Princess of the Void

The shuttle spirals onto the carefully manicured yard before Narika’s borrowed bungalow. It’s an incautious landing that sets several small fires on the turf and cracks the concrete.

Sykora strides from the bay door before it’s even finished opening, still sheathed in her vac suit. Paxea hops from the driver’s seat and takes up position at her shoulder. Despite his much longer legs, Grant has to hurry after them.

A Taiikari man in a full-coverage anticomp visor and black tactical vestments steps onto the porch as they approach. A heavy military pump-action shotgun hangs on a strap around his chest.

Sykora shakes her head as she strides up to him. “No. Step aside.”

“Ma’am. You’re intruding on private property.” The guard’s back is ramrod straight. “I’m going to have to insist you depart.”

“I am Void Princess of this sector. You intrude on my planet.” Sykora’s fangs are bared. “Give me an excuse to kill you, or let me through.”

“It’s all right, Gefreitor.” The elegantly slatted door beyond the soldier tilts open once more. Princess Narika of the Glory Banner stands at the threshold, in a saffron-and-black uniform and silk topcoat. Her epaulettes gleam. She’s in full Void Princess regalia. “Let her in and then wait outside. Hello, Majesty.”

“Hello, sister.” Sykora steps past the uneasy guard. “I hope very much I was interrupting something.”

“Nothing I can’t pick back up.” Narika turns from the assembly with an audible thwip of her tail and leads them down a narrow, tapestried hallway to an airy dining room. She sits at the finely lacquered wooden table in its center. A holoprojector built into the thick middle slab is still flickering and warm from her last call. “I’ve just been watching the footage, Sykora. Your pirate issue has grown unignorable. The Governess informs me you’re unable or unwilling to police your labor force. I can no longer in good conscience permit you to maintain your grip on Ptolek.”

“You know, Majesty,” Paxea says, “if you’re going to stab us in the back, you could at least stop pretending you’re doing it for ethics.”

Narika scoffs. “As you like. I’m taking Ptolek back. We’re past sixty dead at the last estimate. Sixty citizens you failed.”

“The size of the fangs on this brazen bitch.” Sykora hisses a laugh. “I wonder how you manage to lift your head. Those are your victims, Narika.”

“What ridiculous road do you two take to that conclusion?” Narika looks over their shoulders at Grant. “Prince Consort. Do you subscribe to this foolishness?”

“Don’t talk to him. Don’t look at him.” Sykora’s fingers hover near her pistol. “The Comet Queen is either you or your puppet. You’ve been outfitting and leading the Yellow Comets against Trimond Holdings at the same time as you’ve been outfitting Baroness Trimond to fight them off. You’ve been enabling and abetting a shadow war across my sector. You’ve been spending the lives of my citizens to steal them back from me.”

“You are a mad idiot,” Narika says. “I’ve done none of that.”

“I have a pirate horde burning through exo like it’s breathable air, even after the Trimonds cut them off. I have a Viscountess running weaponry out of Glory Banner’s manufacture worlds. These people are being outfitted.”

Narika’s lips thin. “If any of this is inflow from my sector, then give me the world and the supplier, and I’ll see it halted.”

“Explain Rokai, then,” Sykora says. “Rokai of the Glory Banner. Explain that.”

“Rokai?” Narika’s frown carries a note of recognition. “What about Rokai?”

“We found Lt. Rokai’s body at the refinery,” Grant says. “In a crashed Yellow Comet fighter.”

“That’s where he went, eh? An ignominious end to a well-trained soldier.” Narika shakes her head. “The man disappeared a cycle ago. Never came back from shore leave. If he turned up in some kind of pirate or mercenary outfit, it’s a sad waste. But he wasn’t mine. Not any longer.”

“That’s not what the readout I received said,” Sykora says.

Narika shrugs. “You’ve been lied to, then. Or given faulty intel.”

“Was it you, Narika? Did you compel my husband to be part of this ridiculous proxy war?” Paxea jabs a finger at her. “We didn’t see you in the crowd at the Cloudsprint. But you were in the system.”

“I have wondered—for a long time—why those pirates fired at us. Why they wasted all that exo and gave away the game.” Sykora’s face is shifting. Her brows lower with the weight of revelation. “We were being steered; I knew that. I just didn’t know by whom. The attack was timed for when I was on-world. The self-destruct didn’t work; the fighter landed on the refinery like a gift. That is quite convenient. There have been conveniences every step of the way.” She takes a step back. Her fists close. “You wanted me here.”

Narika scowls. “Your time on that sad prison world of yours has made you paranoid, Sykora.”

“You said Ramex,” Sykora says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not talking to you, Narika.” Sykora turns. “Marquess. You said Ramex.”

“What?”

“You said Ramex and Aodok,” Sykora says. “I never made Ramex public. I’ve kept that under wraps this entire cycle.”

Paxea blinks. “You mentioned it to me. At the gallery.”

“I didn’t. I was very careful not to. Narika didn’t compel Thror. I know who compelled Thror.” Sykora takes a step toward Paxea. “Nobody did. Did they?”

Paxea backs away. “Majesty—”

“You told me about Narika’s ambitions. You hand-delivered me to perfect proof of Narika’s involvement. You’re the one who told me Azkaii was in the race. Your husband gave me proof of the attempts and conveniently failed to shoot himself. You even offered me a ride in the morning. You wanted me here. You wanted us both here.” Sykora’s palm is on the stock of her pistol. “You’re the Comet Queen.”

“Not exactly.” A familiar voice, a man’s. “I’m the Comet Queen.”

Thror stands in the doorway. Two of his four hands grip the heavy matte-black shotgun that Narika’s guard was holding. “Hand off that pistol, Majesty. Let’s put our palms to the sky, everyone.”

Sykora’s fingers twitch on her holster. She slowly detaches her hand and raises her arms. Grant and Narika follow suit.

Thror steps into the room. His shotgun stays pointed at Sykora’s chest as Paxea unbuckles the Princess’s pistol, a grin spreading across her face as she goes. “The plan was to get this done subtly, but I believe I’ll enjoy this.”

Narika’s eyes narrow on the weapon. “What happened to Arvio?”

“What do you think, Majesty?” Thror clicks his tongue. “Could have been a smoother ride, Pax. The trunk doesn’t have much shock absorbance, you know.”

“You’re fine, Birdy.” Paxea grabs Grant’s chin and pulls his face up to hers. Flash. “Stay still. Good Maekyonite.”

Sykora and Grant make eye contact. A flickering fire in her eyes.

“Majesty.” Paxea steps away from Grant and raises the stolen pistol toward his wife. “Try to compel him out of that and I shoot you dead at the first flash.”

“Why?” Sykora’s voice is full of lead and loathing. “Why, Marquess?”

“What in hellfire do you mean, why?” Paxea laughs. “Why don’t you ask Thror?”

“Because I hate the Empire,” Thror says. “I hated every second of growing up as a man in it. I hate the anticomps, I hate the compulsion, I hate the way you all think you’re better than me, I hate being overlooked and fetishized and controlled and stepped on. I hate the Taiikari, with one charming exclusion.” He winks at Paxea. “I hated my life here. It would be easier if I hated all of you, too. But ah well. We can’t have everything we desire in this existence. Already had to compel that poor Rokai fellow into being a sacrifice. A Prince Consort is another regret, but a small one.” He gives an apologetic shrug to Grant. “Sorry, old boy. Hate to break up the alien groom squad.”

Grant stares into Thror’s shiny anticomps. He sees his own pallid face reflected in them.

“How long have you led the Comets, Marquis Consort?” Sykora asks.

“Pax and I made the fucking Comets,” Thror says. “You have no idea how much exo we sucked out of that craven Baroness. Not just enough for the little breadcrumb trail we laid for you. Enough to get in touch with a whole frontier network. To strengthen them. You Void Princesses think you have the whole firmament’s heads bowed to you. But there are millions of men like me. Of women like Pax. There’s a whole constellation of Trimonds in your Empire, siphoning your precious resources to the people who will topple it. We plotted the raids and assassinations. We sold those weapons to Lorimare. They weren’t made in Glory Banner. That was pretense. They’re a drop of what my friends have.” He smirks. “It’s been such a riot, hiding right under your little blue noses. I’m going to miss it. But I’m afraid you’ve caught us at the beginning of our retirement.”

“We have the funds and the opportunity to make our escape,” Paxea says. “And to kill a pair of Imperial tyrants at the same time. When we end the two of you, the chaos on the frontier will boil uproariously. Nobody will notice one little Marquess and her husband disappear past the Imperial border. With all we made from the Comets, we can cash out and make a new life. Somewhere else. Somewhere sane.” She takes one of Thror’s unoccupied hands in hers. “Somewhere my husband doesn’t have to be a slave.”

“He isn’t—”

“Fuck off, Sykora.” Paxea scowls. “Yes, he is. So is yours. So is every maleborn in the Empire. If you really loved the Prince Consort, you’d understand that. You’d have done something about it.”

“So here’s the plan,” Thror says. “We’re going to set a little scene of sororicide. Two Void Princesses letting their natural vindictiveness bubble over. A mutual killing. If you cooperate, Majesty, Paxea will flash Grantyde’s mind and spare him. No need for the Consort to die.”

Sykora sneers. “You think I’m stupid? You can take your alibi and shove it up your scaly ass. My servant is faithful to me. You’re not going to let him live.”

Thror exhales. “No, probably not.” He raises the shotgun to Sykora’s face. “But you don’t have to worry about that, where you’re going.”

“At least compel his eyes shut,” Sykora says. “At least don’t make him watch his mistress die.”

Grant realizes the game Sykora’s trying to play. His muscles tense.

“I can live with it,” he says.

Sykora stares at him. “What?”

“They’re right,” he says. He shrugs at the look of consternation Paxea gives him. “I was never free. Might as well have the pleasure of watching you go before I do.”

His wife’s lip quivers. “Grant…”

“You think I’d ever want you? After what you did to me? Even when I was in bed with you, Sykora, I felt lonesome.”

Sykora’s feet subtly shift into readiness.

“Now here’s an idea. And an alibi.” Thror nods to himself. “We’re not just going to make him watch, Majesty.” He glances at his wife. “New plan, Pax. The Prince Consort did it. We’ll put a pair of anticomps on him once he’s gone.”

“It’s a shame,” Paxea says. “You seemed a good man, Grantyde. But the Empire will only ever use good men. And you were ill-used. Hopefully, this is some recompense. If you have to go, at least you’ll go with revenge.” Her eyes flash. She holds the pistol up, stock first. “Kill the Princesses, and then yourself.”

“Good bye, Grantyde. It’s been… what was that word you taught me?” Thror’s feathery finger drums on the trigger guard. “Killer.”

Grant reaches slowly down and takes the gun from Paxea. He looks past her at Thror, whose gun is still trained on Narika and Sykora. He looks at Paxea, looks at her cruel grin. He looks at Narika, who stares gravely back.

He looks at Sykora.

Sykora tore Drake’s throat out without hesitating, then kissed him with her mouth full of his blood. Sykora killed to keep him safe.

“Now,” Paxea says. Her red eyes flash again.

Grant shoots Thror in the head.