Princess of the Void

The first day they have no luck. Even with Ipqen by their side, the translator needs only to say Tamuraq for whatever wary Eqtoran they’re communicating with to clam up and close off.

“Do you reckon there’s a different way we should go about this?” Grant conferences with Tymar outside the meetinghouse, in the artificial violet of the evening.

“Just be around them today, I think,” the cleric replies. “Just be present. We can’t blame them for being insular.”

Maybe not, Grant thinks. But our time is running out. Sixteen nights left, and then the death of Taiqan.

He goes to bed with plans and implementations and anxieties crowding his head. Normally when a day ends with this much consternation, he lets his wife’s sleeping breath against his chest carry it all away.

But Sykora isn’t here.

For much of the second day, it seems like it’s going to be the same thing. Grant and Tymar and Ipqen and their intermediary speak to blank faces and downcast eyes.

“Is there something I should do differently?” he whispers to Ipqen.

She shrugs. “If I could talk to them, I’d tell you.”

Grant sighs and squares his shoulders. He looks across the flickering bonfire to where the omnipresent music drifts from Tektnal’s amplifier. He approaches the man.

“Can I try—would you let me give this a shot?”

He holds his hands out. Tektnal gives a slow, considering blink. Then he lays his instrument into Grant’s outstretched palms.

“What’s this thing called?” Grant carefully hugs it to his chest, mirroring Tektnal’s playing posture.

“Lquok,” Tektnal says.

“Lquok,” Grant repeats. He taps a knuckle against it and listens to the resonance. He plucks a string and its spectral song crackles from the little shoebox amplifier.

The tuning is droney and microtonal; there are no frets to guide the notes into a scale. That’s okay. He’s played a fretless bass a couple of times out of curiosity. He traps his tongue between his teeth as he explores the neck.

Tektnal, who’d been shifting from foot to foot, pauses as Grant finds his groove. Grant plays a simple pentatonic along one string, finds his interval on the next, and strums a chord that makes the big soft-bellied Eqtoran grin and let out a string of gritty syllables.

“He says that’s very pretty,” the translator reports.

Grant rises his plucking along the instrument’s neck. “It’s a very pretty lquonk.”

Tektnal laughs. “Lquok.”

Grant gives a self-effacing shrug.

Tektnal starts to hum along with the music, a low and resonant tone that climbs and sinks like an autotuned sine wave. Perfectly pitched. Grant grins.

“You play that thing funny,” Ipqen says.

“I don’t use the same notes or structures you all do, I’m sure.” Grant slides down the lowest string. “It’s nice, though. Lilting.”

Ipqen hums along with Tektnal, and that same warm, sonorous slide comes out. Maybe Eqtorans all have good voices.

They’re departing the meeting house when a limber Eqtoran woman with a sleek fringe and a squinting, seeking expression takes the translator aside, into the shadow cast by the meetinghouse’s garlic-bulb roof.

“Royeb is—” The translator starts, and the woman hisses her to silence. “Uh, one moment. This way, please.”

The woman leads them to one of the white-topped buildings clutched like a cluster of eggs off the side of the meeting house. She ducks into the furthest-out building. Grant follows and is buffeted by a wall of sweltering, pine-scented air. The single room beyond is an uneasy amalgamation of synthetic creature comforts. A patterned rug with too-perfect, machine finished stitching. A kettle over a fireplace whose flame is an obvious hologram under a heating element. The Taiikari have tried their best, but this isn’t anyone’s home.

“Royeb thinks she knows where to look for this book,” the translator says, as their hostess murmurs over the fake fire’s recorded crackle. “She says her cousin is caught up with a Tamuraqist sect on Eqtora, that she’s always had a cache of unapproved literature. The Book of Renewal is among it.”

Tymar’s face lights up. “Is that Book of the same structural prefix as the rest of the Library Sacrosanct?”

The translator nods.

“Fuck yes. Get that location from her and then tell her thank you as effusively as you know how.” Grant extends his hand. “Thank you, Royeb. I can’t tell you how much this means that you’re giving it to us. I mean I literally can’t tell you. But I wish I could.”

She takes his hand like it’s a live wire linked to some sort of high explosive and completes one of the most incredulous handshakes Grant’s ever taken part in.

“Tni iknamaq tniqui,” she says.

The translator’s brow furrows. “A fish from the sky is still a fish.”

Ipqen titters. “It means, uh. Means blessings can be fucking weird sometimes.”

***

It’ll take a handful of days to get their hands on the Book of Renewal. Tymar and Grant take a break from poring over what parts of the Library Sacrosanct they’ve already got in order to eat together.

“If I’m taking a hiatus from the Pike on this weird religious study, I’d like to get an education in the Taiikari ways, too. I want to know more about the Omnidivine.” Grant tinkers with the cutlery his hosts have supplied. They offered Taiikari rations, but Grant requested Eqtoran food instead, which means he’s using an Eqtoran handhook to eat it. “How does an Empire develop such a universalist approach to religion? The Maekyonite way has always been a lot more… exclusive.”

“Our permissiveness began as a matter of necessity.” Tymar spears a steamed root vegetable the color of the fake sky. “When you’re unifying a world, a universalist approach, as you call it, that’s important. Long ago there was a thicket of Taiikari religions, and the church of the Omnidivine was a veritable melting pot. But on a long enough timespan… things melted, I suppose. And I am the agglomeration. It does my heart good to see the halls of my order fill up with the monks and missionaries from new civilizations.”

Grant pops one of the purple veggies into his mouth. It crunches and unleashes a thick oily roux into his mouth that tastes like almonds.

Tymar takes another portion. “As aggressive and expansionist as my species is, religion as a weapon, to unify a culture against its outsiders—this isn’t the Taiikari way, because it isn’t necessary for our warriors. They are eager to obey; individuals are as easy to rally round as dogmas. Is that a virtue or a vice? I’m not sure. But it’s allowed us to build a church of tolerance. I’ve read treatises on freedom and self-reliance written with such eloquent facility from our sister species. I’m sure that Maekyon has its own share. It’s somewhat like reading about desire, from my place of asexuality.”

Grant settles his hook across the shingle they’re eating off of. “Do you take K-wort like Narika?”

Tymar shakes his head. “Just my natural inclination. That means Sykora’s the only one of Inadama’s spares who are getting any. With luck, you’re knocking boots enough for the whole family.”

Grant coughs and sips some of the storm-dark, savory tea that they’ve been supplied.

“Handy enough as a cleric, I can tell you,” Tymar says. “My submission is to the Omnidivine exclusively.”

“What about the Empress?”

“The Empress is an Omnidivine facet. Closer to the Inner Core, she’s the deity of a score of imperial cults and, of course, the Heavenly Court of Empresses Past has a seat for her, once she’s, well, past. The Amadari of the Fekl Cliffs have a religion that revolves around whoever you love as your deity. So in a way, my sister’s the Omnidivine too. As are you. That’s omni for you.”

“Is that how it works? What you said to Sykora about dogma-shopping?”

“Somewhat,” Tymar says. “I’m not exactly denominational. The clerics of the Omnidivine are sort of… counselors. Our place is to keep harmony between the various faiths and to shepherd the curious or the doubtful to whatever facet of the Omnidivine best suits their personal relationship with God. Or the gods, as the case may be. For most Taiikari, that’s the ancestor worship of the Heavenly Court of Empresses Past. But it’s a point of pride within my order that there are Taiikari supplicants to nearly every religion we’ve incorporated. I’ve made a study of every civilizational aspect of the Omnidivine. I’m excited about encountering another. I can’t wait to investigate further into your species’ collection. Christianity fascinates so far.”

“Yeah?”

“The holy book is rather dense, in parts. I won’t lie. A lot of begetting. But there’s such gorgeous poetry in it. And crystal-clear familiarity in many places. The Garden of Eden, the Original Sin. I think I’m learning a lot about your people. The recognition of mortality’s intense flaws, the longing for transcendence past the needs of the flesh. The striving.” He nods thoughtfully. “I appreciate all your striving. I see why Sykora is so fascinated by you.”

“I’m not exactly a religious guy.”

“Perhaps not. But through reading these stories and understanding these perspectives on the metaphysical, we can learn our commonalities. Throughout the firmament, do you know what’s surprised me over and over?”

“What’s that?”

“How similar our souls are,” Tymar says. “All over. The eyes are different, but so much is the same behind them. Different versions of the same fundamental stories.” He pulls a cheap, glossy-covered copy of the Bible from his rucksack. “That’s what I love about this. How clearly it’s such a conglomeration of ideas and sources and voices. Some holy texts all stem from the same pen. They’re cohesive, but they aren’t intriguing. There’s nothing to grab onto but the handholds that were chiseled for you. Your people’s book reminds me of Taiikari Oksaianism, actually, the way it depends on archaeology and reinterpretation. So many voices. So much intrigue.” He chuckles. “The Song of Solomon was quite the eye-opener.”

“Is that the one that’s just porn?”

“It’s not just porn. But it’s surprisingly explicit, yes.” Tymar places the book on the table and picks his hook back up to spear another creamy strip of whitefish. “You’re afraid of the Empire coming for your home. I understand that. But I’m excited to learn from your clerics. I hope that by the time your cradle world has joined with the Empire, I’ll know enough of your language to pray with them.”

“My dad used to say he was a born-again, but he practiced none of what he preached. It gave me an odd taste. Seeing beliefs so boldly spoken and tepidly practiced.”

“Lip service is the common pain of the parish. You get plenty of that with the Omnidivine. Your wife, Divine keep her, wishes grace and blessings without actually feeling the import behind the words. No judgment from me. She’s already under so much pressure to serve the flesh and blood of the Empire. She’s always told me that having spiritual masters stacked atop her material ones seems like a recipe for a nervous breakdown. Perhaps it would be. All of Inadama’s bastards share a dogged approach to loyalty, I think. It can make us single-minded. But I hope some day to show her the succor one can draw from it, the practices and preachings.”

Grant rests his chin on his fist. “What do you believe in, Tymar? You personally, I mean.”

Tymar gives this question slow and careful consideration.

“You, Majesty.” He smiles. “I believe in you.”

***

Grant returns to his room. In its simple and spartan accoutrements it reminds him of the cell his wife threw him into, on his first night aboard the Pike. Taiikari seem to favor their sleeping situations recessed; in the absence of an architecturally included pit in the floor, they’ve supplied a low lip around the bed that puts Grant in mind of a crib.

Strange how quickly he got used to the luxurious silks and fabrics of his wife’s nest. The dorm room feeling of this bed bothers him more than his lowborn blood cares to admit.

In the pocket of his discarded tunic, his communicator chirps.

Grant blinks. A moment of panic lances through his chest. He’s not supposed to have any outside contact. All the names in his communicator are aboard the Pike. Is someone disobeying the blackout?

The communicator chirps again and then solidifies into a call tone. Grant mantles the low wall of the bed and retrieves it.

His chest compresses. MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE is calling him. He presses the sideswitch and the call connects.

“Oh Grantyyyde,” his wife’s dark-chocolate alto sings over the line. “Guess whoooo?”