Hroq practically sprints into the emergency emigrant station. He’s ready for a milling, panicky crowd, ready to throw elbows, but the path up to the line of clerks is clear.

“Flights out. We need one.” He finishes his run at the lip of a clerk’s desk. “Three seats. I don’t know if the public ones are back or what, but if we gotta do private I can pay.” He slaps a wad of cash onto the desk.

She was just staring into the air as he was approaching. Now she looks startled down at his desperate bribe. “Sir—”

“I can.” Hroq pushes it forward. “I don’t have it all upfront, but we could do installments.”

“Sir, we’re not doing any evacuations. We—”

“By Eqt’s fucking tits,” Hroq barks. Rubberneckers turn to look at him. Why is everyone just standing there? “My family is in the sledge outside, and we’re not turning back, and we need to get off this planet, do you understand?”

“Sir. Turn on a goddamn aerial.” The clerk scrambles for the remote, points it at the curved screen above the line of desks, and unmutes.

Hroq’s vision follows the motion. And he realizes with a lance of self-consciousness that he is looking now at what everyone else was watching. He sees a High Councilor—Qilik, maybe?—standing at Highhall’s gray altar, her face solemn and downcast to the declaration laid out in front of her. She’s paused momentarily in whatever address she’s giving. A slow, pathos-laden march plays in the gap.

“Been looping for a half-turning, man,” the clerk says, as Qilik’s echoing voice resumes. “There’s nothing to run from. It’s over.”

Hroq’s legs tremble and threaten to give out. He catches himself on the marble desktop. “How?”

The clerk nods toward the screen and turns the volume up.

“To that end,” Qilik is saying. “The Council of Two Hundred and the Ecclesiarchy of Eqt have jointly passed an emergency resolution of surrender, affirming our status as citizens of the Taiikari Empire.” Her eyes raise to the camera. “We swear fealty to Empress Zithra XIX and to her regents, Princess Sykora Nai Kei’na Terokai and Prince Grantyde Nai Maekyon.”

***

Ynaqi stands on tiptoes to help Suqen a little higher. The keeper’s thighs hug around the sides of Ynaqi’s head as she hangs the edge of the banner on the internal peg of the meetinghouse. “There we go.”

Tektnal’s music kicks into a jaunty, upbeat music hall ditty as the Eqtorans whoop and cheer. Suqen slips forward over Ynaqi’s shoulder. “Catch me!”

Ynaqi catches Suqen in her arms and plants a kiss on her. They step back and look up at the banner they just hung.

WE’RE GOING HOME, it says.

Tennek weaves through the crowd of revelers and stands next to Ynaqi. She nests her head against his sturdy shoulder.

“Little crooked,” he says.

“Eat a fin, cap,” Suqen says, and kisses his nose before she hops to the ground.

The three of them stand and watch the bonfire throw their shadows across the hanging banner. Tennek and Ynaqi’s hands meet on Suqen’s willowy back, just above her tail.

“We’re going home,” Tennek murmurs. “I dunno.”

“Our home was the Rivenland,” Ynaqi says. “That what you’re thinking?”

Tennek nods. “Yeah. Poor old thing.”

“The Rivenland was a leaky, cramped, shitty tub,” Suqen says. “And now it’s fulla holes. And I loved it, and I loved my time on it. With you.” She chews her xhurr leaf. “And that’s as much of a eulogy I can give when this song’s going.”

They grin at each other. The music tugs on them, taps their fingers in time against one another.

“So now what?” Ynaqi asks.

“Now what, as in now

what,” Tennek says, “Or now what, as in what the hell do we do with our lives?”

“Uh. Both, I guess.”

“Not your leader anymore, y’know. Not like I can give you orders.” He scratches his snout. “But, uh. I dunno. we’re probably out a job, on account of we failed our mission, lost the war, and now we’re in each others’ pants. I was thinking of seeing if the Taiikari were hiring.”

Ynaqi’s fringe flickers. “No fooling?”

“Hell, why not?” Tennek shrugs. “We’re Imperial citizens now. I want to see the insides of those ships. I know I’m not your captain but I’m holding out hope I can get you to come with.”

“Nek.” Suqen nuzzles against his side. “You are always going to be our captain.”

“Seconded.” Ynaqi lifts his hand and kisses one of the scars on his knuckles. “That’s the future. What about right now?”

Tennek’s hand slips from hers, and drifts down her back, past her tail, to where her firm body gets soft and round. “Right now,” he says, “I want to go outside, find an unoccupied tent, and fuck my girlfriends.”

***

Vora turns to the last page of the document and drops it onto the hexagonal command deck table. “It’s going to need quite a lot of hammering-out,” she says. “Enough that I recommend a complete rewrite issued from our offices. But it’s a start. The surrender is ratified.”

“Fuck me sideways,” Waian says. “A song did that.”

“A rapid uptick in evacuation attempts, which was quickly leading to the erosion of the public will, did that,” Hyax says. “The hardliners and militants were counting on either our blinking, or a mass casualty event, in order to strengthen their claim. When those failed to materialize, there were enough factional defections to the appeasement movement that they called an emergency resolution vote and passed a temporary agreement.”

“A temporary agreement.” Sykora, who’s changed back into uniform and taken an unabashed seat in Grant’s lap, signs scare brackets around it. “We’ll let them save face. It’s finished. Once they sit down at the table, they’re not standing until we have it.”

“So that’s really that.” Grant reaches past Sykora to the printed and punched statement. “An unconditional surrender.”

“Correction, Majesty.” Vora wags her highlighter at him. “An extremely conditional one. That’s what they’ve earned, submitting before the desolation. Taiqan lives, and the Eqtorans enter as fully naturalized vassals. As perfect a success as we could hope for.”

A bang from the other side of the table. Hyax has produced—from where, Grant isn’t sure—the sizable jug of Indrikan cider, and slapped it down onto the table. “Majesties,” she says. “By your leave.”

Waian scoots past her and starts sliding steins across the tabletop. She two-hands a big Maekyonite-sized one to Grant.

Sykora holds her glass out. “Granted, Brigadier.”

Hyax fills it to the foaming brim and moves on to Grant.

He laughs as she pours deep enough it overflows onto his fingers. “You don’t have to go that hard, Hyax.”

“Yes I do.” Hyax sloshes the cider. “We’re killing this jug tonight.”

“Brigadier’s gotta kill something,” Waian says.

“Up yours, Chief Engineer.” Hyax strides back to her chair but remains standing. She raises her glass. “To the Princess and Prince of the Black Pike. The best fucking ZKZ in the Empire. Pike’s up.”

The command group raise their steins. “Pike’s up,” they chorus, and drink deep.

Grant hums with surprise as the cider touches his lips. This tastes alcoholic, in a way no other Taiikari drink has managed. He clacks his stein back onto the table, next to Sykora’s; she’s drained a full third of hers.

“Gods of the Firmament.” The Princess wipes her mouth. “I forgot how hard this kicks. We are going to need help with this.”

“The omnidivine mother-effing provides, sister.” Tymar is waltzing from the lift, another full jug of the stuff in his hand. “I’m just glad I didn’t open this one yet.”

Lady Ipqen-mek-Taqa is in tow. She raises a blunt thumb and forefinger to her eye in Eqtoran greeing. “Howdy,” she says. “Heard this is where we’re getting drunk.”

The command group makes room for their guests around the table, and fall in and chatter and drink and propose an unending round robin of toasts.

“To Vora,” Sykora says. “Who actually did her job while the rest of us faffed about and put on a concert.”

“To me,” Waian says. “For my excellent fucking membrane maintenance.”

“To Waian,” Vora says. “For her boundless humility.”

“To His Majesty,” Hyax says. “And the clean hands he's given us.”

“To the ecclesiasts of Eqtora,” Tymar says. “For their prudence and their coming siblinghood in the temple of the omnidivine.”

"To Tymar," Grant says. "For being an extremely dope brother-in-law."

"To Sergeant Ajax," Sykora says. "For his quiet competence and his excellent book-thievery."

“To Lady Ipqen,” Hyax says. “For everything she’s put herself through.”

“To my big hunky husband for his sexy guitar fingers.”

“To me again because I just remembered how crystal-clear that broadcast was.”

“To the broadcast crew for whom Waian is taking the credit.”

“To the monks of Indrik for this astonishing cider.”

"To my husband, because he's such a hunk and his voice is so lovely."

"To the gals on the bridge. And how we didn't make them accomplices to genocide."

“To Hyax for being just such a cool bitch. I love you, Hyax.”

“Can I do one?” Ipqen holds her stein up.

Sykora nods. The command group watches expectantly.

“To the Republic,” Ipqen says. “May it be remembered.”

They pause momentarily.

“To the Republic,” Sykora says.

They echo her, and drink.

Ipqen sits back down gingerly in her undersized seat. “It was nice while it lasted.”

“Didn’t you listen to Her Majesty’s little song, Lady Ipqen?” Hyax clacks her stein against Ipqen’s, which takes quite the reach on her part. “Nothing ends.”

***

Grant and Sykora skitter giggling from the party, back to their cabin. Or—Grant does, anyway. He’s carrying Sykora over his shoulder.

The door slides shut and they’re safely cocooned again in the draping silks of the Princess’s suite. Grant tosses Sykora onto their bed.

She pokes her head out from the pile of pillows he’s flung her into. “Your aim,” she proclaims. “Is getting better.”

“I’m a conqueror.” He strikes a martial statue pose. “I have to have good aim. For conquering purposes.”

“My big sexy badass handsome conquering sexy Prince.” She’s tugging her pants off. “Come and conquer me.”

“Hey, okay.” Grant rolls into bed.

Midway into their kiss, Sykora pauses and drums his shoulders. “Oh. Oh oh wait. Dove. I was—I had to say something.”

Grant lets her up and tries to look very attentive as he slowly unzips her uniform.

“Hyax told me she told you,” Sykora says. “About the incidents with the, uh—the explosions. Exploding those people.”

“Ooh. Yes. She did.”

“I just want you to know.” Her bare foot rubs his knee. “I wouldn’t have shot them if there had been any other way. I tried very hard to imagine you there and trying to find another solution with me. But it came down to the attackers or the evacuees.”

“That’s all right,” he says. “I trust you.”

“And I would have informed you. Truly, I would have. But we hadn’t the time and I knew you were busy and I didn’t want you thinking about all the shit going on outside the post. I wanted to handle business.”

He kisses her neck. “It’s really okay. I mean, we had our own incident at the listening post, and I kept that to my chest for basically the same reason.”

“You—” Sykora’s limbs stiffen. “What?”

Grant’s fingers curl into the bedsheets beside her. He looks up. A destabilizing pit opens in his gut. You dumbass. This was a sober conversation.

“Uh. Yeah.”

Her face is frozen in consternation. “What incident?”

And Grant props himself up and back, and tells her about the Rivenland, and the danger, and the interception. Sykora’s face grows darker and more pinched with every sentence. Grant’s happy buzz is draining away into something miasmatic and suffocating.

“You flew the ship?” she asks, when he’s finished.

“Yeah.”

“Into gunfire?”

“We were okay.”

“They all just let you do that?”

This gets him sitting further up. “Let me? I ordered them to. I can do orders.”

“And you kept it from me?”

“Yeah. I mean—yeah.” He tries to will himself sober again. “You’d have fallen apart, Sykora.”

“Am I so fragile?”

“Well—” He thinks of the notebook with his name doodled in it. “Yeah, hon. Sort of.”

Her eyes narrow.

“Not fragile, I guess,” he says. “And not now. But you were having a low time, and I was afraid that if you thought I was in danger you’d do something rash. And I handled it.” He lets that straighten his shoulders. “I handled it, yeah? Ajax and I captured a cruiser and its crew alive.”

“Give me a moment.” She sits up and climbs out of bed. “I’m going to take a short walk.”

“Sykora.”

She tugs her boots on. “I’ll be back.”

“Sykora,” he says. “I understood when you—”

“Grantyde.” Her eyes dilate; he sees the first simmering sparkle of a compulsion that she snaps her lids shut over. “I’ll talk about it in a moment. I just need a moment.”

The cabin door slides open and Sykora strides out, buckling her belt.