Princess of the Void: An Alien Abduction Romance

A tear rolls to the edge of Kora's nose. It drops into her lap, onto her hands where they grip her uniform. It's so bulky in some places and too tight in other places. It doesn't fit right. None of this does.

Miss Tala looks back from the front seat of the shuttle. "Are you crying?"

"I'm trying not to." Kora huddles further into her fake leather seat. "I really am trying, Miss Tala."

Her mistress tuts. "Poor thing." She exchanges a few whispered words with the big solemn man in the pilot seat, then slips from the front row into the back and sits next to Kora, who leans into her arms. A shoulder-shaking sob threatens to escape Kora; she bites down hard on her lip to keep it in.

"Look," Miss Tala gently nudges her. "Out the window. See that ship out there?"

Kora blinks through the blur of her tears and peers into the dark. A spear of black against the starfield, an object visible by the absence it makes in the light behind it. "I see it," she says.

"That's the Pike," Miss Tala says. "Your new home. From this day forward, you are a Void Princess."

"I don't want to go," Kora says. "I'm not ready."

"You are ready," Miss Tala says. "You are going to be a wonderful Void Princess, Kora. I know you are. You've been such a good trainee. But you've learned all you can in the Core. This is where you have always belonged."

Kora sobs and shakes her head. She buries her face in Miss Tala's jacket.

"It is, Sykora," Miss Tala's voice hardens. "You are the Princess of the Black Pike." Her hands catch Kora and lever her away. "This is the last time you can cry, so get it all out while you can. When you meet your team, this sort of weakness will harm you. Never cry in front of them. Do you understand?"

Kora gulps down a river of juvenile tears and nods.

"I need you to tell me you understand. Say it."

Kora stifles her sob. "I understand."

Miss Tala smiles. She always looks so lovely when she smiles. "Good."

The shadow grows and grows until it occupies the whole sky. A bright fizzing flash spreads across the cockpit as their membrane attunes to the Pike's and they sail inside. Miss Tala unbuckles her and takes her hand and leads her out of the shuttle onto a catwalk overlooking a massive, cavernous room, all black and red, just like Kora's new clothes.

She has been in a room this large only once in her life, on the day she met the Empress, and she hardly remembers that day. Only a distant ceiling, tapered to a point and covered in stars, and a proud, gold-encrusted woman with solemn, probing eyes, who a toddling Kora had thought, in her young idiocy, might be her mother.

A pair of massive men in black beetle armor are waiting for them at the end of the catwalk. They bow as the woman and the girl approach them. "Majesty," one of them says. He salutes. Instinct snaps Kora's fist to her chest.

"Well done," Miss Tala whispers. "Very well done." Her hand departs Kora's and plants itself on her back. A gentle push. "Go on, now. These men will show you to your command deck."

"Miss Tala." Kora tugs at the scratchy fabric of her caretaker's skirt. "Will I see you again?"

Her caretaker expels air through her nostrils, turns Kora by the shoulders, and crouches in front of her. "No," she says. "I live in the Imperial Core, and from now on, this sector is where you live. You won't see me again. Not ever."

Kora's breath catches. "Can't I visit? When I'm grown?"

"Kora. Sweet thing." Miss Tala chuckles and shakes her head. "This is my fault. I tried to make it clear to you, to explain the danger in depending on me, but I might have been too sentimental." Her hands depart Kora's shoulders to smooth her skirt out. "We have no reason to see each other anymore. You were an assignment. That's all. You aren't my child; I don't love you."

Kora blinks. "I know, I just—"

"I don't want you in my life anymore, Kora. Do you understand? I have a family. I have children. I have no room for another one. I'm all finished with you."

Kora blinks again. A prickly pressure builds in her chest.

"I told you: no tears. You must be strong. I'm leaving now, and you can't stop me." Miss Tala stands up. "Remember how this feels, Kora. Remember how helpless you feel right now. Let this be the last thing I teach you: before you let yourself rely on anyone, you must first make sure you can control them."

And then her first caretaker turns and, with light and confident steps, leaves Kora's life forever.

Kora walks numbly with the marines to a clinical-white elevator. She stares at her feet as the lift rises. The colors and shapes of the Black Pike, so vast and new, flicker in the periphery. Her permanent home. Her frontier prison.

They take her to a wide domed room, with geometric panels of reinforced glass all around her, showing the wide firmament, and the departing shuttle soaring away like a seed spat from the behemoth.

At the other end of the room is a titanic throne, cushioned and sharply crowned. In front of it is a girl, around her age, with a bright red uniform and bright red glasses, and skin like a blue gloaming.

As Kora approaches, the girl drops to one knee and bows her forehead to the floor. Her silvery locs spread on the deck like a miniature mop.

"Your Majesty," she says. "I am Majordomo Vorakaia, once of Clan Simak, now of the Black Pike. I swear to be your first and finest servant as long as we both shall live."

Remember, Kora, comes a voice in her head that sounds like Miss Tala. Threat level. Control vector. Contingency.

She tries to focus, tries to project the steely adult she's newly expected to be.

Vora looks up. "Are you all right, Majesty? A long flight?"

Remember how this feels, Kora.

Kora—Sykora—raises her chin and glares down her nose. "Yes, majordomo. I'm just—I am adjusting." A good word. Miss Tala used it a lot.

Vora smiles. "Whatever you need, I'm here. Anything to make you comfortable. That's what a majordomo is. I speak all major languages of the sector, and I'm a second-ring spearfighter, and I have extensive etiquette and protocol training. No two Princesses are alike, and all may employ their majordomo how they wish. I am content to be your clerk, or your guide, or your friend, even, if—"

"Void Princesses don't have friends," Sykora snaps.

Vora's cheerful expression doesn't change. Not even a flicker of reproach or anxiety at Sykora's outburst. She bows again. "I understand, Majesty. Forgive my impertinence. Shall we go explore your new command?"

"Quite right," Sykora says. "Let's."

Vora stands on tiptoes to reach the armrest of Sykora's throne. "Here's your intercom," she says. "I have our guide on standby at the moment, but I can show you how it works soon." She pushes a button. "You may enter now."

The door opens on a glowering Taiikari woman leaning in its frame.

"Wonderful," she says. "I'm babysitting."

Sykora scowls. "Where is your bow, servant?"

The woman sighs and bows. "Majesty. How's that?"

"Better."

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"All right, Majesty and majordomo." Sykora's insubordinate crewmate jerks a thumb over her shoulder. "Let's get this ship toured, and then we can leave each other alone a while longer."

"Your attitude puts you in danger of being thrown in the brig, servant," Sykora says. "I would have your name."

The woman's hand whirrs as it retrieves a flash from her belt and thumbs it open. "Waian," she says. "Chief Engineer. And I've been in enough brigs by now I've learned to love them, so while I show you the superweapon they've put two babies in charge of, you might wanna come up with some more effective threats."

Countess Wenzai—

[Threat Level: Low]

[Control Vector: Wenzai has burned a great deal of political capital seeking to be your friend and Grantyde's business partner. She's isolated herself from the otherwise protectionist Ptolek coterie and heavily invested in the Qarnaq trade. You've got her by the tail.]

[Contingency: Standard female Taiikari takedown. Favor nonlethal solutions.]

—blinks in confusion. She lifts the tablet. "Fucking hellfire," she says. "We're in the negative? This is not, uh…" She gives an uncertain laugh and an anxious glance between Grantyde and Sykora. "This isn't what I was expecting."

"I imagine not," Sykora says drily.

Wenzai's panic, to her credit, is betrayed only via a subtle twitch of her ears. Sykora doubts this is pretend shock; if she knew the numbers were this bad, she never would have opened them in front of her Princess.

Sykora likes Wenzai, she thinks. The woman truckles and toadies, of course, as a member of the peerage must, but she does so with a refreshing self-awareness, and feigns very little, and trusts her ebullience to see her past whatever lapses result.

This is quite the lapse, though.

"Let's find out what the hell's killing us." Wenzai flicks the readout onto the projector and squints at its tabulated layers. "Preliminary's on the right, the latest is on the left."

Sykora sits back and exhales as she gets comfortable in her seat. A piece of her with a voice she can't quite place, that of an instructor in her distant past, probably, is lecturing her to sit up, pay attention, find the solution in these numbers. But this is Grantyde's enterprise. His lessons. And she has promised herself not to be a tyrant as he learns them.

"I see one problem right away," Wenzai says. "These refiner stacks are being quoted as double what they're supposed to be. It'd be cheaper to get them direct from the Core forges at these prices."

Grantyde scans the document. "The shipping field is way higher, too. Something in there?"

Wenzai flicks her tablet and a report subsection accordions outward. She sucks in air through her teeth. "God, no wonder. Look at securities. These estimates are decafucked. The Exo Union on Ptolek is quoting us monstrous rates on transport for this refining equipment and these workers. What do they want, a damn battle fleet?"

"So the thing that's gone wrong is everything," Grantyde says. "Unacceptably priced cargo being shipped at unacceptable rates. Who sets these prices?"

"The cargo I sourced from a few people." Wenzai's a leg wiggler when she's nervous, Sykora notices. "So there's something fucking with the prices across the coterie. And the shipping estimates come from the Exo Unionists. We're getting it in both ends. Upstairs and downstairs, tag-teaming us."

"This seems pretty brazen for the union when dealing directly with the Prince," Grantyde says.

"It is," Wenzai says. "My guess is they're trying this because you've been outspoken in support of the workers, and they're seeing what they can get away with."

"That's unionist gratitude for you," Sykora says.

Wenzai nods. "You and her Majesty could probably sort that part out with some Imperial muscle getting flexed."

"I'm gonna talk to them," Grantyde says.

"Yourself?" Wenzai raises an eyebrow. "This is a hand reaching into the kavak jar, Majesty. Just flash it away."

"I knew some union guys on Maekyon," Grantyde says. "United Steelworkers. The one thing that always pissed them off was how below the suits' time they always felt. Being listened to is a full third of what they want. A good foundation. Then we can figure the rest out."

Sykora clicks her tongue. "I'll wager it's the Trimond incident. Huge security blunder, awful casualties… they have reason to be overcautious. If we battering-ram this number lower, they've got valid objections to sow in the sector's fields. Grantyde's right. This calls for a modicum of restraint."

"You know who we're gonna have to talk to, then?" Wenzai muses. "Corska Ondai. You ever meet her?"

"I'm not, uh…" Grantyde squints. "Right. Ondai. Blonde hair, union sash. She threw me the horns at the Cloudsprint, and then Sykora and I visited her to—"

Sykora sits bolt upright, the tranquility flying from her like discarded bedclothes. "She threw a Prince the horns?"

Grantyde holds up a placating hand. "She threw a Prince Consort the horns. This was before my freedom."

Sykora glares. "Still. That is not permissible."

"If she does it again, we can fine her or something," Grantyde says. "How's that?"

"Or execute her," Sykora says.

"Or fine her," Grantyde says, plucking a shrimp puff from the plate Wenzai scavenged.

"Fine." Sykora sits back again. "Ten thousand credits and the offending hand ought to do it."

Grantyde chuckles, and she smiles back, even though she didn't exactly mean it as a joke.

"An in-person visit would be the way to do it quiet," Wenzai says. "You want to talk actual shop with a unionist, you do it face-to-face. On a call, you can't trust who's listening or recording. Sneaky buggers."

"You have to be sneaky, if you're dealing with the higher-ups," Grantyde says, around his bite. He swallows. "And we're high up. I'm not the guy to blame them."

"I guess not." Wenzai shrugs. "This labor-friendly stuff is what I signed up for. I won't argue against it."

"If you play this wrong, dove, you'll seem like you're capitulating," Sykora says.

"You fretting about the union gals?" Grantyde cracks his neck to one side, revealing the beautiful ruby border of his still-tender breedmate scar. "I've been dealing with the peerage lately."

Sykora titters. "I'm fretting about the peerage. If the raptors catch wind that you're taking a more even footing with the unionists, we'll waste time and political capital easing their tantrums."

Grant's brow furrows. "The raptors?"

Sykora's been holding off filling Grantyde in about the peerage particulars, but there's no sheltering him from them anymore. That's all right. He's ready. "It's an informal nickname for the biggest peerage faction," she says. "Concerned with keeping the power where it is, and scrabbling their way into more. And a Prince meeting a unionist would have them foaming."

"It's raptors, striges, and finches," Wenzai says. "I'm a finch."

Grantyde rubs his stubble. "And a finch is?"

Wenzai winks. "The good guys."

That's debatable if you ask Sykora—the finches' progressivism can be as irksome as raptor protectionism—but she won't quibble. They've already got enough on their plate. "I'd been hunting for an excuse to visit Ptolek in-person," she says. "I'd like to see what the new Governess has done with the place. You meet with Ondai behind a nicely shut door, while I set about in public, rooting out whatever is driving your refiner prices up."

"Are we wary of her?" Grant asks.

"Not wary, really," Sykora says. "Her numbers are healthy and I haven't fielded any complaints. But then I never really worried about Garuna as long as she kept the production going, and look what that harlot was doing on the side. I don't know whether her replacement had a hand in these galling prices, but it's worth finding out. Some polite but firm shaking of her trees."

She stands up, and takes a moment to fix in her head the light, lithe ease with which she does so. Something to compare with later, when she turns into a damn troop carrier.

"I'd like to dance some with my husband before the night is over, Countess," she says. "And it sounds like we have our heading. Shall we adjourn?"

"Sounds like a plan." Wenzai wraps her tail around the now-empty tray. "And, uh—I hope that this whole thing hasn't given you pause, Majesty."

"It's a hiccup, to be sure," Sykora says. "But far from a convulsion. You and Grantyde have time to set it right." Sykora leans her head up a touch, allows her temperature to drop one single notch. "And I have your word you will, yes?"

Wenzai hastily bows. "Yes, Majesty."

Sykora's tail gives hers a light tap. "Then I am entirely unpaused. And you can call me Sykora in private, you know."

The tension in Wenzai's shoulders relaxes. "Then you've got my word, Sykora."

They return to the hangar in time to catch the second dance. Glances and whispers their way as Sykora returns with her husband and the Countess in train. She ignores them as the music swells and she takes Grantyde's extended hand. It's off to Ptolek, soon to uncover another spanner in the works. To fix more nasty little mysteries. Tonight, she doesn't give a shit. Tonight she's dancing with her husband.

Up and into his arms. She adores it, the way Grantyde dances with her. The way she can feel his great, slow heart beating against hers. The way she can quicken it with a beguiling touch or a swivel of her hips. The way she feels so kept, so small and delicate in his broad hands, but so powerful, too, coaxing his grip closed around her, luxuriating in her sinuous unwinding of his disciplined forbearance, his fingers digging into her during the long holds, tracing the hemline of her dress and drawing goosebumps across her skin. He's so hungry for her, her Maekyonite. No matter how many times she gives herself to him. She beams ear-to-ear. "You're such a brute," she whispers.

"Nuh uh." He lowers her onto his knee as the song's strains fade. "I'm nice."

Her touch grazes his collar and lowers it a few centimeters, enough to gaze at the bite she placed on him. He kisses her palm before it departs.

"You really trust me to handle the union?" he murmurs.

"Of course, dove." She rubs his forearm and watches his arm hairs shift back and forth. "The power is rather severely in your corner, and you'll have the Countess to handle the minutiae and keep Ondai from fast-talking you on the business side. It'll be a good training bout for the heavier stuff. I won't always be about while the triplets are brewing."

Her breedmate touches her stomach—and oh, the stomach touches are the best ones, lately. So tender and possessive. So gently dominant. She arches her spine further into it, lets him feel more of what's his. Her heart skips with anticipation. She's been checking the mirror every morning, standing sideways with her shirt tucked under her chin, peering quizzically at her belly as if she'd start showing less than a tenday in. Sometimes she feels a phantom shift, an imagined quickening of Grantyde's brood. She knows it's just her silly, impatient mind. But it won't be, soon. Soon everyone will be able to see the prize she and her husband tore from the avaricious firmament.

"These are our last few dances for a while, you know," she says. "When I'm further along, I'll lounge around all day like a loafer. Ringing a little bell to summon you, butler-style. Foot rubs and meals in bed and carrying me around on a pillow."

"Yes, ma'am." His thumb slips under her jaw and draws her face upward into a brief but deep kiss. Another song is beginning, a faster one. Something exciting to get the blood flowing and the breath moving. The muscles in his leg shift under her feet. "Let's take our chances where we can, then."

"Let's," she says, and giggles delightedly as he lifts her into the air.