An impossibly thin strip of sliver stretches from the misty violet forest through the twilit sky, spreading wider and wider as the shuttle approaches, until it’s the width of the Empire State Building back on Maekyon—just unbelievably taller. Taller than the eye can see. The shuttle’s engine goes still as it slots into the Sylai Forest Space Elevator. Like so many of the Taiikari’s technical wonders, the space elevator is uncannily silent as it yanks them from the low atmosphere of Taiikar like a sucking straw.

“It has to have been Narika,” Sykora says. Outside the shuttle window, Taiikar's amethyst horizon bends into its curving arc at the edges. “It must have been. She let your secret slip to the Empress. Damn her eyes.”

Grant scoots her closer and exchanges a glance with Vora, who’s sitting across from them on the shuttle. The majordomo’s shoulders quirk upward in a what can ya do gesture. She’s been spending the past twenty minutes putting the final draft on Sykora’s official request to Inadama; re-instatement to Clan Taiikar and the title of Princess Margrave. With any luck she’ll sign it remotely and no interview will be required—partially because Grant and Sykora already have a cramped schedule today, but mostly because it’s abundantly clear Sykora’s nerves are already a thicket of tangles and thorns.

“Maybe it was Narika,” Grant allows. “But if it was, and she did it to screw you, it backfired. So we’re set.”

Sykora’s replying hmm is full of skepticism and reproach toward her hated sister.

“The Prince is correct,” Vora says. “I’m still reviewing what, exactly, the transition from Void Princess to Princess Margrave will do to our usual procedures, but so far the news is mostly excellent. Even before we get to the obvious. For which I just want to say, uh—” She scoots forward and extends her arms.

There’s a stiffness in Sykora as she embraces her Majordomo, but Vora tightens the hug another notch and it melts away in a chuckle from the Princess.

“I am just so happy for you, Majesty,” Vora murmurs. “I know how long you’ve wanted this.”

“Was I so obvious?”

“Kora. Every time I brought my kid up you made a face like you were watching the end of a bittersweet serial. All misty.” Vora rubs the Princess’s back. “Now they’ll be friends. Alakair is a very, uh—enrichment-oriented babysitter, if you ever need one.”

Sykora laughs. “That sounds nice.”

“In doses, absolutely.” Vora squeezes Sykora’s shoulder and detaches. “He has syllabi.”

Outside, the blackness of the firmament is asserting itself over their view, reducing Taiikar’s atmosphere to a glowing strip. The space elevator’s counterweight is a reverse-pyramid space station, ringed by a shimmering shoal of spacecraft. Above them (or below, maybe; cardinal directions are getting odd, now) wait dozens of ZKZ voidships, their spires crowding like an upturned city skyline relocated into space. Each is at least a mile long. Somewhere in that thicket is home. The Black Pike. But that’s not where they’re headed just yet.

The shuttle enters the reef of ships. Each sector, Grant is given to understand, has its own Imperially-mandated paint job, and at the Void Convocation they assemble in a great technicolor nebula, a rainbow of sleek, elegant vessels. The unifying white and gold of Clan Taiikar is the most dominant mode; many vessels trail ivory banners that hang eerily still in the vacuum.

They approach one of the newest ships in the cloud, fitted in the bold scarlet and glossy onyx of the Black Pike sector. This is the ZKV Qena-Qel, the first (and currently only) Imperial vessel of Eqtora’s fleet. It’s a massive void frigate, streamlined as a harpoon on its prow and then expanding into an intricate cylindrical complex easily the size of a Maekyonite skyscraper. The ship would have dazzled Grant, once; but that was before he lived on a ZKZ. The Black Pike could hold a half dozen Qena-Qels with room to spare.

Its hangar may not be quite so spacious or quite so full of Kovikan halfmoon interceptors and barracuda OZ-8 transports. And its halls may not have the brass finery and crimson carpet of the Pike’s. But Grant still takes a moment of dumbstruck Maekyonite awe as they arrive on the bridge, whose hexagonal command deck overlooks terraced workstations and consoles crowded with Eqtoran and Taiikari crew.

Everything is sized up, he realizes. That’s the big difference. What Taiikari there are sit with their seats boosted up to the max, reaching with their tails to reach the furthest controls.

The privacy setting on this bridge, rather than a grand lift up and down, is a glass dome that telescopes out and over the command deck like a convertible’s roof. Within its crystal, the chatter outside muffles, and the Prince and Princess of the Pike sit with Governess Qilik, a solar map of the Paas system shining in hologram before them.

“There’s an exo world in your system,” Grant says. “This gas giant. Kuarna—um—”

“Qarnaq, Majesty.” Captain Tennek, the big scarfaced commander of the Qena-Qel, turns briefly in his bridge seat to fill the name in. He’s chosen to learn Taiikari the slow way; no implant and no translation panel to carry around. Just stubborn discipline and an accent like two boulders crashing into one another. “Is name of god of—how is sakrn called?”

“Storm, sir.” Havnai, the Qena-Qel’s translator, supplies. Tennek keeps her at his elbow at all times; he’s convinced that this sort of intensive is the best way to learn Taiikari quickly, and to his credit he’s speeding toward fluency.

“Is storm god,” Tennek says.

“Qarnaq—thank you, Tennek—is your civilization’s most immediate meal ticket,” Grant says. “As the Black Pike sector comes to comprehend what Eqtora’s offering, we’ll keep you in the loop about whatever other profitable exports we can find, and create more opportunities for you to raise your stature through cultural interflow and tourism. But this is a resource you can take advantage of immediately. We’ll ensure your people are given the equipment and training to harness it.”

You are excited, Qilik observes.

Sykora nods. “Grantyde and I recently received a rather difficult lesson a few cycles ago on the value of diversifying exo sources. There will be almost assuredly be a Taiikari governess. I’d be hamstringing us both otherwise; too many hurdles and too much attention. But I’ll find someone who won’t cut you off. Eqtora has the opportunity to position itself quite favorably.”

We will do whatever we can to accommodate your choice, Majesty.

“Good,” Sykora says. “And as we move in, we’ll give Eqtora more chances to work closely with our kind. Your civilization is impressive. Your citizens’ courage and loyalty is remarkable. The more your council collaborates with us to transfer that loyalty from the republic to the Empire, the easier this annexation will be.”

Steering them away from self-determination will be difficult. Qilik frowns. For them, and for me.

Sykora quirks a brow. “There were how many of you on the council? Two hundred, yes?”

Yes.

“And you decided for ten billion, is that right?”

The understanding of where Sykora’s going with this tugs the edges of Qilik’s lips down further.We were elected, Majesty.

“Now, councilor.” Sykora’s laugh is feather-light, as if they’re sharing a joke. “If I went back and looked at the relative budgets and retention rates of incumbents versus challengers, what would I find?”

Qilik’s eyes crinkle as they narrow. Is that a request for data, Majesty?

“Only an observation that you won’t have to pull the yoke quite so hard as you’re saying. Especially once our technology flows your way in earnest, and the marriages begin.”

Qilik looks up from the pane of glass she’s using to translate, consternation narrowing her nostrils. This tool might be faulty. I want to make sure that last word was “marriages?”

“The Taiikari have a great deal of, uh—curiosity about other species,” Grant says. “Pardon my wife’s bluntness.”

Grant can hear the bemused tilt in Qilik’s reply before the translator filters it. We are very different.

Sykora’s tail winds around Grant’s calves. “We are very adaptable.”

Qilik looks from the Maekyonite to the Taiikari. I suppose you have a point, she allows.

“I have several.” Sykora gives Grant’s palm a quick nuzzle and detaches from him. “Perhaps you’ll walk with me, Governess. I’ve been meaning to give you a tour. My husband can remain here with the Captain. Do you mind, Prince?”

They’ve talked about this. Sykora is going to isolate Qilik and play hardball on the exo negotiation, sans Grant. She’s promised him she’ll offer as favorable terms as they can get away with, with as few veiled threats as she can manage. He nods. “Go on.”

Sykora shepherds a hesitant Qilik off the bridge. Grant wanders to Tennek’s side and looks out across the bridge. At the Eqtorans in black-and-red sleeveless Imperial uniforms, their Taiikari comrades and mentors intermingling with them. It feels as though every time he sees these people his emotions vacillate from pride and satisfaction to churning guilt for what he’s done to them.

“How are you adjusting to life in the Imperial Navy, Captain?” he asks.

“Uniform is nice. Show arms off.” Tennek demonstratively flexes his unfairly large tricep. “Anticomps are very—eh. What is word.” He wiggles his fingers.

“Annoying,” Grant suggests. “Itchy.”

“Yes.” Tennek taps the wraparound strap on his. “Both those.”

“You get used to it,” Grant says. “I did.”

“You have these things.” Tennek pokes his fingers out around the stubby seal-like ears on his own head. “Good for holding. Lucky man.”

“The Taiikari are luckier.” Grant traces a long, pointy ear in the air by his own head.

Tennek rumbles a chuckle. He accepts a readout tablet from his chief engineer and gives her a quick kiss on the forehead. Grant was surprised the first time he did that, but he’s gathered since that Specialist Suqen is one of Tennek’s girlfriends.

She snaps a cheerful salute to Grant, who returns it with a smile. It’s selection bias, of course—the excitement all these Eqtorans have about their civilization’s first Imperial ship is because this is the crew that was hand-picked to man it. Still, it gives him a measure of optimism.

“What’s that?”

“Qarnak, uh—analysis. This is the word?”

“Well done, captain,” Havnai says. Tennek pumps his fist.

“Have you been to Qarnak?” Grant looks over Tennek’s shoulder. The report’s been divided into two columns—one in blocky Taiikari glyphs and one in swooping Eqtorish. “I see that it had a few science satellites at one point.”

Tennek shakes his head. “No. Bad luck.”

“Is there a reason?” Grant furrows his brow. “Are we on shaky spiritual ground if we start refining?”

“Shaky spiritchil ground, what is this?”

Havnai briefly translates.

“Ohh. Yes.” Tennek nods gravely. “Very problem. Qarnak is god bathroom.”

Grant furrows his brow. “Is what?”

“Bathroom of gods. Gods do kviz in it. Very sacred.”

“Shit. For real?” Grant glances at Sykora in her little knot of advisors. “Is this something I gotta spring on Sykora?”

Tennek cracks a grin. “Iq mivuek,” he says to Havnai.

“The Captain is joking,” Havnai translates.

Grant rubs his forehead. “Don’t make me shoot your ass again, Tennek.”

“You never shoot me. You shoot girlfriend. I do this.” He holds up the horns. “Yes?”

“Oh, yeah. You’re fitting right in.”

Sykora comes striding back onto the deck, Qilik following with confusion clear on her face. That’s Vora next to her, hugging her tablet to her chest. The Princess’s voice is short and clipped. “We need to cut the tour short and reschedule it. I regret that we cannot stay, Captain Tennek.”

Tennek shrugs. “Is okay. Not doing much but look at sky and train crew.”

“Attend, Grantyde.” Sykora gestures him over with a flick of her tail, and he joins Sykora and the majordomo in a huddle off the main deck.

“What’s going on?” Grant asks. “Did she say no? Do you need to go in?”

“She, uh—” Vora shows Grant the tablet.

An ostentatiously crowned and flourished letterhead, and then:

To Sykora of the Black Pike—

Joy to you and your spouse on this occasion of great uplift.

Marquess Palatine Inadama warmly welcomes you back into Clan Taiikar with open and filial arms. Upon counsel with Her High Majesty Zithra XIX, it is agreed that you will be named Princess Palatine and given every right & honor such an august title affords.

Yours in bond of blood and loyalty—

Inadama

Grant looks up and studies the grave faces of Sykora and Vora. “Is this. Uh. Not good?”

“Princess Palatine,” Sykora says. “Not Princess Margrave.”

“Princesses Palatine aren’t military,” Vora adds. “If Sykora takes this title, she’s out of the Void Navy.”

“That old bat is trying to keep me here, Grantyde.” Sykora pulls her tricorne from her head and picks at its brocade. “And she’s secured permission from the Empress to try.”

Her fingers tighten on her hat’s rim.

“She means to take the Pike from me.”