Volume 2: Ptolek

The shining spire of the ZKZ Black Pike, its prismatic sails wide and coruscating, soars through the sweep. It buzzes past Gileas IX close enough that the wooly alien beasts and hunter-gatherer humanoids of that moon witness its rainbow passage, like a psychedelic shooting star leaving an ocular ripple against their star-fretted night.

Aboard the vessel, the shift change has begun. Comlinks are switched on. Artificial suns rise over hydroponic farms. Towering pylon mainframes hum. Exo mixtures are gauged. Routes and rotations are checked and double-checked. Hundreds of firearms are assembled, primed, and holstered.

Seven hundred souls begin another day of faithful service to their undisputed ruler, Princess Sykora of the Black Pike, who’s currently sitting naked in Grant Hyde’s lap.

“So that’s the E string. Lowest and chunkiest. And we go up in pitch from there. E, A, D, G, B, and the E an octave up.” Grant plucks each string. His wife’s hand underneath his follows suit. She has to reach to get to the strings—the guitar is almost as big as she is.

Sykora suppresses a giggle. “What are these bizarre words you’re saying?”

“The alphabet.” He strums a chord. “A B C D E F G,” he sings. “H, I… uh… J. K.” What’s next? ◈? No, that’s Taiikari. His implant itches. “And then there were the rest. You only need the first seven. That’s the Maekyon alphabet. One of them, anyway. The one I learned.”

“Out of how many?”

“I don’t even know. We had a lot of languages. Have.”

“I always forget your planet was pre-unification,” Sykora says. “Pre-unification, and you had satellites. Richly strange.”

“Plenty of Maekyonites tried. We don’t do well with a ruler of the world sort of arrangement.”

“Ahh. It’s starting to make sense. If all Maekyonites are as stubborn as you I can’t even imagine Vindicatrix Zithra conquering you.”

“Who’s that?”

“The first Empress. My however-many-great, however-many-times-removed grandmother. My writ of peerage had the exact descendance, but they went and burned it when I became a Void Princess.” Sykora goes up the line of open strings. “So it’s A, B, C…”

“That’s alphabetical order.” Grant’s grateful for the distraction from that strange and somber revelation. “The string order is E, A, D—”

“Gods of the Firmament. Your species makes things so complicated.” Sykora lets go of the guitar and settles her hands on Grant’s thighs. “I think I’ll make a better appreciator than a player.”

“Appreciator?” Grant leans over and puts the guitar on the floor next to the bed. He gathers the Princess of the Black Pike into his arms. “I can do that, too, if you’re looking for lessons. I’m pretty good at appreciating.” His palm rests on her stomach, on the compact abdomen he discovered last night can flex into a cute little six pack.

Those graceful lines stand out again as she laughs. “I’ll do the appreciation. You do the playing.” She rubs the knuckle on his index. “You’re built for it. Such long, nimble fingers. I wonder.” She pulls on his wrist, guiding his hand lower. “What else do you play?”

“Oh, the skills transfer to all kinds of things.” His thumb nuzzles into the crease between her hip and her thigh. The pad of his middle finger strokes her feathery little tuft of pubic hair. “And I’m a fast learner.”

She caresses his forearm. “How about we—”

A chromatic tone swells over the intercom, accompanied by a smooth, masculine computer narration. “Exiting sweep in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, hellfire. I have to get up.” Sykora bends her knee.

“We’ve got fifteen whole minutes.” Grant keeps his arm around her. “Fast learner, remember?”

She laughs, but gives his forearm a tug. “I have a briefing to give. Lonesome.”

That’s their word. He loosens his grip and his wife slips from his arms. “Do they need you downstairs?”

“I’ll just deliver it from here. But I really must be made up, at least a little.” She hops to the floor and stretches her back out. She tosses her hair over her shoulder. She is perfect. Every curve flows into the next like calligraphy. That’s his wife. His wife. He’s going to see this view every morning for the rest of his life. Grant’s heart expands so thickly it squeezes the air from his lungs.

The Princess winks at him as she crosses to her desk. “Find some pants, dearheart. That ass is for my eyes only.”

Grant clambers out of the bed and hunts for his uniform in the pile of sheets and discarded fabric they made last night. “I’m sure we’ll be done with this little summons in no time,” Sykora shrugs one of her endless collection of silk robes over her shoulders and sits in front of her vanity. “Most pirates are persistent little gnats who flock the tributary lanes and extort citizens. The Yellow Comets are the nastiest of them, owing mostly to their leader, a faceless woman called the Comet Queen. A thumb of the nose at my Empress and I. Compared to your average outlaw, they pack some potent firepower. But there’s potent, and then there’s the Pike. We’ll finish quick and then I’ll show you Ramex. The sunsets are just unfairly gorgeous.” Sykora flips the glowing strips of her vanity on and gasps. “Grant. What the hell did you do?”

“What?” Grant hops into his pants as he looks over at her. “Oh. Those are hickeys. Do Taiikari not—”

“I know what they are, you horny bastard. You’ve given me five of them.” She twists her neck. “God, six.” She glances at the corner of their massive picture window into the scintillating colors of the sweep. “I’d convinced myself that my feminine wiles weren’t working because Maekyonites had modest libidos. I was wrong. You’re a beast.”

He walks up behind her and lays his knuckles on the small of her back. He takes a deep breath of her hair, takes in the sweetness of her musk. “I’d say sorry.” He pinches her butt and gets a little squeaking giggle out of her. “But apologies aren’t the Taiikari way, and also I don’t feel bad.”

A clicking countdown timer has situated itself on her vanity mirror. She tuts as she stands. “No time to conceal these. If I even could. Empress forgive me. I’ve married a ruffian.” Sykora forages through her closet and pulls out a high-necked, brocaded uniform with an onyx epaulette hanging off the right shoulder. She fumbles it on. “This’ll do.” She spins around. “How do we look?”

Grant surveys Sykora. She draws herself up and squares her shoulders. Her expression becomes regal and imperious. It changes her beyond any martial insignia or makeup. The giggly girlfriend seamlessly becomes the Imperial warlord.

From the waist-up, anyway.

“Your coochie’s out, Batty.”

Sykora cocks a hip. “The view stops at the shoulders.”

“Then you’re as perfect as ever. Except your horns are out too.”

An immediate blush turns the Princess’s cheeks a lovely shade of pale merlot. “No, they aren’t. Shut up.” She sits back at the mirror and finds a tricorne to stick to her head. “Go off-camera somewhere, please, lover. Bathroom or gallery. I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

“I can’t be out here?”

“You look awfully post-coital.” She points at her neck. “And you’ve got love bites, too. Hickeys?”

He shrugs. “That’s what I’ve always called them.”

“That’s cute. I’m going to use that. Okay. Scoot, if you please.” She presses a button on her vanity and its lights shift, becoming more natural. Grant slips through the silk curtains in the gallery. Before he closes the flap, he glances back at his wife. She’s gone into Princess mode again. “Majordomo Vora.”

“Majesty.” Her right-hand woman pipes from the intercom. “Ten minutes to sweep exit. Will you give your address?”

“I will. You may patch me through.” Her steely command is so stark after all the adoring noises he squeezed out of her the night before.

“Of course, Majesty. Just a moment.” A slot slides open in the top of the vanity. The image in it fuzzes as it becomes a video feed with Vora’s bespectacled face in it. “By the way.” Vora’s face fills the frame as her voice drops into a close-to-the-mic whisper. “You never answered. Did you finally get him into bed?”

“Vora. Shush.” Sykora likewise goes sotto voce, but he can hear the smile she’s wearing. “But, uh.” Her earrings clatter as she nods vigorously.

Vora lets out a half-whispered squeal of happiness. “Kora. Oh my God, yesss.”

“Uh huh. And…” Sykora holds her hands up, palms about six inches apart from each other.

Vora’s hand goes to her face. No, she mouths.

“I swear to God, Vora.” Sykora’s whisper is so giddy he can hear it from where he’s standing. “When I tell you I was screaming—” She glances over her shoulder. “Grantyde. Scoot. Address.”

Grant lets the flap drop and tugs the silk divider closed with a tasseled rope.

“All right, majordomo.” He hears his wife’s voice through the muffling curtain, reasserting its formality. “Patch me through. Time to get the crew ready to punt some pirates.”