The gun roars its report off the cavern walls, reverberating back to the women at the other end of the range. Sykora removes her fingertips from her ears. “Jalak,” she calls, and then has to hastily cover up again as another shot rings out. “Jalak!”

  Her Brigadier glances over her shoulder and holsters her sidearm.

  Majesty,” she says. “You mustn’t be out here without headphones. Get her Majesty some earpro, Lieutenant.”

  Hyax, standing at the next booth, salutes and trots off. Sykora watches the lieutenant depart to the armory and turns her cold gaze to the Brigadier. “I woke up this morning to a missive from Governess Purim thanking me for my forbearance,” she says. “And for the second chance on the Tiber lanes.”

  Jalak smiles. “Splendid.”

  “I did not intend for Porim to have a second chance, Brigadier Jalak. Porim is an incompetent.”

  “You’re speaking with the fire and fury of youth. And with commendable zeal. But this is how you gain true loyalty, Majesty.” Jalak slides her magazine from her pistol and places it on the booth table. “This sort of second chance. We talked about this, remember?”

  “We did,” Sykora says. “And I told you I’d made my decision.”

  “Let’s bring Porim in on a call.” Jalak adopts a conciliatory tone. “She’ll tell you all the changes she’s making. I think she’ll impress you. Porim is making money, Majesty. Porim’s family has been loyal for hectocycles.”

  “Porim’s family was loyal to my predecessor. Porim is making money for now on these ridiculously extractive practices. I want the Tiber lanes to last. There are repulsors failing, there are shipping conglomerates refusing to work with us. I do not want to meet her.” Sykora has practiced this speech repeatedly until she was sure she didn’t sound whiny. “I want to meet her replacement.”

  Jalak tsks. “When you’re the Void Princess you cannot insist upon this churlishness without even meeting her.”

  “When I am the Void Princess?” Sykora’s vision flashes pale with her frustration. “I am the Void Princess now, Brigadier.”

  “Of course. I never meant to imply otherwise. When is of course now.” Jalak bows. “I’ll send a summons to Marquess Porim and we’ll meet with her as soon as we can. Get this all settled.”

  Another scathing rejoinder lingers beneath Sykora’s tongue. She clamps her mouth shut and nods, and off Jalak goes, whistling.

  Sykora turns her baleful look on Hyax, who has returned with ear protection. The Lieutenant halts with all the wary respect Jalak lacks. “Would you like to be alone, Majesty?”

  “No, Hyax. Stay.” Sykora’s fingers twitch. “I need to shoot something.”

  “As you say, Majesty.”

  Sykora stomps off to the armory and returns with a pistol. On the range, Hyax has summoned a new row of fearless wooden victims.

  “Ready to be beaten by a child again?” she says.

  “Again?” Hyax raises a brow.

  “Headshots count for double,” Sykora says. “I beat you last time.”

  Hyax snorts but doesn’t push it further. Sykora grins at her. So refreshing to have a soldier who knows when to push and when to fall back.

  “I am considering the future,” she says, in the ringing pause between rounds.

  “One of my least favorite things to consider, personally, Majesty.” Hyax feeds bullets into her magazine. “But go on.”

  “I think Brigadier Jalak’s time aboard the Pike,” Sykora says, recalling Waian’s advised wording, “is reaching its natural conclusion.”

  Hyax chews her lip. “I think Brigadier Jalak would disagree.”

  “I think Brigadier Jalak is about ready to become Citizen Jalak again. Out of my hair and out of my chair.”

  “You need a Brigadier, Majesty. I know this one annoys you to no end, but there are necessities.”

  “I know I do,” Sykora says. “I have one.”

  “Oh yeah? Good.” Hyax squints downrange. “Have you told her she’s part of a coup yet? That’d be the polite move.”

  “I’m telling her right now.”

  Hyax’s thick platinum brows screw lower in confusion. Then they rise. “I… I do not think I’m ready, Majesty.”

  “I’m the measuring stick for readiness and you’re in far better shape than me.” Sykora steps back from the booth. “I am willing to order you, Hyax, if I have to.”

  “You don’t.” Hyax brushes the spent brass from her handgun aside and kneels. “I will try. For you, Majesty, I’ll try anything.”

  Sykora loves the pool. She never was much of a swimmer before she was carting around a whole stable of babies in her belly. But now the weight is blessedly off her feet in the crystal water of the lanes. Governess Doxima never swims herself, but the Governess’ Mansion has a full pool regardless for her Eqtoran guests and colleagues. An Eqtoran lap is rather daunting; Sykora has decided her time is better spent floating.

  She drifts through the water, on her back, hands on her rounded stomach, and watches Qarnaq II’s eternal thunderstorm ripple its rain across the jewel-lit swimming pool’s dome. Aurora is fussy this morning. You are going to be my spear fighter, Sykora thinks, as another little kick stirs.

  “Very graceful, Majesty.” Grantyde resurfaces from the water. “Like a fully crewed submarine.”

  Sykora flicks her man the horns and kicks off from the wall. “Boil yourself, husband.”

  The pool door opens and an anticomped attendant bows his way in. “Your guests have arrived, Majesty.”

  “Lovely.” Sykora moves to the ladder. She lets out an undignified little huff as gravity reasserts itself on her. And then Grantyde’s hands are beneath her, helping her out.

  Well, it’s the least he can do after cramming these little harridans in me. She’s beginning to enter the waddling stage. She feels like a dairy munok sometimes these days, wobbling when she moves. She isn’t fond of the way her belly button has become an outie. Her consolation is the way Grant kisses it, and his little touches—there’s one now, a pinch on her butt—making it clear that as plump as she’s gotten, he still wants her. She beams and pauses at the lip of the pool to feel his big warm arms encircle her.

  His chest against her back rumbles with his voice. “How are they?”

  As if their father had cued them, she feels another fluttering tickle. She tugs his hand to her belly. “Feel for yourself.”

  His stubble prickles the back of her ear. “Eager this morning, huh?”

  “They’re working on their backstroke, I think.”

  He chuckles and picks her up into the air. The first time he did that, she could feel his muscles fluttering, just a little, at the effort. Nowadays he’s solid as a rock, even with the extra poundage she’s taken on.

  It is exactly what she’d hoped, when she gave him Qarnaq: a new sureness has animated her husband. Every move, every decision, every conversation. She’s always loved him—of course she has. But she fell in love with his potential as much as anything else, and now she’s bearing witness to the blooming.

  They wrap themselves in fluffy crimson robes and soft sandals. In the chlorine-scented pool vestibule, a pair of priests wait for them. One a silent smiling stranger, the other already crouching to a knee and holding his arms out for a hug. Sykora hurries into her brother’s arms.

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  “Gods of the Firmament.” Tymar holds her out and looks her over. “You’re pregnant.”

  Sykora giggles. “This really oughtn’t come as a surprise, Tyme.”

  “No, I know; it’s just—I wasn’t quite ready for you to be so far along.”

  Sykora puts her hands on her hips. “Are you calling me fat, Tymar of Indrik?”

  Tymar mirrors her gesture. “I’ve seen you svelter.”

  “You just stick around. I still have some rounding out to do.”

  “I am, I think.”

  “You are—”

  “Sticking around.” Tymar gestures to his partner. “I’ve spoken a great deal with my partner Cerik.”

  Brother Cerik, who hasn’t said a single word during his entire acquaintance with Sykora, smiles and nods.

  Sykora squeals with joy and throws her arms back around Tymar. “Oh, Tyme. Thank you. Thank you thank you. I have so much to show you. You’ve never been to Ramex and the sabsum springs, you really must go to Ptolek, there are these adorable bungalows, I have to show you the canyons on Paritor—”

  Tymar genially separates himsef from the hug. He clasps Sykora’s shoulders. “That all sounds fantastic—really, it does—but my first order of business is helping your husband out.”

  “Ah, right.” Sykora’s ears flutter. “Our little religious schism. Your expertise will be welcome, I’m sure. Whatever kind of resources or research you require—”

  “Research, no.” Tymar points to his temple. “No, I’m here with an answer already, I think.”

  “Really?”

  Tymar nods. “I’m looking forward to interviews with your staff. I recognize the scriptures they keep quoting. The omnidivine is rarely interventionist, at least in its dealings with me. But there was something of a—” He glances to Cerik, who gives him an encouraging nod. “A universally drawn breath, I suppose.”

  “A what?”

  “Something told me I would be needed here. I’ve been on something of an Eqtoran intensive, these last few cycles. I have an idea of what must be done.”

  Sykora breathes a relieved laugh. “We really don’t deserve you.”

  “It won’t be as easy as all that, I’m afraid,” Tymar says. “I think I know what to do. But I need help.”

  “Whatever you ask for, we can provide.”

  Tymar rubs his angular chin. “How do you feel about another song for us, Majesty?”

  Sykora stabs a bemused finger against Tymar’s chest. “You will not do that to me again or I’ll have you strung up.”

  “I’m not kidding about the choir, though,” Tymar says. “I need some singers. A triad of them, if possible.”

  Grantyde leans into the conversation. “A triad in the Eqtoran sense?”

  “Correct, Majesty. You’d be an able baritone; I’d need an Eqtoran woman and a keeper. Or Sykora.”

  “I have the perfect patsies.” Sykora looks around the vestibule. “Where did that brigadier of mine go?”

  Sykora excuses Grantyde to chatter with his brother-in-law and pokes her head into the various rooms of Doxima’s mansion until she finds Brigadier Hyax in the sitting room primaris, curled in on a tattered tragicomedy paperback. She’s sitting by herself on a tail-tuck loveseat, like the one she shared with the Eqtorans on Doxima’s crawler.

  “Brigadier.” Sykora stands before her. “Did you not end up going on that excursion to those ice caves?”

  Hyax looks dully up from her book. “I remembered how little I like the cold.”

  “What about Ipqen and Ruaq?”

  Hyax frowns and dog-ears her page. “What about them?”

  “I thought they’d be with you.”

  The Brigadier sets her book aside. “No.”

  “Are they available for tasking?” Sykora tries not to sound concerned. “I know Ruaq had her apprenticeship exams on the agro ring. Would she be amenable to a break from her studies? We may need her voice.”

  “They aren’t my subordinates, Majesty. You’d have to check with Waian. Or ask them yourself, I suppose.”

  Sykora tsks with concern and lowers herself, with some effort, into the seat beside her Brigadier. “Hyax, are you all right? Did you have some kind of falling-out with them?”

  “A falling-out?” Hyax scoffs. “I am the Brigadier of the Black Pike. Not a schoolchild. I simply needed reminding that my loyalty and time are best spent on the entire Black Pike. Not just two of its crew.”

  “Okay, it’s just that—”

  “Not all of us are meant to frolic around and fraternize and kiss gorgeous aliens,” Hyax snaps. “Not all of us are—are lovable. Some of us are here simply to do our jobs, and that is what I am doing, and—” Hyax’s zeal paces itself out and a look of mortification crosses her as she recalls just who she’s talking to. “And as your Brigadier, my readiness is unaffected. If that’s what you’re asking.”

  Sykora crosses her arms. “I’m asking as a friend.”

  “As a friend.” Hyax stares out to the pebbled beach the Governess’s arcology faces. Distant lightning forks. “As a friend. I’m not—I’m fine. I’ve been out of sorts and unfocused. Please forgive me.”

  “I do, Hyax. Of course I do. I want to help you.”

  “I’m not a religious person. The higher power I believe in ends at the Empress. And they believe in more. And I was… we were discussing the current issues, and I suppose I was dismissive. No, I don’t suppose. I was haughty with them. And they—we—”

  Hyax stares at her palms. Her face grows violet with the remembrance.

  “They’re too different from me,” she mumbles. “I’m such a fucking fool. I should never have fancied myself right for them.”

  “Brigadier.” Sykora pats her own stomach. “I don’t mean to flaunt myself, but if you’re concerned about differences—”

  “Not because they’re aliens. Not because of that. It’s just I think there’s—I think there’s something missing inside me. I think I’m…” Her shoulders hunch. She rubs her palms against her eyes. Abruptly, she stands. “I’m off. Pardon me, Majesty. I must return to the Pike. We’ve left Vora there, and God knows she’s in no capacity to run the thing herself.”

  “Are you in a capacity to help?”

  “Please just let me go, Sykora.” Hyax hasn’t sounded this broken since the day she got her scars.

  Sykora steps aside. Hyax fires off an absent salute, eyes on the floor, and brushes past her. Sykora watches her cobbling herself together as she goes; by the time she’s left the room she’s managed something akin to the upright warrior’s stride she usually comports herself with.

  If you weren’t the Brigadier’s friend, you’d scarcely notice she’s torn to pieces inside.

  “Vora.”

  Vora looks blearily behind her at the light cast by her office’s open door.

  “Hey, Vora,” Oryn says, gently. “The command group is asking whether you’ll be at the fifthday dinner.”

  Vora remembers her glass of water. All the ice has melted. She takes a pull from it. “Do they need me?”

  Her husband’s tail flickers with suppressed concern. “Well, no, but I’m sure they’d be happy to see you out and about.”

  “I can’t. I’m—” Vora gestures him closer and gives his knuckle a kiss. “Forgive me, Oryn. Maybe if I get through this next module.”

  “Nothing to forgive, bug.” He kisses her back on the top of her head. “Oh—and the chief engineer is here. Says it’s a one-on-one thing, so I’m headed out.”

  Vora sighs. “She can’t wait?”

  “Not according to her. If I’m in bed by the time you’re back, wake me up, okay?”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Oryn’s unobtrusive shuffle is replaced by Waian’s halting steps.

  “Vora. Hey, girl.”

  “Chief.” Vora cracks her ink-stained knuckles and shakes her tingling fingers out. “You’re not here to get me out from my books, are you?”

  “No, no. I mean, if I could. But I didn’t bring a crowbar. I did bring, uh…” Waian holds up a datawafer. “I need to get zapped again.”

  Ah. Vora squints at her friend. Waian looks pale. “What was it this time?”

  “No no no.” A vigorous shake of the chief engineer’s head. “You don’t wanna know.”

  “That bad?” Vora actually rotates her chair, now, away from her notes. “Where were you poking around?”

  “The technology tomb. I poked too far. I had a suspicion and I—I, uh—” Waian quivers and swallows. “It was a bit ago. We need to be quick. Take the wafer. One copy archived with you, one copy to the Empress.” She leans into Vora’s ear. “Direct to the Empress. You understand?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Vora. Do you understand.”

  Vora’s stomach drops. “Waian.”

  “She needs this,” Waian says. “And she needs it discreetly.”

  “I can’t—”

  “I know you can, Vora. I don’t blame you, and I know you don’t do it unless she demands it of you, and I know you fucking hate yourself every time.” Waian cycles a syringe out from her metal arm and pushes it into her flesh one. “I’m the only one who knows, and I shut up about it because I understand, and I know that if it’s something really important, I can stop you. But this goes direct to her.”

  Her hand cycles back in. She stands up straight.

  “Now zap me. Everything from the last hour.”

  Vora’s eyes flash. “Forget everything from the last hour.”

  Waian’s eyes cloud over, then refocus. She jerks like she’s waking from a standing dream. “Ah,” she says. “Hi.”

  “Hi, Waian.” Vora taps the datawafer. “You can’t keep making me do this.”

  “I know I can’t. I know. How was I?”

  “Bad,” Vora says. “Direct to the Empress, you said.”

  “Sheesh.” Waian scratches her arm where she compound seventied herself. “Wait. Did I tell you—”

  “That you know about the private line.” The gorge in Vora’s throat tightens her reply. “Yes.”

  “Well. Fucking hell.” Waian looks at the datawafer she handed over. Vora holds it up, and she pushes it back down. “No way. I trust past-Waian. This shit, whatever it was, is absolutely not our problem anymore. But do keep that copy, though. Archival.”

  Before Vora can reply, the chief engineer has tugged her into an embrace.

  “Hey,” she whispers. “I love you, kid. You know that? No matter what. And Sykora does, too.”

  “She wouldn’t,” Vora whispers back. The knot in her stomach that’s been tied for tendays clinches even tighter. She feels herself start to fray. “If she knew, she wouldn’t.”

  “Yes she would,” Waian says. “And anyway, she won’t know. But the next time one of those private-line calls comes in, before you answer it, you get me. And I’ll know if you don’t.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then nothing. Because you’ll come get me, because we’re family, and you’re loyal to Sykora.”

  “Waian. It’s the Empress.”

  Waian shakes her head. “No, it isn’t.”

  “Gods of the fucking Firmament, Waian, you can’t say that—”

  “It isn’t.” Waian gets close. “We’re past that now, Vora. We have been for cycles. Ever since Grantyde started influencing her. I know you feel it too. Listen to it. It’s Sykora, now. Sykora and Grantyde and the kids. You’re telling me, if it comes down to it, you’d choose her over them?”

  Vora shrinks from Waian’s intense gaze. “No. I—no. I guess I wouldn’t.”

  “Does that scare you?” Waian prompts.

  Vora nods.

  “Well, no shit. It’s scary. Don’t worry, kid. She’ll use us right.” Waian gently rotates Vora back to her notes. “Now get cracking again, majordomo. You’ve got a test to crush.”

  Vora rather feels like she’s the one being crushed, but before she can vocalize that thought, the chief engineer is off, whistling to herself, in much higher spirits than she came in with. Vora sighs again, and gets back to work, and soon the datawafer that felt like a hot coal in her pocket dulls itself, and she’s swept up in the desperate swim for her life.