’ll leave Lorimare’s intake to you, majordomo,” she says. “Be courteous but uncompromising. A little sympathy, maybe. Act as though you fear my displeasure. She mentioned deep void combat sites. I need those found.”

Vora bows. “Right away, Majesty.”

“What are we going to do with them?” Grant asks. “You reckon we’ll find evidence from them?”

“Evidence and shrapnel,” Waian says. “Who knows what kind of bulkheads have been left to drift? Ships like the Pike can just plow through unlogged obstacles. Smaller vessels have to rely on their pathfinder sensors and permeable membranes, and those can both fail.”

“The tributary lanes are lined with repulsorcraft to ensure that no space trash punches a hole in your membrane,” Sykora says, “but there are always unscrupulous citizens attempting to take deep-void shortcuts. Not legal, by any stretch, but not something we can just let them explode over, especially since the wreckage they leave turns the entire thing exponential.”

“Yup.” Waian strolls toward the unfolding stairs as the command deck settles back onto the bridge. “Some days you threaten noblewomen and decide the fate of worlds. Some days you clean up garbage.”

“If Vora’s handling intake, what are we doing?” Grant glances at the departing majordomo.

“We are going to ensure Hyax arrives safely, then go back to the cabin.” Sykora’s tail twines around Grant’s calf. “It has been a long and difficult day, and I need a tall, beautiful alien to squash me into a little pancake. If you know anyone who’d be up for the job.”

“Hmm.” He follows her to the lift. “Maybe I’ll remember someone on the way.”

He makes out in zero gravity for the first time, as the lift zips them through the ship. It’s a fun, feathery sensation, but the saliva acts oddly when there’s nothing to make it drip. When they get too hot and heavy, it becomes a bit like kissing in a spit-flavored jelly.

The lift dings and the little mist they’ve made around them drops onto their skin.

“That was nasty,” Grant says, as he follows the Princess to their cabin.

Sykora wipes her face. “Told you, dove.”

“But I’m still curious about zero-G sex. Like—we have to at least try it, right?”

Sykora giggles. “Vora’s done it. She tells me it’s a rather unpleasant disappointment. But I’m game if you are.”

“Sykora.” Grant pauses as they reach the cabin door. He needs to ask, he decides. “Would you have shot Azkaii? If the Baroness had still said no?”

“She was never going to say no. We had her.” Sykora’s grin fades when she meets Grant’s eyes and sees the need in there for an answer.

She sighs.

“But the old Sykora, the Sykora who hadn’t met you yet, would have, yes,” she says. “She believed—believes—that a Princess must carry out her threats or she loses them as a tool. I would have been dismayed at my failure of judgment, but I would have accepted the outcome, and killed her. Yes.”

“What about this Sykora?”

She presses the seal; when the door opens, she takes both his hands. Her eyes shine like carnelians as she backs into the bedroom, pulling him in with her. “This Sykora would have looked into the corner,” she says, “where my kindness was watching me.”