As they decamp to Vora’s cabin through the voidship’s brass-and-scarlet hallways, he nods and waves to the crewmates he recognizes. It’s an ever-increasing list. That’s Technician Orr, whose fascination with Maekyon ecology would surely trap Grant in another five minute conversation about elephants if Sykora weren’t a forbidding presence at his side. There's Meena, an adorable strawberry shortcake of a woman who works in the hangar bay. Her marine boyfriend, Ajax, was one of Grant’s earliest associates aboard. She delivers a bow and a salute to the Princess, and a bubbly “Hi, sire!” to Grant.
Sykora has gotten better at controlling the little downward twist of her mouth whenever a woman is too familiar with her husband. But Grant always looks for it. Her greediness for him puts a dash of cinnamon warmth in his chest.
"They really ought to be bowing to you, Grantyde," she whispers.
"I'm just a consort," he replies. "And the bows weird me out."
Every day, Grant feels more and more at home among the beautiful aliens who have claimed him as their fellow citizen. He supposes, in part, that’s a consequence of where he ended up. Would he feel welcome as the only Maekyonite in a Taiikari city, surrounded by gawking red-eyed gremlins? He doesn’t know; he doesn’t even know what a Taiikari city looks like. But here, aboard the Black Pike, by the side of its unquestioned ruler, he’s granted absolute deference and respect. It’s been difficult, sometimes, coaxing the crew of the Pike to treat him more like a comrade than a nobleman. But over the last few cycles, his charm offensive has flaked some of the natural Taiikari obedience away and uncovered a few friendships.
Sykora views his efforts with a certain discomfort—it’s not how nobles are trained to act, she tells him, and she cringes a little whenever he smilingly insists upon a handshake instead of a bow. But she’s never tried to prevent it. When their marriage began, she stubbornly insisted he was her property. She’s just as stubborn now about his freedom.
Vora’s cabin is a cozy chestnut-colored hideaway with the smell of leather clinging pleasantly to its chilly air-con. The four of them take their pick of a hodgepodge of overstuffed chairs and talk idly about the Pike and the past, the world Grant left behind and the new one he’s joined. Vora uncorks a floral bouquet of sloshing, colorful drinks.
Grant selects amrita, a rich, dark blue spirit that is one of his favorite alien discoveries. In a fortunate coincidence, it’s also one of the few drinks with enough booze in it to affect him. His hosting species are literal lightweights.
Oryn tries his best to hide his consternation as Grant takes a sip of amrita like it’s wine.
“So how did you two meet?” he asks.
“Oh, we were an arranged marriage,” Vora says. “I met Ory when I was about a hectocycle old.”
“Mmhmm.” Oryn takes a strip of radish from the spread laid out on the hexagonal table. “We grew up together, more or less.”
“His mother’s a shipbuilder on Achra,” Vora says. “Having a daughter-in-law in the Imperial Void Navy was her way to a few lucrative contracts.”
“She was an absolute twerp in secondary school.” Oryn nibbles his crudité. “Always pulling my tail.”
Vora’s tail tuft swipes his. “Well, you were a rockhead.”
“I tried to convince my mother to call it off,” Oryn says. “Threatened to run off and join the navy. Not that they’d take a preteen.”
“It’s not so uncommon that the gents in the Void Navy are running from engagements,” Vora says. “Hence the nickname.”
Grant shifts in his seat. Its synthetic leather squeaks. “I haven’t heard the nickname.”
Oryn raises his hands in a pair of air brackets (the Taiikari equivalent of scare quotes). “The Bachelor’s Brigade, they call it. Anyway, she talked me down.”
“She said tail tugging is just what you do before you’re brave enough to hold hands.” He scoots closer to his wife. “And she was right.”
Vora giggles. “She was sour when I stole him into the Navy anyway. She presumed I’d be a mostly absentee wife, I think.”
“Arranged marriage is very out of fashion on Maekyon,” Grant says.
“Well, monarchy is too, yes? They go tail-in-tail.” Oryn sits back into the overstuffed loveseat he and Vora occupy. “I’m not about to defend the practice. The majordomo and I got lucky. We’re certainly not about to entertain all the offers for Alakair’s hand.”
“That’s our son,” Vora adds. “He’s on Kontai right now at the academy, with a geoengineering concentration. And calligraphy.”
Grant gives a surreptitious glance at the pipped collar of Oryn’s uniform. There’s the breedmate scar peeking over the lapel.
Oryn chuckles. “I’m sure that he’d reverse the order of that. Geo’s the backup concentration right now, if you ask him.”
Grant sips his amrita. “What if I ask you?”
Oryn clears his throat. “He’ll be amazing at either. I’m sure. But there’s composing proclamations and there’s composing continents.”
“Discreetly stated, dear.” Vora smirks. “We’re hoping if he goes Geo, he might find his way back to the Pike someday. On the survey team, maybe.”
“I’d take a good calligrapher,” Sykora says. “My letters could use some spicing up.”
“Please do not encourage him, Majesty,” Vora says.
Grant selects a three-bulbed fruit, about the size of a cherry. He’s never had one of these. “Was he an only child?”
“He was,” Oryn says. “That’s not regular, but we decided it was how we’d start. Maybe sometime we’ll have a litter.”
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you have the technology to decide these things,” Grant says. He bites into the cherry thing.
“Oh—” Vora reaches out. “Those are zaikem. You peel those, Prince Consort.”
“Hmm?” Grant chews. “But the skin’s tasty.”
Oryn laughs. “Why not? I’m sure it’s got plenty of fiber.”
Sykora plucks another zaikem and gives it an experimental bite. “I think Grantyde might be onto something.” There’s a fibrous crunch as she chews. “The number of children, you can decide,” she says around her mouthful. “The gender, you can’t. That’s illegal.” She spits out a crescent of rind. “Or we’d be awash in daughters.”
“That’s why my mother went for quantity,” Oryn says. “I was part of a large litter. Five of us, and we all had a strategy attached in the womb. I was quite literally born to be Vora’s husband.”
Grant can’t hide his grimace. “Jeez. That’s...”
“Awful?” Vora supplies.
“Yes.” Grant is privately relieved to hear her say it.
Vora nods. “We’re in a time of transition. The practices which we turned a blind eye to… it’s not fast, the change. But it’s there. And we’re trying to take part. One kid, and they can be whatever they want to be.”
“That’s kind of you,” Grant says.
“Check back in with us after he graduates the academy and tells us he’s writing greeting cards,” Oryn says. “We’ll see how kind we manage to be.”
“It’s interesting, the way so many of these experiences are familiar to me.” Grant munches another unpeeled zaikem. “Concentrations at academy seem sort of like majors at college. There’s the same kind of parent-child clash.”
“I don’t know if I’d call it a clash,” Vora says.
“What was your concentration, Prince Consort?” Oryn refills his drink.
“I dropped out,” Grant says.
Oryn pauses his pour. “Oh.”
“I had to take care of my father. He had a heart thing and we couldn’t afford to put him anywhere.”
“Maekyonites have to pay for medical care?”
Grant shrugs. “We don’t have longevity suites or panacea. Our medicine takes a lot of effort. I don’t think I did a very good job with it.”
“Well, we’re lucky enough to have it gratis. May I refresh you?” Oryn reaches for Grant’s glass.
“Please.” Grant hands it over.
“I’d love to sit with you for a few sessions, Prince Consort, if I could. Xenopsychology isn’t exactly my field of study—no real need for it on a ZKZ where you’re the only alien—but if you’d be willing, I think it might be very illuminating for both of us.” Oryn returns to the cozy nook and holds out a gleaming, algae-colored glass of amrita. “You’ve had quite the journey through some of the best and worst that our civilization can furnish.”
“It’s been an education, for sure.” Grant retrieves his drink. “I’d be happy—”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Oryn.” Sykora pats Grant’s leg apologetically. “A bit too close.”
Grant shares a glance with his wife. Of course, he realizes. He’d be lying the entire time to the poor guy about the compulsion.
“Ah, well,” Oryn says. “I’m always here if it gets to you. Even a fellow like me who was born and bred for it can get a little chafed. I can’t imagine how it might be for a guy coming from a patriarchal civilization. No shame in it.”
A rising tritone chimes through the cabin. “That’s the bridge.” Vora stands up. “We can silence that.”
“That’s all right, majordomo.” Sykora lays her legs across Grant’s lap. “The priority tone has me curious.”
Vora clears her throat. “Answer audio only,” she says.
An amplified click as the call connects. “Mistress. We’ve got something big.” That’s one of the bridge ensigns. Shala, Grant thinks her name is. “Survey team reports one of our monitor probes may have picked up a post-light civilization.”
“Oh, my,” Vora murmurs, and then, louder: “What’s our level of confidence?”
“Eighty percent, ma’am. Multiple sweeps detected.” Shala’s voice is colored with a grin. “Maybe if you can pry Her Majesty off her hunky alien, we can do a briefing, huh?”
Sykora folds her hands in her lap. “I am present and accounted for, Ensign.”
The voice immediately snaps to contrite formality. “Majesty. I spoke out of turn.”
The hardest thing to get used to, living with the Taiikari: you never say sorry.
“You did. But it appears you’re about to have a prime opportunity at recompense.” Sykora gives Grant a nudge. “This might be your first uplift, Grantyde. A rare event.”
“How many sweeps, Ensign?” Vora asks.
“At least a score detected, ma’am. Well within the margin of consideration for approach. They call themselves the Eqtorans.”
“Eqtoran.” Sykora rolls the name over. “Percussive. I do believe we’ll let them keep that.”
“As you say, Majesty." A rustle and a modulation in the direction of the audio tells Grant that the ensign on the other side just bowed reflexively. "The system’s listening post has sent over an initial briefing for the command group’s edification.”
“That’s successfully pried me.” Sykora stands up. “We’re on our way to the command deck. Prepare that briefing and lift us into private counsel.” For more chapters visit novel-fire.ɴet
“Right. Dismissed.” Sykora finishes her wine as the call disconnects. She gives a shallow bow to Oryn. “Thank you for opening your home to us, Specialist.”
Oryn bows back, deep and at the waist. “The honor was mine, Majesty.”
“Fall in, majordomo and husband.” Sykora’s tail presses the door-open seal with a flourish. “It’s time to meet the new neighbors.”