Five cycles into Sykora’s pregnancy

  “I’m gross,” Sykora sobs. She hugs one of their downy pillows to her chest.

  Grant shifts her in his lap so he can comb the back of her head. “No you aren’t.”

  “I’m so gross.” She cradles her stomach as tears drop off the delicate tip of her nose onto their silk bedspread. “Look at these. I’m going to have these awful stretch marks. Forever.”

  He strokes her hair. “Batty. Even if that was gross, which it’s not, you’re not about to tell me the Taiikari don’t have ways to handle stretch marks.”

  “I knew it.” She rubs a trail of weepy snot along her forearm. “You hate them. They’re your fault and you hate them.”

  He tries not to laugh at her. “No, I don’t. I’m just saying if you do.”

  “Let me be irrational at you,” she wails.

  “Okay.”

  She buries her face in his stomach. “And let me get my boogers on you. And still be in love with me.”

  “Hmmm,” he says. “You have a deal.”

  “And say I’m beautiful.”

  “You are fucking gorgeous.”

  “And I want mozzarella sticks.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “My Maekyonite.” She tearfully rubs his pectorals. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect that I love you even though you’ve made me a fucking blimp.”

  He plants a kiss on her palm and shifts.

  Her eyes go wild and panicky. “No, no, don’t leave me. Stay here.”

  “I gotta get you mozzarella sticks.”

  “Just yell it. Yell for Kymai with me.”

  “All the way to the kitchens, huh?”

  She laugh-sobs. “Maybe he’ll hear us.”

  “Okay. It’s worth a try.”

  “Kymai,” Sykora cries. “Mozzarella sticks! Now!”

  “Get my wife her sticks, Kymai!”

  They lie in bed and wail for a while until Sykora collapses into a fit of giggling. She squawks as Grant climbs out of bed, still holding her, and crosses to the intercom. He crouches and taps the call button with her foot.

  “Quartermaster Kymai,” he says. “We’ll have some mozzarella sticks in the cabin, please.”

  Resigned despair in the Quartermaster’s voice: “Again?”

  ***

  Dantia of the Bright Covenant tosses her cinnamon-colored braids over her shoulder as she sits. “It was so lovely of you to host.”

  Her Coreworld cousin, Marquess Palatine Vanirak, takes her seat next to the Princess of the Bright Covenant. She and her majordomo were easy to spot, at the breakfast this orbital station’s skittish servers provided; they’re the only members of Bright Covenant’s delegation not wearing the violet and brass colors. Instead, Vanirak is dressed in a spotless white pantsuit. Not a trace of color on her besides her fuchsia skin.

  “And we thank you in advance,” Vanirak says. “For lodging ourself and our retinue. We will require three rooms at noblewoman standard—whatever that is aboard the Pike.”

  Sykora shifts uncomfortably in her seat; the staff have provided her with a male-sized one, to accommodate her ever-growing baby bump. “I would think that you were staying with your cousin. She has a ZKZ of her own; surely accommodations with her would be preferable.”

  The Marquess Palatine looks down her nose and waves a hand dismissively to her majordomo. The pinch-faced woman steps forward. “With utmost respect for your new position, Majesty, this meeting was appointed by you. The Marquess Palatine has traveled many sweep leagues to attend. The Void Princess agreed to meet in your sector. The Void Comity Accords require you provide lodging, and for a Palatine councilmember, it must be aboard a properly shielded ZKZ.”

  Sykora glances around at her two majordomos and at Grant. The unease on her face mirrors Grant’s own. Why would Vanirak insist upon staying aboard a stranger’s ZKZ, and not her cousin’s? Grant can’t think of an answer, but surely none of them are good. This is a Bright Covenant gambit, or maybe the Marquess Palatine’s. He tries to temper his frustration that he can’t discern the play. He’s not used to Core Worlder thinking.

  Lomanza’s tail nudges Sykora’s knee. Under the table she proffers her notepad. Grant cranes his neck to see. May I intervene, Majesty is written on the page in a crisp, steady hand.

  Sykora’s tail gives hers an affirmative squeeze.

  Lomanza says:

  “Pursuant to the Voidmade Accord 7071 Subclause iv(b), and without prejudice to the general applicability of Voidworld Comity Accords (Coreward Revision), access to onboard officer-grade and command-adjacent lodging modules aboard this vessel is hereby conditionally denied. Necessitated by an active convergence of operational readiness postures, classified spatial integrity protocols, and non-waivable risk-mitigation thresholds relating to sovereign presence proximity.”

  Dantia’s mouth hangs open. Sykora’s does, too.

  The Marquess Palatine’s Majordomo shifts her stance from foot to sandaled foot like she’s at a starting line. Then she says:

  “Said determination is respectfully contested on both jurisdictional and interpretive grounds re: the invocation of Internal Compartmentalization Mandates, herein asserted to constitute an overextension of situational authority when applied to accredited Coreworld dignitaries operating under advance-clearance certification.”

  Lomanza tilts her head. “Your course?”

  “Formally requesting immediate reconsideration of the access denial, or in the alternative, the issuance of a written justification suitable for review by the Joint Core–Void Arbitration Clerks’ Council.”

  “Tendered irregularly?”

  “No. No waiver of rights, privileges, or remedies available under treaty law; this should not be interpreted as acquiescence to unilateral reinterpretation of established hospitality norms. See Delegation Refutation Notice (Referencing CRA-ACB Annex C/Dispute), Operational Log 7712-Danik. Filed orally without delay as Memorandum A-17/Revised.”

  Lomanza holds up a hand partway through this and waits attentively until her counterpart is finished.

  “Her Majesty acknowledges Memorandum A-17/Revised,” she says, now speaking so quickly she sounds like a medical ad on a Maekyonite radio station, “and must, regrettably, observe that Operational Log 7712-Danik has not been made available in a form capable of independent verification, thereby rendering its evidentiary value procedurally symbolic rather than dispositive.”

  “Invocation of Baseline Amber,” her counterpart says, immediately upon the end of her sentence. “Without prejudice to the accords.”

  “Invocation of Baseline Amber sans timestamped escalation authority fails to satisfy the Trigger Event Certification Standard as articulated in Harmonized Threat Lexicon, revision 93.”

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  “The Marquess cites Subcategory 4.2 of the Hospitality Doctrine, revision 56.”

  “Her Majesty cites Subcategory 7.3.1 of same, as interpreted in Clerk Morai v Countess Palatine Numi, second day’s comments.”

  The two majordomos’ eyes are flickering, rapidly enough that their pupils blur.

  “MZ Dictum, paragraph 6.”

  “MZ Dictum inapplicable per Coreward Revision.”

  “Citing PKI 6/2-12.”

  “PKI amendment 11, contested.”

  “AP-1?”

  “Not unless certified per the Mandate.”

  “I see.” The other majordomo bows abruptly at the waist. “Our request and corresponding memorandum are withdrawn, Majesty.”

  The Marquess Palatine’s eyes flare as her mouth opens to speak; she pauses at a shake of her Majordomo’s head, then gives a chilly smile. “We will happily be the honored guest of our good cousin aboard the Bright Covenant.”

  A look at Sykora and Dantia’s faces confirms to Grant that they’re as mystified by the exchange that just occurred as he is. Sykora recovers first, plasters her formality back on, and refocuses on her Bright Covenant counterpart. “Now then, Dantia. Let us turn to the matter at hand.”

  “Uh.” Dantia blinks the exchange away. “Yes. Very well.”

  “I am searching for your cooperation in a plan I am concocting to foil the designs of my sister Narika upon Qarnaq.” Sykora indicates the great slate-blue gas giant over which the station orbits. “I require only a brief and painless misrepresentation from you. A feigned partnership with one of her catspaws. In exchange for your cooperation, Toniak of the Cinnabar Dawn and Loriss of the Iron Promise will be given clemency by the Pike for their conduct and returned to your custody.”

  Dantia hums as she shakes her head. “I am afraid I’m here expressly to require them back, Sykora. With negotiations to begin once they’re safely in my care again, the poor things. Their conduct was within their remit and mine. They were operating in unallocated space.”

  “Unallocated space directly at my border, Dantia. That’s hardly your remit.”

  “We could quibble about whether it’s sporting, but they’ve broken none of my statutes. Just yours. And seeing as they’re my property, I have to doubt that you have a leg to stand on.”

  “Your privateers’ recklessness killed four of my warriors, Dantia. Four coffins. They sacrificed themselves for your people. Do you truly intend to duck responsibility for that?”

  “I lost hundreds in that sortie, Sykora.” Dantia’s face twists into an angry leer. “I have been inundated with responsibility, owed to my subjects. The ones owed it. Those women’s crimes do not prevent that. I will treat with you on equal grounds, with my people returned to me. If that won’t work, Cousin Vanirak will gladly provide one of the Coreworld clerks on her staff for arbitration. Otherwise, there’s nothing you can do.”

  Vora is whispering with Lomanza and scribbling on her notepad. She holds it up.

  Majesty—refuse and cite the Void Princess’ directum, sixth article.

  Lomanza nods earnestly and taps the page.

  Sykora’s mouth opens and shuts. Then she refocuses on Dantia.

  “Perhaps that would be true if you were talking to a Void Princess, Dantia, she says. “I am a Princess Margrave. And I cite the Directum, sixth article.”

  Silence.

  “I see,” Dantia says. She turns to Vanirak and looks meaningfully at her. Vanirak looks back, impassive.

  “Anything to say, Marquess Palatine?” Sykora prompts.

  Vanirak taps a nail on the table. “We believe a brief recess is in order,” she says. “Perhaps an early lunch.”

  “Article six.” Dantia laughs unhappily. “How does it feel to wield that, Sykora? Against your own kind? Climbed up out of the pit and now you’ve grabbed a pole to shove the rest of us back down.”

  “You brought your cousin the Marquess Palatine for counsel,” Sykora says. “Ask her, why don’t you.”

  “Dear cousin.” Vanirak brushes her long, pointed nails against Dantia’s shoulder. “Depart for a moment, yes? See if the delegations have spared us any more of those amazing honey tarts.”

  Dantia recovers what bearing she can and leaves the conference room, exchanging whispered fury with her majordomo.

  “Now, Prince.” Vanirak addresses him like she’s talking to someone’s toddler. “You’ll surely like them as well. And your wife must try one. Perhaps you could go on.”

  Grant folds his hands and rests them on the table. “I think I’m good.”

  Vanirak gives him an indulgent grin. “To be frank, Prince, we and your wife have something to discuss.”

  “I know you do, Marquess,” Grant says.

  “You are not subtle,” Sykora says.

  “Indeed?” Vanirak looks between the two of them. Her cheerful expression flickers like it’s got poor reception. “He is aware, then?”

  Sykora’s brow raises. “Aware of…?”

  “Of the game, Majesty. Of your role in it.”

  Grant eases back in his seat and gives the Marquess Palatine his most cocksure, empty-brained smirk to hide the prickly surprise in his stomach. “Winner, you mean?”

  “I wondered what you’d be like.” Vanirak lets out a soft scoffing laugh as she departs the royal we. “I can see why the Empress is curious enough to humor you with a place in the running. But you must understand that’s all this is.”

  “You presume Her High Majesty has the time or tendency to humor her agents?” Sykora’s eyes narrow. “Such a pretty fiction might be enough to comfort your apparatchiks. But if you mean to daunt me, you waste this station’s hard-won air.”

  “You’re going to think that you’re ahead of some of the Coreworld prospects. Because you’re a Princess Margrave, and some of us are Marquesses.” Vanirak stands and pushes her seat in with authority. “But there will never be a Voidborn Empress. You are a curiosity. A gallant little toy the Empress entertains herself with. She knows when the time comes, the noblewomen of Taiikar will never assent to the rule of a provincial bastard infatuated with an alien. Her High Majesty will put you away, back on your pretty shelf. Best to be grateful for the view and remain focused on your sector.”

  “Thank you for that piece of advice, Marquess Palatine. It seems universally applicable.” Sykora stands as well, with a good deal more effort. “Enjoy your time aboard the Bright Covenant.”

  Vanirak smiles without humor and turns on her heel.

  The moment the door shuts behind her, Sykora hurries to its opposite. “Oh thank God.” She stabs at the door pad with her tail. “I need to piss like a kindek on saline.”

  She gives Grant a hasty kiss and departs at speed.

  “Dantia will certainly complain about that little exchange to her chancellor,” Vora says.

  “She can do so at her pleasure,” Lomanza says. “It’s a perfectly apt invocation, and I’ll prepare a statement to that effect.” She snaps her notebook shut and stands. “Vora, I owe you an admission of underestimation.”

  “It was a blunt instrument,” Vora says. “I know. But sometimes that’s what you need.”

  “Not about six, although I admire the audacity.” Lomanza smiles politely. “At the beginning of our association I was overly critical, I think, of your guidance for Her Majesty in the daemon situation. I have reviewed the entire affair since and no longer believe it was a blunder.”

  Sykora returns, wiping her washed hands on her protruding stomach. “How often some pompous Coreborn puke has thrown article six into my damn face. Gods, I don’t know if that was therapeutic or if I should feel like a fucking monster.” She sits again with a groan. “What were we discussing?”

  “The daemon misadventure, Majesty,” Lomanza says. “I understand the import of pursuing it. Well—I don’t entirely understand it, as such family bonds are unfamiliar to me, but I know that your contentious relationship with your mother factored into it.”

  “Well, I mean.” Sykora says. “Not really.”

  “As you say, Majesty. Were I in Vora’s place I may ultimately have hewn her direction.”

  Vora brightens. “Thank you for saying something.”

  “The conduct and disrespect against you in the clerks’ office was a point of weakness,” Lomanza adds.

  Vora’s nascent smile dies in the creche. “All right.”

  “Your subterfuge, while well-done, should not have been necessary. The clerks committed at least a halfscore violations in their conduct with you, and I believe, uh—” Lomanza pauses as Vora’s ears droop. “I have upset you again, Majordomo. I didn’t intend to.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Vora murmurs.

  “It’s only that there is work to be done impressing upon the Coreworld leeches that you are no longer in a position to be pushed around by their empty suits,” Lomanza says. “With any luck, word will spread, and the necessity for such gestures will fade. At least when we’re not confronting your competition, Majesty.”

  Sykora sighs. “I suppose I owe you an explanation of what that little exchange was.”

  Lomanza shakes her head. “I need none.”

  Grant frowns. “You know?”

  “That is why I am here,” Lomanza says. “I agreed to be your majordomo because I consider you the greatest hope for the Taiikari Empire's future.” She inclines her head. “I will work tirelessly to see you crowned, Majesty. If you let me.”

  Sykora’s crimson eyes widen. “I, uh… I see. Thank you.”

  Lomanza smiles weakly and rubs her temples with thumb and forefinger. “May I request a quiet place without stimuli? That exchange with the Marquess Palatine’s majordomo required use of my neurochemical suite. I could use a place to sit and recover.”

  “Of course,” Sykora says. “Your counsel was valuable today, Lomanza.”

  The Black Pike’s future majordomo bows low; she is unsteady on the rise, but she finds her footing, returns to her crisp stance, and departs.

  The Black Pike’s current majordomo watches her go, her tail wrapped tight and protective around her midsection. “Majesty…” Vora clears her throat. “I know she was impressive.”

  “I’m impressed, I suppose.” Sykora shrugs. “A bit put-off as well. But it was quite the trick.”

  “She outmatches me, Majesty.” Vora attempts casualness, but her voice quivers. “You don’t have to spare my feelings.”

  Sykora’s search for a reply fails. She folds her majordomo into a hug instead, maneuvering awkwardly to fit her baby bump.

  “We’ll take care of you, Vora.” Grant crouches and rests a hand on Vora’s back. “You know we will.”

  “I—it—I can’t be anything else, Majesty.” Vora’s arms hang limp at her sides. “How can I be anything else?”

  Her shoulders hunch under Grant’s palm.

  She pulls away, blinking rapidly. “Forgive me. My emotions are—I need sleep.”

  Sykora nods. “Of course, Majordomo.”

  “You have been so patient with me as I’ve studied,” Vora says. “I’ve scheduled my exam for next cycle. I only ask for this chance. When—if I fail, I will submit to whatever demotion or transfer awaits me. I promise. Just give me that dignity.”

  “Ask anything of me, Vora, and if it’s within my power I’ll always grant it to you. You know that.” Sykora gives her majordomo a slow kiss on the cheek. “You are my sister.”

  Vora gives a pained smile. “I am your majordomo first,” she says. “For a cycle longer. And then I’ll be… something else. I do think I’ll try some of those honey tarts, on balance.”

  She leaves, and Grant and Sykora are alone.

  “Poor Vora,” Grant says.

  “I know.” She clicks her tongue. “Poor dear. We’ll have to really coddle her if she fails that exam, dove.”

  Grant sighs. He wants to say there’s a chance, but he isn’t sure there is.

  “Here’s what’ll make us feel better,” he says. “I’m gonna go get us some food. And then let’s do a working lunch where we plan how we’ll use Dantia to destroy Shoskia.”

  “Oooh. Yes.” Sykora’s tail wags. “Let’s.”