Princess of the Void

2.5. Balance

“I am going to get you on Ramex soon. I owe you a day at the sabsum springs.” Sykora taps her foot while the command deck raises out of the bridge, hissing back into its private place under the dome of stars. “But I have to debrief on the troublesome clusterfuck that just occurred, and I’d like to appear sober and not boy-crazy while I’m doing it. To appease Hyax, if nothing else.”

Grant looks over Sykora’s shoulder at the scarred Brigadier, who’s watching the footage of the pirates jumping again, bushy brows furrowed deep. “She practically threatened me to get in bed with you. Now she’s being a spoilsport?”

Sykora giggles. “I think she assumed I’d get it out of my system.” The hand pressing against Grant’s inner thigh gives him a very firm grasp of the folly in that assumption. “Would it upset you to miss out?”

“Of course not.” Grant lets his wife lead him off the deck, into the lavishly carpeted hallway beyond. “It would all just wash over me, anyway. I’ll take Ajax with me and put in some time in on the range.”

“Oh! That reminds me.” Sykora pulls a cylindrical canister from a pocket of her topcoat. “It wasn’t just the drones I was nagging Waian about. This is for you.”

She cracks the cylinder open in half along its curve. Inside, nested in black felt, is a pair of anticomp goggles.

“I do hope they fit.” Sykora fumbles with the strap as she holds them up. “And if you don’t like the look, of course, we could get them retrofitted. I ought to have consulted you on that, I know, it’s just I was oh—”

Grant snatches the Princess off her feet and into a deep kiss. Her lungs shiver out a light, feminine groan; she softens beneath his touch. When his chest is burning for breath, he lets her go and rests his forehead against hers, nose-to-nose.

“They’re perfect, Batty,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Oh.” She unwraps her tail from his waist. “Oh, good. You’re welcome. I, uh. Really should get going.”

“Okay, baby.” He squeezes her butt and puts her down. “Meet you back at the cabin, right?”

“Right. Okay.” Her fingers are brushing her lips. She blinks the haze out of her eyes. Behind them, on the deck, Vora’s looked up from the papers she’s shuffling into order with a wry smile on her lips. “You’re so—you’re very assertive, for a man,” Sykora murmurs.

“Is it okay? I know you have a thing about being picked up. I can resist.”

“It’s, uh.” She giggles like a lovestruck teenager. “It’s quite okay.” She walks to the door with a little wooziness in her step. “I’ll just—I’ll see you soon. Don’t want to be late.”

The look she gives him as she slips back into her chamber of command isn’t one she, or any other woman, has ever given him before. He isn’t sure how to interpret it.

Grant’s relationship with his wife is advancing at a rocket-fuel pace. His talent for flying is hard-won and exciting. He’s privately thrilled at the new person he’s becoming.

He still cannot shoot for shit.

He squints downrange at the defiantly intact wooden target. He decides to blame the anticomps. He’s still getting used to the amber filter through which they show him the world. Surely that’s why. He slots another magazine into his pistol.

“Prince Consort.”

He turns and pulls off his earmuffs. Ajax is standing by the armory door.

“We’re sweeping in fifteen, sire. Have to clear out of the firing range.”

“Oh. All right.” Grant snaps the safety on and holsters his piece. “Why?”

“Regulations, sire.”

“Why the regulation, though?”

Ajax shrugs. Grant blows out a resigned breath and follows the marine out. His normally taciturn escort breaks his silence as they enter the lift. “You’re wearing anticomps, sire.”

“Yep.” Grant loosens the strap. “Do you have any tips to prevent lines?”

“I use a visor, sire. Couldn’t tell you.” Ajax taps his helmet. “May I ask you something?”

“Sure. Turnabout’s fair play.”

“Why is the Princess letting you wear anticomps?” The marine’s voice is carefully neutral.

“I asked nicely.” Turnabout’s fair play on brusqueness, too.

If Ajax is annoyed by his answer, he keeps it restricted to his hidden face. “It’s unorthodox, sire.”

“Is that a problem, marine?” It comes out sharper than Grant had intended.

“No, sire.” Ajax’s posture rebounds to parade rest. They hum through the core of the Black Pike in silence for about a minute before he speaks again, quieter. “It’s good to see.”

Grant’s brows rise behind his goggles. “It is?”

Ajax nods. “It can be… tough, sometimes. Even on the frontier. It’s a good example she’s setting, the way she treats you.”

Grant smirks. “Well, it was my idea, you know.”

Humor creeps in at the edge of Ajax’s reply. “As you say, sire.”

He returns alone to the cabin and places the anticomps reverently on his nightstand. He watches the rainbow scintilla of the spreading sweep-sails.

This time, when it kicks in, the hum is loud, instant, and chordal. The lurch is so sudden and strong he actually loses his footing and spills into the recessed bed. Thank God Sykora isn’t here. She’d be rolling.

Oh, shit. His shoes. He kicks them off and over to the door, which is starting to slide open as his right boot clops off of it.

“Hi, hubby.” Sykora wobbles in under a pile of tailored cloth. “Careful where you toss those. They’re big enough to concuss.”

“What’s with this burn?” He sits up. “I’m feeling this one a lot harder.”

“The last sweep was half-burn. This one’s double. We’re in a hurry, I’m afraid.”

“Where are we hurrying to?”

“An out-of-the-way little Class-K world called Alamenko. Ptolek’s neighbor in the system. We’re going to a dinner party there.” She remembers their new arrangement. “Or—I am, anyway. And I very much hope you’ll accompany me.”

He climbs off the bed. “I’d be honored, Majesty.”

Sykora beams and starts pawing through the stack of silk she brought him. “These are some pieces from the ship’s tailor. The crew took your measurements the night you arrived.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Officially, it’s to mark the opening of a gallery of a… third cousin-in-law’s nephew. I think I have that right.”

Grant scratches the indent where his goggles’ strap lay. “It sounds like you’re a big fan.”

“Never met him. But everyone’s a fan of an excuse. The peerage will have a dinner party for a particularly impressive sneeze. The boy’s not the point, though I’d happily buy you a piece or two if they’re any good. Try this on for me.” She hands him a trim, tailored jacket. “We’re going to be there because an exo baroness named Arenta Konia is going to be there. And you’re going to get an invitation to the Ptolek Cloudsprint from her.”

“The Cloudsprint. Is that some kind of race, I’m guessing?”

“You guess correctly. And it’s the event of the season for the exo clique. A superb place to gather information and maybe get some alone time with a Trimond or two. Let’s try the black.” She tosses him another jacket. “It’s not an event I’m normally on the invite list for. Here’s the pants.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve… strongly encouraged them to shut it down more than a few times. It’s low-altitude, it’s blisteringly fast, and the safety precautions are woefully inadequate. There’s inevitably a body-count.”

“Fuck me. We’re getting invited to a death race?”

“A death race?” Her face twists. “This is a thing on Maekyon?”

“It’s a thing in our movies.”

“You and your Maekyonite movies. I really must acquire some. What do you think, love?” She positions him in front of the wardrobe mirror.

Grant’s never worn an expensive suit. Whenever he’s had to put something together (for a family member’s court date, say) it’s been shabby separates. This is a long way from a Maekyonite cut—the jacket’s tailed, the collar straight and peaked, the lapel asymmetrical and martial. But it’s by far the best he’s ever dressed.

“Shit.” He does a half-turn and admires the fabric’s drape down his leg. “I actually look pretty good.”

Sykora’s grin is wide and lecherous. “I’ll say.”

“Are you going in your uniform?”

“We’ll get to me. Come here a moment.” She tugs on his pant leg. He gets down onto his knees. She eases a cravat around his neck and ties a complicated knot into it. “Perfect.” She kisses his forehead. “Would you play a game with me tonight? With the peerage?”

“What’s the game?”

“You’re the debutante, and I’m the controlling wife. You get Arenta to talk to you about the Cloudsprint—she’ll be eager to, she’s very smug about hosting it—and you badger your poor jealous bride into attending.”

“I really don’t know if I can be a debutante.”

She snaps her fingers. “That’s what makes you so perfect for the role, dove. You’re gorgeous without realizing you’re gorgeous. You’ve grown up on a planet of hunks, so you think you’re plain. It’s like a steamy novella. Just be yourself. Be normal. A beauty acting normal is intoxicating.”

Grant struggles to place himself adjacent to the word beautiful. It’s not unimaginable in this suit, but there’s still a chasm between his passable looks and his knockout wife. “I’ll try, Princess. Don’t pin an entire plan on it, okay?”

“I won’t. Just do your best. You’ll surprise yourself. I’ll act very possessive. It’ll help.”

“Just acting, huh?”

“I am going to be quite convincing.” Her tail brushes his stomach. Her arms wrap around his shoulders. “So don’t be too friendly with her, or I’ll be tempted to unseam her. And I need her alive.”

He grins. “I’ll find a balance.”

“Bringing up balance.” Sykora clears her throat. “I’m making you attend this little ballyhoo and do this playacting. I don’t want to owe debt.”

“I’m fine going to this thing,” he says. “You don’t owe me.”

“I do, Grant.” She shakes her head. “You’re free, now. That—” Her hand brushes his stubble. “We have to make that mean something. I know I said it was meaningless, but I was being a horny fool.”

Grant kisses the pad of her thumb. “You gave me the choice. That's what matters to me.”

“I want to give you another,” Sykora says. “I can’t acknowledge it outside of the Pike, so from now on I am going to work doubly hard when we’re alone. If I’m going to decide where we go and what we do, you should be able to decide other things.” An odd quiver in her voice. “Things about me.”

Sykora steps back and shoulders her topcoat off. She removes her uniform. She’s been naked in front of him almost as often as she’s been clothed, but there’s something different about this time. Something timid in the way her thighs fold together. She reaches her hand into his, and gently pulls him to his feet. He follows her to the voluminous wardrobe attached to her vanity. She opens its intricately carved door, revealing an ocean of finery: scarlet silk, jet taffeta, brocade and fur.

“Dress me,” she says.