Princess of the Void

A soft glow wakes him. A panel that last night showed the stretch of firmament in which they floated now beams the amber light of a planetside sunrise into the room like an open window.

Sykora is sprawled in her bed, the covers partway off her body. She’s naked. He looks judiciously away as he changes back into the uniform he was provided.

A rustle and a yawn as his noise wakes her. “Morning,” he says.

“Mmm. Is it?” Her sleepy red eyes open. “Goodness. I’ve slept in.”

“Do you have anywhere to be?” Perhaps she's changed her mind about keeping him constantly beside her.

“No sir.” She stretches. Her spine and her curves elongate. “It’s half-duty today, after all. The place I’m supposed to be is right here with my husband.” She glances at him and catches his eyes flicking away from her. He hears the smile in her words. “Good morning, darling. I hope I didn't scandalize you. But I missed sleeping without translucency. Much more relaxing.”

“It's your cabin, I guess.”

Sykora ahems. “Ours.”

Grant doesn't respond to that. He cinches his belt. It’s designed with a quick release that takes the entire uniform with it, and he wasn’t provided underwear. At first he took this as another sign of the horniness of his hostess, but he supposes when you can go invisible, it helps to have something you can put on and take off quickly. 

They eat in the kitchenette. He has no idea where the bathtub went, but an elegant hexagonal table has replaced it, with clawed feet and a spiral star chart traced across its surface. Breakfast is a curious canoe-shaped puff pastry, its passenger a pair of overeasy eggs. It’d look downright delicious if the eggs weren’t purple. There’s a whole spread of them, along with a steaming teakettle, delivered by a smiling Taiikari woman who greets her as “Majesty” and him as “Prince Consort” before bowing out of the room.

The princess wraps herself in a belted robe and slinks to the table. “Do these satisfy? We could find you something else in the pantry.”

“The color’s odd,” he admits. “But I’ll be okay.”

“A blue bride. Purple egg tarts. How strange it all must be for you.” Her robe is open enough that a crescent of areola peeks out from its band as she cuts herself a forkful. “I used to find it relaxing to make these myself. But Kymai—he’s my quartermaster—wouldn’t have it. He looks at my cooking the way my flight instructor watched my spiral dive.”

“You know how to fly?”

“Oh, yes. I’m not going to command a ship I don’t know how to steer. I love flying. You want to try it sometime?”

“Maybe. Promise me no spiral dives.”

“I swear it. We can take my interceptor out.” She licks jammy yolk off her thumb. “I’ll inquire with the alien auxiliary corps about importing some oversized controls.”

“Did you, uh—” He changes his mind about the question and focuses on his food.

“Did I what?”

“You didn’t crash-land on Maekyon on a joyride or anything, right?”

“Grantyde.” A giggle gilds her mock-outrage. “I’ve certainly dinged myself on a few meteorites, but a planet you see coming rather early.”

“How’d you end up there?”

“An excellent question.” Her eyes grow chilly as she looks past him into the view of space beyond. “And one I intend to investigate fully.” She pops another bite into her mouth rather than expand further; Grant drops it for now.

He surveys the table. Sykora's cup has a dark, floral-scented drink in it, flecked with little motes of silver. He's not sure what that's a cuppa, but it's certainly not joe. If she's trying to bribe him out of his pants, he might as well use it. “You wouldn’t have coffee aboard, would you?” he asks.

“We do,” she says. “It’s a bit of an infantryman’s drink. But if you’d like some, I’ll send for it.”

“It’s an everyone’s drink on Maekyon.”

She presses and holds a button on the wall by her seat. “Hello, kitchen staff! Your Princess wishes you a good morning and sends her quartermaster compliments on the breakfast.”

She releases the button and takes a sip of her tea(?).

“Majesty.” A man’s voice crackles through, breathless and strained. “Did your husband like it?”

She holds the button again and looks Grant’s way. “Delicious, thank you,” he says.

“It wasn’t too spicy? I thought it was too spicy, this batch.”

“Quartermaster,” Sykora says. “You wouldn’t have any coffee down there, would you?”

“I cannot function without it, Majesty. Why?”

“Run up a carafe, please. For the Prince Consort.”

“Oh God.” A thread of panic laces through the intercom. “Majesty, it’s, it’s, it’s far from my standards for your cabin. Its flavor profile—the bitterness—I’d have to—”

“If it’s good enough for your palate, it surely surpasses ours, Quartermaster.” Sykora gives Grant an affectionate eye-roll.

“Majesty, please—”

“Deep breaths, Kymai. A carafe of the usual stuff. Sugar and cream on the side. Thank you!” She releases the button. “And that’s your first taste of our wonderful Quartermaster,” she says.

“I feel bad, now,” Grant says. “He doesn’t need to fuss on my account.”

“He fusses on every account he can find,” she says. “Pay it no mind, yes? From now on, if it’s within my power to grant it, I will. Your wife is going to spoil you rotten, Grantyde. I have a great deal to make amends for, if I want to earn your friendship. And your dick.” She winks as she passes him a tart.

“Thank you,” he says. Stay stonefaced, Grant. She's nicer now and she's cute. She's still your captor.

“You’re welcome.” She taps the flaky crust to break it open and let the yolk bloom through. “Did that translate correctly?”

“I think so.”

“It’s slang for penis.”

“I got it, Majesty.”

“Cock,” she tries. “Dong. Wze’kaenae.”

He smiles despite himself, leaning his cheek on his fist. “Didn’t get that last one, Majesty.”

“Hellfire.” She grimaces. “I quite like that one.”

She wipes her mouth with the lacy edge of a scarlet napkin and rises from the table toward her vanity mirror.

He watches her body sway with her feline walk. Her waist is so delicate and her hips are so wide. It’s like her silhouette was drawn by a sexually frustrated cartoonist. He clears his throat. “May I ask you about something?”

“Anything, husband.”

“You, uh. Your horns.” He gestures to the top of her head. “They come and go.”

She flushes. “Ah. Those. They emerge when our blood is sufficiently heated. Anger, desire. It’s, uh—it’s a little embarrassing. Perhaps you might not point them out.”

“They’re embarrassing?”

She’s flustered now. The horns have made their reappearance, peeking through her onyx locks. “How would you like it if I ogled whenever you’re hard?”

“You don’t?”

“Well. Not in public.” She shrugs herself into a uniform. “There’s many en vogue up-dos that hide them no matter their extrusion, but it’s the mark of a self-assured void princess to wear her hair down. A show of self-control. I’m normally rather good at it.”

“Oh?” He can’t keep a vein of teasing from his voice. “Why do I see them so often?”

“If a certain big beautiful ass hole would just get on with it and join me in bed, maybe I wouldn’t be walking around two points to the firmament.” Her tail swipes in the air at him.

“I see them all the time on your males. Are they just constantly bricked up?”

“Bricked up.” She clicks her tongue as she slips a pair of contact lenses in. “What a phrase. So orthogonal to meaning and yet so easy to grasp. They aren’t at full-mast, no. Horns don’t recede for a Taiikari male. Some get cosmetic surgery to remove them.”

“They’d do that?”

“Or reduce them.” She slides open a panel on her vanity, revealing a mad alchemist’s collection of cosmetics. “Small horns are a sign of beauty. They suggest a mild, thoughtful personality.”

“So, me not having them…”

A lip-biting smile as she makes eye contact with him in the mirror. “I am a fortunate woman. Or I will be. Some day.”

“We can talk about what some day looks like.” He swirls the egg boat around and lets the flaky pastry absorb the burst yolk. “After you free me.”

She varnishes her lip with gloss from one of her many canisters. “Shall we call a temporary truce? It’s too early.”

“Okay. Truce.” He munches his egg tart. Its layers melt and coat his tongue with buttery bliss. 

“Your turn,” she says.

“My turn to what?”

“I’ve told you something I find attractive about you.” She glances at him in the mirror. “How about me?”

You make me feel like a horny caveman beholding a primordial fertility goddess. You have the face of a red-eyed angel. Your hair is so long and soft and beautiful it makes me want to weep. “I shouldn’t say,” he says.

She pouts. “Why not?”

“I’d be giving you ammunition.” He points his fork at her. “If you know what I like, you’ll be able to use it against me.”

“You know what I think you like?” She crosses her legs. “I think you like my ass.”

“No comment.” He returns to his breakfast.

The Princess hums as she applies her makeup. It’s warm and scratchy. He recognizes the tune as one he sang for her. 

“What are you up to today?” he asks.

She replaces the bullet-shaped tube in its rotating cylinder. “Today I have to put on a ridiculous hat and have lunch on a moon with a rather dreadful woman called Garuna.” She plucks the aforementioned wide-brimmed hat from a stand to her right. It makes her look a bit like a musketeer. “She’s a cousin of mine. A second cousin, I think. Second, third… ah, who can keep track. Vora will know. She’s on the periphery of a situation in my sector. An off-and-on series of high-profile deaths. Suicides, sicknesses, accidents. All surround a clan called the Trimonds, who own the planet’s largest exo refinery.”

Grant nods like he knows what exo is. “Weird coincidence?”

“Hardly.” Sykora smirks as she tries to get her hat into a less ridiculous angle.

“Rich people killing rich people?” he guesses.

“Mmhmm. Plutocrats picking each other off. Some rival family, perhaps a disgruntled second daughter of the Koniae.” Sykora settles on a position that could charitably be called rakish. “You can come with me, if you like.” She starts in on her eyeshadow. “And we’ll see if we can’t ferret out a conspiracy over lunch.”