Princess of the Void: An Alien Abduction Romance

"I'm undressing, Grantyde. If you'd like to avert your eyes."

Sykora strips her belt from her waist and tosses it into an open locker. She slides a cabinet door open to reveal a cream-colored padded suit, with a scarlet stripe across its chest. "Got to get into fighting trim."

"You can just go invisible." He turns away, toward the lockers. "It was a neat trick."

A muted laugh as fabric crinkles behind him. "Well, I wanted to give you the option to peek." He hears a zipper and then a pneumatic hiss. "All right, darling. I'm decent."

He turns back around to see her suited up, and twisting a broad ribbon around her waist. "Whoever loses at Gravitas ties one hand behind their back." She turns around with her left hand double-wrapped behind her back, the ends of the ribbon held in place with her palm. "Kindly do the honors, Grantyde?"

Grant steps up behind Sykora and takes the tie from her. He stoically ignores the breathy little noise she makes when he pulls it tight around her waist.

"How are you going to use a spear one-handed?" He knots her hand to her back.

"It's not so hard. They're lighter than they look. And I have plenty of practice, since Vora thrashes me at Gravitas every time." She gives it an experimental tug and smiles. "Ooh. Nice and tight." The fingers on her bound hand wiggle. "Are you practiced at tying pretty girls up, Grantyde?"

"I worked at an energy extraction mine on Maekyon. Place called Alberta." Grant steps back. "You had to know your knots."

"What a frivolous waste of an exemplary man," Sykora says. "They should have been putting you and that guidar in arenas."

"I really am just okay at it," he says. "It's a hobby."

"If you really think so," Sykora says, "then I order you as your Princess to continue your training."

He arches an eyebrow. "Is that going to be my job? Official troubadour for the Pike?"

"You're Prince Consort. Your job is to be my husband. But while we're having our horny little battle of wills, you might as well have something to do with your hands. And if this is what just okay sounds like, then expertise could be a genuine political advantage. Let me know if there's anything more I can snipe from Maekyon for you. Music books or a tutor or something."

"You wouldn't actually kidnap a tutor, would you?"

"Of course not, my dear. It would upset you." She points. "Pass me that spear?"

He hands her the spear, which is more of a staff. One end is weighted and crowned with a blinking red light. She steps out of the locker room into a starkly lit room the size of a tennis court, its whitewashed walls and floors scraped and streaked. He follows. A black-painted circle waits for them in its center. From the opposite locker room, Vora emerges, in a blue-striped version of Sykora's suit. "Usual stakes, Majesty?"

"You know it." Sykora leans on her spear. "Loser pays the bar tab."

"And your wife always wins," Vora says. "And she drinks like a sailor."

"We just use scrip, majordomo. It's on my tab either way." Sykora drops the spear from her free hand and balances it upright with her tail. She slaps the badge on her chest and an opaque dome helmet, marine-style, slides up over her head. A field of red diodes bursts to life on her torso. Vora mirrors her and glows blue.

"Torso, limbs, then head." Sykora flicks her spear back into her open palm. "A speartip touch on each, in that order, to win the round."

"A touch, she says." The little majordomo twirls her spear with a rapid motion that catches Grant offguard. "Your wife hits hard."

"You ratfucked my Inner Zone flotilla, majordomo. The imaginary blood of thousands is on your hands." Sykora mirrors the motion one-handed. Her tail lashes out and thwacks the end of the spear, flickering its tip through the air. It finishes its arc couched into her armpit, pointed rock-steady at Vora's heart. "At least you'll see me coming."

Grant gives the spears a wary look. He heard the whistles they made in the air. "Where should I stand?"

"Just on the edge of the room, darling. You'll be fine." Sykora steps into the circle. "You leave the ring, you cede a touch."

The women halt in frozen readiness, ten feet apart from one another.

"Grantyde." Sykora glances his way. "Would you officiate?"

"Is it easy?"

"The suits do all the work. Just say set, and then tilt."

"Set."

Sykora shifts to one side, and holds her spear high and straight, bolstered by her tail. Vora's is low and braced to the ground.

"Tilt," Grant says.

Sykora launches forward in a crimson blur. Two rapid jabs—Vora kneels away from the first one and corkscrews the second to the floor with a twirling guard. Sykora whirls past the riposte. The spears slam together with an echoing crack.

The Taiikari have traded spaces. Vora shifts her spear to a phalanx overhand. Sykora's tail switches back and forth like a stalking lion's. They orbit one another for a half dozen heartbeats of coiled anticipation.

Vora darts forward.

Crack. The spears meet again. Sykora's is knocked wide. Of course it is—she's only got one hand on the thing.

She follows the motion and snaps her tail out. It catches Vora on the ankle and knocks her out of stance.

Sykora spins, the spear laid across her shoulder, and lunges with such violence that one foot lifts from the ground in a balletic arabesque. The spear slaps into Vora's midsection. A klaxon trills as the majordomo staggers backward.

Vora winces and rubs her abdomen. "The comet lunge, Princess? Really?"

"Touch on blue." Sykora skips backward. "Let me show off for my man, Majordomo."

The lights on Vora's suit blink and shift. They fade from her torso and appear instead all along her arms and legs. Vora crouches back into readiness. "Call the set, Prince Consort?"

"Set." Grantyde's pulse is raised. He watches the liquid curves of his wife's silhouette straighten and bend as she stalks her slow circle. Sykora glances up at him. Her fingers drum along the span of her spear. He clears his throat.

"Tilt."

Another flashing exchange, another flurry of spear-on-spear. Vora ducks and jogs backward to the edge of the ring, planting her foot on its painted line. She slaps her own thigh. The suit grinds to a halt, its joints locking with little puffs of steam. Its helmet tilts open; its entire front peels out. Grant gets just a moment of Vora's slender, dark body, naked as the day she was born, emerging from the suit like a butterfly from a cocoon before she disappears. The spear is snatched from the suit's opening hand and hovers in midair.

"Oh you ass." Sykora freezes in her tracks as Vora's spear loops around the room. "Chameleon gambit? In a casual bout?"

A disembodied snicker. "Maybe I want to show off, too."

Sykora's eyes dart, and Grant follows them, seeking a telltale shimmer near the spear. Without the rest of Vora's body visible, Sykora's confident defense has become a cautious guard.

Sykora lunges—not for the spear, but for the abandoned suit, whose exoskeleton has bent it upright into a neutral t-pose. Its arms and legs still have that blue glow on them.

Vora's spear comes whistling down at an ersatz angle and slams the tip of Sykora's to the ground. A half-moon spin and Sykora's shoved backward by its point against her heart.

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The empty suit rocks back on its heels; it snaps shut and reanimates as the Taiikari woman inside pumps her fist. "Touch on red!"

Sykora huffs as the light drifts from her torso to her arms and legs. "You just wanted to flash my husband. You hustling harlot."

"I'm scoring off you today, Kora."

"Not without another trick up your sleeve, Vora."

"Who's to say I don't have one, Kora?"

"How about you show me, then, Vora?"

Vora glances his way. "Call the set, Prince Consort."

Grant takes another step back. They're getting spirited in there. "Set."

"Telling my husband what to do." Sykora's arm straightens. The spear tip quivers forward. "I'll drill you for that."

Vora rotates her grip. "You'll try."

"Tilt," Grant says, and Sykora launches like a bullet. Vora drops into a bracing guard like she's receiving a cavalry charge.

The round is over a breath after it's begun. The spears lance past one another and score simultaneous touches—one across Sykora's arm, one into Vora's leg.

"Yes!" Vora spins round and pumps her fist again. Sykora stalks back to her mark. The diodes on the women's arms and legs have faded. Twin lights, red and blue, now shine from the sides of their helmets, where their ears are sheathed. "How long has it been since I've gotten you to helm?"

Sykora's teeth sound gritted. "Six cycles, at least."

"I'm developing a real thirst, Majesty." Vora leans jauntily on her spear. "I hope you're ready to splurge."

"Grantyde." Sykora says it flat and cold. It's how she sounded the first night, when she was full of menace. "If you please."

"Set," he says. Their faces aren't visible, but there's a simmering tension in the air. He feels it. It's the final round.

"Tilt."

Five seconds of utter stillness.

Vora's heel shifts.

Sykora's tail curls around her calf.

Grant has no frame of reference for how well Sykora spear fights, just as she has none for his guitar playing. As far as she's concerned, he is a virtuoso. The thought struck him as fond and silly. But now he watches her move and understands. His wife moves like a warrior out of myth.

CRACK. The spears ricochet high into the air, and the Taiikari wielding them are driven close enough to touch.

CRACK. Sykora's spear drops from her untied hand, rolls along the span of her tail, and jerks back up under Vora's guard. The majordomo dances backward and misses the whistling tip by inches.

CRACK. Vora lands a solid hit onto Sykora's side that pushes the breath from Grant's lungs in a sympathetic gasp. Sykora spins away from the impact, and snarls like an animal as she hefts her spear. She's bunched up and low, like a winched-in spring. Vora paces, a circling hunter. The diode at the end of her spear trails a comet tail afterimage as she pounces.

Sykora slams her spear hilt into the floor, departing the ground in a dazzling pole-vault. In mid-fucking-air, like a valkyrie, she twists round and overhand hurls her spear. It flies a bare foot before her tail catches it and whirls it with ballistic speed.

A bright orange flash rings out as the spear tip connects, and goes spinning away. Sykora drops to the floor, ass-first, and roars her victory over the klaxon call.

"God damn, Sykora." Vora's helm light sputters out. She slaps the badge on her chest and her helmet slides down. "You know what that was, Prince Consort? Your wife just swung that spear so hard the system triggered a PD membrane around my skull."

"I didn't intend to get so aggressive, Vora. I've erred." Sykora climbs to her feet and opens her one untied arm. "I'll buy the drinks, yes?"

"A win's a win, Majesty. And I did hit you with the Chameleon." Vora steps into Sykora's embrace. "Just let's split Grantyde's tab, please. Can't imagine how much brew a man his size needs."

"I'll stay dry tonight," Grant says. "Does your Empire have soda water?"

Sykora tsks. "My fuddy-duddy husband. Are you worried I'll get you drunk and seduce you?"

He shrugs. "Yes."

"Well, uh." Her tail droops. "Fair."

"What did you think, Grantyde?" Sykora rubs her newly unbound wrist as Grant folds the ribbon up. "Did I successfully show off?"

"Absolutely." Grant drapes the ribbon across the locker room bench and turns back to his wife. Then he keeps turning, quickly, as she climbs naked from her suit.

"Grantyde. Come on." He hears her click her tongue. "It's nothing you haven't seen plenty of times."

"I appreciate you letting me decide for myself, Majesty."

That cocksure victor's certainty has fled her. "Understood. I'll, uh… I'll keep doing that, then." The silky sound of her pants sliding up her hips. "Turn around. Please."

He glances back. She's clothed. She's close.

"Do I get a reward?" she asks.

"What kind of reward?" He surveys the top of her head. The two velvety nubs of her horns are rising from her head.

"A kiss, maybe?"

He chuckles. He hesitates. Then he bends at the waist and plants a kiss on her forehead. Her hand laces into his collar as he starts to straighten up. He clasps it in a gentle squeeze and removes it.

"I meant a kiss like earlier." Her voice is small and pleading. "A real kiss."

He sighs and sits on a bench running through the middle of the locker room. "I can't do that, Sykora."

A perplexed frown settles across her face. "We did before."

"We did," he says. "And you nearly got me. I can't risk another one."

"I had thought… I thought we were making progress, Grantyde. Steady progress. Now you turn from my body, you avoid my kiss. I thought I could be patient. I can be patient. But I see us going backwards and I can't bear it." She takes a step toward him. Close enough to feel her breath. "I can't fucking bear it."

"We aren't going backwards. You…" He licks his dry lips. "You're an amazing woman, Sykora. I've never met anyone even close. You were incredible out there. You were like a movie."

"Then touch me." Her palm lands on his chest. "I'm not a movie. I'm your wife. Touch me."

"I can't risk that." His knuckles are white on the bench. "Until I'm free, we're opponents, as surely as if it had been me across that board or that arena. And I can't afford to lose."

Her touch slides down to his thigh. She's trembling. "I don't want to be your opponent any more. I want to be in love with you. I hate this."

"I do, too."

"I've thought about what you said. The way you want to live." She closes her eyes and visibly steels herself. "It terrifies me, Grantyde. Those anticomps I'm having made for you. Do you know what would have happened if you'd been wearing them when Inadama called? The material that would have given her on me?"

"I don't know what would have happened," he says. "I don't know a thing about this world you've put me in. I'm terrified, too. But that's where we're gonna have to start. Equally terrified. Outside your comfort zone, outside mine. Outside the Empire."

"Outside the—" Her eyes flick open, wide. "Grantyde, I am the Empire."

"Not all of you," he says. "Not the part of you I want to fall in love with."

"You don't want to stop at the anticomps. You said that. The first rule we break. You want to drag me into iconoclasm." Her hands rest on the sides of his jaw, by his ears. "Why can't you be happy with a normal love? With a safe love?"

He needs to look away. But he doesn't want to deprive himself a second of her face. His wife's face. She wants him more than anyone has ever wanted him. "Because there's nothing normal about it. Not to me." He reminds himself as much as he reminds her. "I wouldn't be asking this of you if I didn't think…" He haltingly touches her waist. "If I didn't think there was a chance."

She huffs a frustrated sigh. "Why did it have to be you? Why couldn't it have been a nice Kovikan or an Amadari? Why didn't I just take Kabira's wort and burn this feeling away? Why am I even considering this? Why do I want it?"

His breath holds. "Want what?"

"This—this perversion. This thing you've asked me to do." She can't even bring herself to say it. Her hands slip downward until they're wrapped around his shoulders. "I am a Princess of the Taiikari. I've bent worlds to their knees. I've survived scandals and assassination attempts and pirate attacks and being marooned on Maekyon. I conquer. I take."

She's climbing into his lap. Why isn't he stopping her? He feels drunk. Like he's in a dream, watching himself. Her eyes haven't even flashed, and he feels compelled.

"And now," she whispers, "my downfall is here, wearing this alluring disguise, freely admitting how it will destroy me. Destroy both of us. And still…"

His hand is on her back, right where her spine begins its graceful outward curve. When did that happen?

"Still…" she murmurs. Her eyelids lower. The graceful line of her body flows as she lays it flush against his. Her hips. Her stomach. Her chest.

"Just say it," he whispers. "Just say: you're free. And you'll have me."

She doesn't shake her head. She doesn't say no. She just stares, like a deer in the headlights. Like there's a tidal wave crashing toward her. The gleam of her fangs as her pouty little lips part.

His wife, the warrior. The killer. Visions of her victims flash through his mind. The blooms of blood on the walls. Drake's gurgling last breath. Drake, who would have killed him. He was the only Maekyonite in that building who left it alive. Even when she thought she hated him, even when he was just a tool stolen from a hostile empire. She spared him.

If he gives himself to her, nobody like Drake will ever threaten him again.

Her thighs, where they wrap around him, are an intoxicating combination of soft, giving flesh and steel-cord muscle. Her body is so touchable. Every inch of her is some new sensation—firm, pillowy, toned, supple. And hot. Fever-hot. Maybe this one time doesn't need to count. Maybe he gives in once, just once. So he knows what he's saying no to. Maybe it'll be easier to resist her once he knows. He can always find his way to freedom later. He's been married to this woman for a week, and he's had forty seconds of intimacy. The most beautiful forty seconds of his life. He's sitting before a banquet, and he's had nothing but a crust of bread, and he's starving.

Their noses touch. Grantyde feels her breath, warm and damp on his face. Maybe she's right. Maybe freedom isn't important in this new life. Maybe he doesn't need it. He can just let go; he can let her take care of everything.

"You," she whispers. Just that one syllable. His fingers twitch against her skin. "You're—"

A knock on the door.

They jerk away from one another near-simultaneously. As if an invisible electric fence divided them. He nearly broke.

She nearly broke.

"Majesty? Prince Consort?" That's Vora, muffled by the door. "Do I still owe you drinks?"

"A moment, please, majordomo." The commanding steel is back undergirding Sykora's shaky voice. She clambers off of Grant's lap. "I think it would be best if we both took some time to ourselves for the rest of the day, Grantyde. To…settle down. And think." Her eyes tilt downward. "Perhaps you and Vora could get drinks by yourselves."

"You should go with her," he says. "I'm not thirsty. I'll go with Ajax and log some more flying time."

"Very well. Good idea." Her fists ball the linen of her shirt's hem. "I'll see you later, then."

He's starving. The air is so light and insubstantial after the solidity of his wife's body. "Yep," he says. "See you soon."

She slips out of the locker room.

She slips back in and skitters over to him. She stands on tiptopes and kisses him on the forehead.

"It was worth it," she whispers. "Every day in the dark. No matter what happens. I'd do it all again to have met you, Grant Hyde."

Then she's gone.

He sits on the bench and tries to get his heartbeat under control. What would have happened if that knock hadn't stopped them? Who was about to win?

He feels the doubt leach away, now that her warmth is gone. The determination returns. Next time, he'll know. Next time, one of them will give in. Next time, he'll spend the night in his wife's arms, and he'll awaken either free or doomed.