Princess of the Void

2.8. Red Eyes

“Governess Garuna. Two o’clock.”

“What?”

“Like the direction.”

“That’s a time, dove. Not a direction.”

Grant jerks his head. “That way.”

Sykora stands on her tiptoes and squints. “Bless you and your vantage point. Let’s buzz by, shall we?”

“Is she going to be our witness?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’d love for you to meet Paxea. But we can spook her on our way.”

Grant leads his wife through the crowd, swiping another pair of amritas for them as he goes. “Is it worth bringing up the pirates, to gauge her reaction?”

Sykora chews her lip as she considers this. “Normally I’d keep it under wraps, but this is a rare opportunity to grill her separate from her serpent of a mother.”

“And you have to doubt she’ll spread it around further, right? All’s rosy on Ptolek, she says.”

“All right, I’m convinced. As long as we keep the specifics under wraps. No mention of Ramex. Hold this a mo.” Sykora hands him her amrita. “Let’s keep the Cloudspring tiff going, too. Maybe she’ll pass it along to Konia.”

He nods and takes a sip from her glass. God, that’s tasty.

The Governess sees Grant first, of course, and he sees the brief deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face before she plasters a gracious smile over it. He waves at her as his wife lances past two ladies having a quiet argument, and marches into their quarry’s airspace.

“Garuna.” Sykora gives the governess a pair of kisses on her cheeks. “How fantastic to see that you’ve torn yourself from your duties to make it here.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly miss it. The Duchess Margrave has made such a scene about her son’s art. And I have plenty of bare wall to fill.”

“Governess, I was talking to the Baroness Konia back there and she told me all about this astonishing-sounding race you have on Ptolek? The Cloudsprint?” Grant nudges Sykora’s drink back into her hand. “I’m so intrigued by it.”

“Oh, that fracas. Honestly, I’d forgotten we still had that.” Garuna gives a nervous glance at Sykora. “But the smallfolk do love their traditions. The refiners turn out in hordes for it.”

Grant has never met a Taiikari who wasn’t military or nobility. He’s intrigued at the thought. “Will you be there?”

“I suppose I might be.” Garuna feigns indecision. “Good to show face, you know. Not that I approve, of course. But the Cloudsprint is older than my tenure. And one mustn’t deny the unionists their creature comforts, as vulgar as they can be. Why do you ask?”

“I’m trying to wear Kora down until she’s willing to pander for an invite.” He gives his wife a playful nudge. “The thought that we might have such highbrow company is a note in favor, I hope.”

“It would be a tidy opportunity to talk business, I suppose.” Sykora folds her arms. “You know, Garuna, I think I might take you up on that audit. I’ve had some strange experiences with pirates showing unexpected exo capacities lately, and it’s been a devil to trace them. This isn’t something you’ve caught wind of yet, is it?”

“No.” Garuna clears her throat. “Pirates? No, I shouldn’t think so. I can put the screws to the clans, though. For the rougher elements, it’s often good to shake the unionist trees.”

“No need to trouble yourself shaking.” Sykora gives her a saccharine smile. “I’d happily accept a list of names from you.”

Credit to Garuna—she recovers quickly. “I will get right on that.”

“Well scouted, Grantyde,” Sykora murmurs, after they’ve gotten some distance. “If nothing else, we’ll get an idea of who her enemies are. Can you get us into a corner and block prying eyes?”

He steers them to a secluded spot. “You trying to make out or something?”

“Always. But let me see that multitool first.” She takes his offered silver gadget, and slots a thin punch-card looking slice of metal from its Swiss-army enclosure. “You see this? It’s a bump card. Put it in a wafer lock, slap it upward with your palm a few times.” She demonstrates. “And presto, you’re in.”

“What if it doesn’t work? What if I can’t make it happen?”

“Then it didn’t work, and it’s fine, and I love you.” She kisses his cheek. “The Cloudsprint is our primary goal. But I’ll make a bet you manage it. It’s in your blood, after all.”

He cocks a brow. “Hyundais are a ways away from space shuttles.”

“I will take your word on that. Let’s get back to it and I’ll compel you to the hangar, with witnesses.” She points with her tail. “Starboard thirty degrees. That’s Marquess Paxea of Entmok, and her husband, Marquis Consort Thror. She’s an accomplished merchant and a rare friend, and he’s an Amadari. You might compliment the cut of his plumage.”

Grant’s getting better at knowing when his wife is legitimately pleased to see someone and when she’s putting on airs. There’s genuine affection as she embraces Marquess Paxea.

“We were so relieved when we heard you’d returned. And look at you.” Paxea hugs Sykora tightly. “Already tearing across the firmament, zapping pirates. Less than a cycle since your freedom and you’re already back in the groove.”

“You can thank my husband for that.” Sykora’s tail tugs on Grant’s sleeve. He obediently steps forward. “This is Grantyde of the Black Pike.”

“Oh, I’d hoped I might get the chance to say hello.” Paxea beams as Grant busses her wrist. “I’ve seen you above the canopy here and there. And I saw you and said to myself: that would have to be Sykora’s beau.”

Grant chuckles. “I fear I’m developing some kind of reputation.”

“Reputation, yes. Fear, never. You’ve set the coterie abuzz. Good to give them something to talk about besides this dreadful Comet Queen thing.” Paxea rolls her eyes. “Do you know she’s started leaving messages after her attacks? Claiming sovereignty. Acting like the nickname isn’t just an affectation. Nothing like a gorgeous new species to get everyone’s mind back on the sweeter things.”

“Too right.” Her husband Thror is a four-and-a-half foot tall raptor, with four feathery arms, a thick crocodilian tail, and a wide, toothy grin. His laugh is chittery and avian. “Everyone’s trying to find Maekyon on the star maps.”

“It’s still got a lot of baking left to do, I’m afraid,” Sykora says. “A long ways off from uplift.”

“I’ve been stumbling around with eyes big as dinner plates,” Grant adds. “Bumping my head on things.”

“Always nice to see a fellow alien showing out.” Thror claps Grant’s shoulder. “I know it can be controversial, the husbands-of-the-void, but it does make me happy to know that there’s room at the highest tables for more than just Taiikari.”

Paxea takes a pull from her bubbly pink drink. It has some kind of spice stick submerged in it. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a Void Princess and her husband looking quite so at-ease with one another so quickly.”

Sykora’s little hand strays up the back of Grant’s thigh. “We’ve found our rhythm.”

Paxea’s little round nose wrinkles with her smile. “A very promising match, it’s clear. In a firmament as wide as ours, that’s such a gift.”

“A gift! Oh, shoot. That reminds me. Grantyde.” A tug on his ring finger. He wiggles it. Sykora’s eyes flash. “Be a peach and retrieve that gift for our hostess that I so foolishly left in our shuttle, yes? No straying, now. Groom’s code.”

“Of course, dear.” He bends down and kisses the top of her head. “Marquess, Marquis Consort. See you at dinner. By the way. Thror.” He winks. “Killer plumage, sir.”

“Killer?”

“It’s Maekyonite slang.” Grant shoots the Marquis Consort a finger gun. “For fabulous.”

Thror returns the gesture with evident delight. “Killer!”

Grant departs the hall, exchanging nods with an armor-clad guard on his way out. His steps echo across polished stone and bounce out of torch-lit sconces. Vast picture windows display the torpid sulfuric clouds, swirling like lava lamp liquid past the manor. He tries to remember who exactly their hostess is. Duchess Margrave… Argua? Arla?

You need to get better at names, Grantyde of the Black Pike. This is your vocation now.

He supposes Majordomo Vora can do the hard work there. Sykora certainly has faith in her. He always thought of himself as an introvert back on Maekyon. But he’s having more fun than he expected, chatting up these nobles, playing Watson to her Sherlock. Maybe he should feel nervous and endangered. Maybe he will, eventually. Right now he just feels useful, and important. And loved.

Are you going to say it back?

He should. He has never had this depth of feeling for someone before. Every time he sees the Princess, his spirit stretches out and purrs, a contented cat turning over into a sunny spot. He imagines the rest of their lives and it makes him smile involuntarily, hard enough it aches his face. She’s funny and clever and heart-shakingly beautiful, and she looks at him like he’s a god. Why hasn’t he?

Because she kills people for an Imperial tyrant, Grant. That’s why. It was pirates this morning. Who will it be in the future? What happens when those invulnerable cannons are turned on rebels, or separatists, or protestors?

He’s borrowing trouble again. No need to rush it. He still has an entire week, anyway. They agreed to that.

He cuts through the gallery on his way back to the hangar bay. Sykora was right—the party is treating this as an excuse. He doesn’t see anyone else taking in whats-his-name’s art. His voidship boots echo as he walks the floor. He was ready for this to be total pablum, the equivalent of putting your kid’s work up on the fridge.

But he finds his steps slowing and his eyes wandering across the work. One motif dominates throughout:

Red eyes.

They stare from paintings and panels. They hang from the ceiling and gaze from floor installations. He remembers the early days aboard the Pike. The way they all followed him. The moment on the lift that he realized that each pair of them is a loaded weapon, ready to strip the freedom from an unshielded mind, turning a free-thinking person into a helpless, speechless witness.

How must it feel, to be a maleborn growing up under these eyes?

Goosebumps rise on his neck as he passes a great scarlet mural of them. He notices the cowering horned figures, pinned and suspended within the pupils like broken butterflies, matte black on shiny black.

“Well-rendered, aren’t they?”

A man is watching him, he realizes. A lime-green, semitranslucent man, around the five-foot height of a male Taiikari. Short tendrils flow down his crown and his back. His pupils are square like a cephalapod’s. He extends a three-fingered hand. “Count Tikani of Korak. I’m Countess Wenzai’s husband. Your first Kovikan, I suppose?”

“Grantyde of the Black Pike. Your first Maekyonite, I’m sure.” Grant takes Tikani’s hand. It’s cool and a little damp to the touch. “It’s very good, yes. I’m surprised.”

“I was, too. Can I show you my favorite?”

Grant gives him a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Count Tikani. I’m on-mission.” He taps his forehead. “Compelled.”

“Ah. Of course.” Tikani tilts his shoulders. “So am I. Wen has me choosing one for the foyer. I’ve never gotten used to being around so many Taiikari without anticomps on, you know. I understand it’s not the done thing at parties, and the groom’s code is handy, I suppose. But—“ He pauses and gives an apologetic grimace. “Oh, but you’re the Void Princess’s husband. You’re never anticomped. So pigheaded of me, sire. I hope I haven’t upset you.”

“That’s all right,” Grant says. “It’s good to meet you, Count. I’ll see you back in the hall?”

“Yes, indeed, Prince Consort. Congratulations on the nuptials.” Tikani changes his grip on the handshake. Grant’s breath skips as the Kovikan pulls him close.

“Hang tough, Grantyde of the Black Pike,” he murmurs. “You’ll find a way to feel all right again, if she’s good. You’ll feel like a person again, eventually.”

He slaps Grant’s shoulder and disappears into the gallery’s forest of crimson.

Grant slips into the hangar. He looks around the catwalk and sees an idling guard who he favors with a brief wave. Two cameras, one on each end. He’s got some coverage behind that big green sloop-looking ship to get at Lorimare’s door. Once he’s back out he’ll act dumb, like he got aboard the wrong ship. These shuttles are all similar enough he thinks he can spin that story.

He positions his broad back between the guard and the little silver multitool in his palm (it’s the first time he’s thought of himself as broad, but he’s using a different measuring stick these days).

He slips the punched-out wafer into Lorimare’s shuttle handle and lines his palm up. He smirks. Light-years away from home and I’m breaking into someone’s car. If dad could see me now.

One slap, two, three, and he’s in. It’s only upon emerging into Lorimare’s leather-upholstered shuttle that he realizes how extensively his wife has refit their things. His head is scraping the ceiling in here.

He creeps to the cockpit and finds the flight computer. He slips the leech chip into the dashboard and waits. He glances out the window. The guard has moved. The way he’s looking around the floor—Grant’s pulse picks up as he watches the guard’s uncertain climb down the catwalk stairs. He’s looking for me.

He glances at the chip. His leg jiggles. How much fancy technology his wife has, and she can’t give him something that goes faster than dial-up?

A high chirp. He rips the chip and skitters scoop-necked to the shuttle door. Deep breath, Grant. Shut the door behind you. You were never aboard. You are dumb and hot.

He wanders from the shuttle and plants himself in the middle of a row of ships with a gormless livestock look on his face.

“Sir.” The guard is power-walking over to him. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Yes, sorry.” He gives the man a vacant smile. “I’m compelled to get something out of our shuttle, but damned if I can find it. Uh, I’m Sykora’s.”

“The Princess’s shuttle is that Skyvault, sir.” The guard points across the row. “The red one.”

“Ah, of course. Of course. Red. She does love red.” Grant beams and shakes the reluctant guard’s hand. “Thank you, my guy.”

He puts some spring in his step as he walks to his wife’s shuttle, to burn off the giddy nerves in his limbs.

Grant returns to the party with Sykora’s gift tucked under his arm. In his absence, a long blackwood dinner table has shouldered itself through the heart of the hall. The conversation has entered orbit around this new gravity well; people are finding their seats, chattering with their neighbors. He exchanges nods with Duke Morek, who’s in the middle of an animated bit of storytelling to a graceful-looking woman who’s hiding her laugh behind the tuft of her tail. He sees the Kovikan Count he met in the gallery, smiling genially on the arm of a heavy-lidded woman with space buns, black-painted lips, and an audaciously sparse onyx dress over her plush figure.

A young lady with bouncy ginger locks gives him a slinky smile and a little wave from the waist as he surveys the room. He sees the glint of a lilac horn poking through her curls. He recalls what Sykora told him when she was trying to seduce him. You don’t know what they say about Taiikari girls.

There are plain Taiikari women. Surely, they exist. They have to. But he hasn’t seen one yet. Every single one he’s seen so far has been—at minimum—cute as a button. Even scar-faced Brigadier Hyax has a sharp beauty to her frowning features.

None of them hold a candle to Sykora, of course. He glimpses her mid-conversation in a knot of nobles, and sweet electricity tingles his spine. He sidles up to the group. “Princess,” he says. “I’ve brought the, uh…”

He pauses as the man she was talking to steps aside. That’s not how short Sykora keeps her hair, he realizes. And that’s not the dress he picked for her.

And that’s not the way Sykora smiles when she sees him, not anymore. But he recognizes it. It’s how she looked at him the first time he was in her cabin. The smile of a circling predator.

“You’re the Prince Consort, aren’t you?” So uncanny how familiar her voice is.

“Yes, milady.” Grant bows deep, to the one person at this party whose rank is equal to his wife’s.

“How splendid,” says Princess Narika of the Glory Banner, “to finally meet my brother-in-law.”