“They’re just so awestruck, the great big darlings.” Baroness Konia chuckles at the Eqtorans gathered on the observation deck, who whoop and cheer as the skimmers streak past beneath the skybarge. “Can’t believe how fast we can go.”

  Grant has to doubt a culture who’d already discovered the sweep is going to be awestruck by a glorified flying drag race, and he wishes Sykora were here to slide a barbed observation like that into Konia’s ribcage, but he’s the Black Pike’s kindness, and an affable nod suffices. “I remember feeling much the same at my first Cloudsprint.”

  “It was just so lovely of you and your esteemed wife to host the Sprint this deca, Majesty.”

  “Of course,” Grant says. “The Paas system is eager to prove its place in the Empire.”

  And it keeps you from racing the poor bastards through that rusty abandoned Ptolek deathtrap, he thinks. Arenta Konia is a lover of speed and competition; Grant has often wondered whether twisted, burning wreckage has a place on her podium as well.

  “Where is her Majesty?” Konia glances past Grant, as if the Princess of the entire sector might be hiding behind him (not entirely farfetched, he has to admit).

  “She sends her love, but she couldn’t make the trip.”

  “Didn’t want to get pecked to death by the coterie, eh?”

  “It’s more to do with the pregnancy, Baroness.”

  “Ahh. Of course.”

  “And she didn’t want to get pecked to death, yes.”

  Konia titters. “It is just so difficult to wrap my head around it, our sector having an heiress. It really…” Her breezy countenance hits temporary doldrums. “Well, I don’t imagine you need to hear it from me.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Grant says. “I confess I’m not sure what it is.”

  “When you are a noblewoman on the frontier there is the constant feeling that you are the Empire’s little sister. A little second-strung Lady pilfering the in-waiting’s jewelry and fantasizing in your mirror. And now, suddenly… there is ground beneath our feet. There’s foundation. My children won’t have to scramble to place themselves at some new Void Princess’s dynasty once Sykora passes to the Heavenly Court. Not that I have any children, of course. But now…”

  A howling chorus of skimmer engines crowd into the opening of her uncertain pause. The frontrunners streak past in their riotous colors, on the vapor trails of the previous lap’s laggards.

  Konia shakes her head with a chuckle and looks out to the track. “Enough out of me.”

  Grant lets Baroness Konia’s unfamiliar vulnerability lie where she dropped it. He prefers it when she’s saying something bawdy or bullheaded.

  “You have done such amazing work on the ring,” Konia says. “Truly impressive. I even hear that Korak Refinery is nearly neck-and-neck with Shoskia."

  “Nearly,” Grant says, and he’s almost relieved for the twinge of irritation that offhandedness brought. That’s more like the Konia he knows. “If you’ll excuse me, milady.”

  She gives him a broad smile. “Of course.”

  Grant detaches from the window and nods to Quartermaster Kymai, who performs a lopsided bow from behind a teetering tray of just about every hors d’oeuvre on the deck.

  “What’s tasty, Quartermaster?”

  “Oh, all of it. All of it, Majesty.”

  Grant grins. Kymai has nothing but praise for every piece of food that passes his lips except his own dishes, which he invariably judges disappointing disasters. “And none of it poisoned?”

  “Not unless you count alcohol as a poison, Majesty.”

  “Taiikari alcohol?” Grant avails himself of a thin glass. “I sure don’t. How’re you feeling, Kymai?”

  “Prepared, Majesty.”

  Grant pats Kymai’s shoulder. “Good.”

  Drink in hand, he makes his way through the sky barge, waving to friends and would-be friends. There’s Viscountess Vikla cornering someone about her gravel again. There’s Governess Doxima holding forth about the work they’re doing on Qarnaq II. There’s a jolly count whose name escapes Grant at the moment but who always yells theeere he is in a very gratifying tone when he sees Grant coming. There’s Auki the Prince Consort, being Auki at a terse cater waiter.

  “Auki,” Grant says. “We’re not supposed to take the whole trays, dude.”

  The Kovikan widower’s face screws up in consternation. “Why not?”

  “Because they have to give some to the rest of the guests.”

  “Oh.” Auki frowns at the tray. “But I’m the Consort, though?”

  Grant passes the tray back to the servant who murmurs a thanks, gives a bow, and makes an escape with one last lumaki-cream tart lost to Kymai’s leaning tower. “You’re free now, Auki. You’re not the Consort, you’re not a husband-of-the-void. You are a citizen. You have to start taking responsibility for yourself.”

  Auki pouts. “Well it’s bollocks. And these anticomps make everything so jaundiced.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Grant says. “Gotta run.”

  The Prince and the Quartermaster arrive at the Korak box, which they share, this decacycle, with a Marquess, several Governesses, and a junior union representative called Yori. Grant shoots the guy a wave and receives a shaky, nervewracked reciprocation. Corska Ondai was supposed to have this fellow’s seat, but in response to Grant’s outreach to the commonfolk, she’s sent a proxy. Just another Ondai mind game. Grant doesn’t mind it for himself, but he has sympathy for Yori, who he’s met on the ring now and then; the young unionist is a pilot, so presumably he has a personal interest in seeing the race up close, but he appears to be spending the afternoon in one long quiet anxiety attack.

  Grant exchanges a one-armed hug with Tikani and a formal bow with Countess-in-Waiting Mavakai, deposits his food and drink at his seat, and crouches next to his business partner.

  “Wen,” he murmurs. “Can you do something for me?”

  Countess Wenzai blinks her thickly shadowed eyes. “You bet, Majesty.”

  Grant lowers his anticomps. “Can you flash me really quick and erase all compulsions?”

  Wenzai purses her lips. “Are you worried?”

  He shakes his head. “Just prudence. Just in case.”

  “Um, okay.” Flash. “Erase all compulsions.”

  No scales fall away from Grant’s eyes; no sudden clarity. But the little gymnastic ache in the back of his head is silenced again. He gives Wenzai a quick embrace. “Thank you, Countess.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “No sweat, Majesty.” Wenzai returns the hug with clear confusion and concern. As Grant rises and replaces his anticomps, Tikani nods meaningfully from behind her shoulder.

  Wenzai doesn’t get it, kind as she is. Tik does.

  A chorus of delighted cries from the front of the box as more skimmers scream past. Lakai is sitting with a pair of Korak children—Orlo clambering across the seat next to her, Anakai perched in her lap. Lakai passes the kid’s silky dark hair through her hands. “I’m gonna give you a big goofy pair of pigtails.”

  Ana giggles. “No you’re not.”

  “I am. I’m gonna give you three, actually. Boop boop boop.” Lakai pokes the girl’s head demonstratively. “A special new hairstyle. And everyone will start calling it the Anakai trihorn. You’re gonna be famous.”

  “Auntie Lakai, look!” Orlo’s lit up in a way Grant’s never seen the usually dour kid act before. “A Tarazin Eight.”

  “Shit. Yeah.” Lakai whistles at the skimmer’s tail as it jets away. “What a machine. Who’s the pilot?”

  Grant hits a few keys and narrows the display on the box’s corner screen to show the drone footage of the speedy ride T-8. “Zimia Kaikam,” he reads.

  “Oooh, Kaikam. She’s gonna make it sing. Great pilot, even if she’s a big old pile of dicks.” Lakai glances at the little girl perched on her lap. “And, um, butterflies.”

  “Have you ever flown one?” Orlo asks.

  “Just a Seven,” Lakai says. “Gorgeous vessel, amazing gyros. But they had a bad habit of the right not working.”

  “The right as in—the opposite of left?”

  “Yeah, well. Enough left becomes a right.” Lakai hums as she finishes Ana’s braid. “There’s a life lesson for you, kiddies. Maybe.”

  “Can we go see it after?” Orlo asks. “Can we go look at the T-8?”

  “We sure can, sugar.” Lakai scoots Ana from her lap. “Go tell your mom.”

  “You’re not flying this year?” Grant asks, as the children vacate.

  Lakai shrugs. “Nah.”

  “Why not?”

  “I dunno,” Lakai says. “Just seemed sorta boneheaded. Just sorta dumb and dangerous. Like what do I need to prove, you know? I’m hanging out in the Prince’s box, I’ve got a girlfriend and a boyfriend… y’know. Life’s all right.”

  “And it wasn’t last Cloudsprint?”

  Lakai tilts her head and gives this consideration. “I thought it was. But no. Not really.”

  Grant notices for the first time as her neck lengthens with the tilt. “Do you have…”

  Lakai’s shoulders hunch. “Do I have what?”

  There’s a pale scar on the side of Lakai’s neck. The kind Taiikari women give their mates.

  “Is that from Wenzai?” Grant whispers.

  Her face goes crimson. “It’s whatever. It’s just a dumb whatever thing. It’s just whatever.” She plucks her collar further up. “It doesn’t even really work on girls. It’s not like I can knock her up. It’s not a big deal.”

  “You’re their breedmate now, right? That seems kind of like a big deal.”

  “Uh, yeah. I guess. It’s whatever.”

  He closes his laugh off behind his hand. “You just seemed like such a no-fucks-given runaway Lady sort of individual. Now you’re…”

  She cocks a challenging eyebrow. “I’m what?”

  “I’m not trying to put you down or anything,” Grant says. “Pardon me. I’m just… I don’t know. Curious.”

  “I know what this is,” Lakai says. “You’ve got the daddy jitters.”

  “What?”

  “The daddy jitters.” Lakai triumphantly puts her hands on her hips. “You’re projecting. You went right from your backwater planet to being a prisoner on the Pike and now you’re about to be a dad and you’ve never jetted around the firmament, hiking mountains and wrestling wild throoks and fucking nubile skimmer pilots. And now you’re afraid you missed out on all that and you’ll have to spend the next few hectos rearing your heiresses instead.”

  “That isn’t—” Grant corrects himself. “That isn’t entirely it. I mean, I’m not entirely sure what’s out there. And if I’m gonna live three hundred years, I’m not stressed about giving a little piece of my life to the next generation.”

  “Three hundred whats?”

  “Maekyonite thing. Pardon me. What I’m worried about is… will I be good. For them.”

  She scoffs. “Of course you will.”

  “I just—I had an outlaw for a father,” Grant says. "A father who rebelled against his society. And I see those same impulses in myself. What I think is right—what happens if I teach it to my kids? It’s what my dad tried to do, and I resented him for it until the day he died.”

  Lakai rolls her eyes. “That’s so dumb.”

  Grant’s taken aback. “What is?”

  “The whole thing. If Your Majesty will pardon me. Did any alien ever abduct your dad?”

  He breathes out his surprise at Lakai’s brashness into a soft chuckle. “Good point.”

  “I was a bit surprised you weren’t a dad already. You’ve got such dad energy. They’re annoying when they’re squirmy little bald weirdos, but they turn into people quick enough. If I like my kids, you’ll like yours.”

  “Your kids, huh?”

  “I’ve cleaned up enough spills at this point. They’re mine. They’re mine, Tik.” This she delivers over her shoulder to Tikani.

  He looks from his holodisplay view of the frontrunners. “What’s yours?”

  “The kids.”

  “Oh, sure.” Tikani hands Ana off to Wenzai and sidles over to where Grant and Lakai stand.

  “You didn’t squeeze ‘em out,” Wenzai says.

  Lakai flicks her the horns. “I’ve squeezed you out.”

  “Hellfire, milady. In front of the Prince of the damn sector, really.” Tikani’s arm drapes around Lakai’s shoulder and lightly but firmly pivots the younger woman to face him. “If they’re yours, you can take them down to check that T-8 out after the race.”

  Lakai taps her chin. “I’ll think about it.”

  Tikani’s hand slips from Lakai’s shoulder to the nape of her neck. He whispers something into Lakai’s ear that puts a flustered crook in the Lady’s tail.

  She tugs her lapel downward, revealing—accidentally or not—more of the scar the Countess left on her neck.

  “Whatever,” she mumbles.

  “We’re out of time,” Shoskia says.

  Talanuri watches her employer pace across the firmament yacht’s silk-laden deck.

  The Marquess’ hand rests on the jeweled clasp of her tunic, just above her fearful heart. “Her Majesty has requested my records at a horrifically inopportune moment.”

  “I told you that attempt was foolhardy,” Talanuri says, voice flat. “The Prince was untouchable.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to be touched. He was supposed to be illegitimized in the eyes of the fishfaces.”

  “That didn’t work either.”

  “I know that, Talanuri. Don’t you think I know that? It’s not my fault if the poor thick beasts can’t see what’s best for them.” Shoskia’s ears flatten back. “We need to vacate this system. As soon as we can.”

  “Vacate?” Talanuri glances out the window at Qarnaq. “Zipping over to the Cloudsprint isn’t exactly making ourselves scarce, your grace.”

  “One thing at a time.” Shoskia halts by the workers fueling the yacht’s shuttle. Her eyes flash. “Clear out. Now.”

  The servants obediently depart; the women are alone.

  Shoskia flops onto her favorite flopping couch, a red-checked loveseat she stole from some viscountess. “Her Majesty might seize Ximik refinery while we’re away—”

  “She absolutely will,” Talanuri says.

  “Permit me to finish a thought, couldn’t you, Tala,” Shoskia snaps. “I know of a particular import she can’t pull from Qarnaq’s atmosphere. One she has quite an attachment to.”

  “You mean—”

  “I do.”

  Wivvi, Shoskia’s hapless Majordomo, is taking panicked minutes in her sprawling notebook. “Ladyship, I ought to have been informed.”

  “So that what? You can talk me down? I don’t intend to arrive at Bright Covenant empty-handed, to beg and scrape and plead my way into the bottom of the coterie. I mean to arrive in style, with a bargaining chip that both Dantia and myself can use. This ridiculous Paas system, its ridiculous godfearing fish people. I am positive that Sykora would trade it all away. For him.”

  She turns the cloudsprint broadcast on and flips through the feed options to the opaque window of the Royal box.

  “Her big hairy oaf.”

  Wivvi and Talanuri exchange a pained, silent entreatment for the other to speak. Talanuri decides to spare the Majordomo. “You really think Dantia will be willing to hold His Majesty hostage?”

  Shoskia jabs a finger at her Bannerwoman. “Do not call that hirsute alien bimbo His Majesty. As hornchoked as the Princess Margrave has been, she has made the grave error of presuming one of lesser firmament stock can be made a Prince. We needn’t repeat her error or maintain her pretense here. I have said as much to Dantia, and she agrees.”

  Talanuri can’t hide her skepticism. “Does she, now.”

  “Oh, she is a far more fulsome ally than that thin-grueled Glory Banner Princess.” Shoskia’s grin shows her fangs. “Narika just wants to use me as a blunt instrument to strike at Sykora in any way she can. The woman is a damn finch. I’ve no more use for her. Dantia? She understands. And she contends that there is evidence of egregious misconduct being performed at Korak refinery.”

  “A disturbing accusation, Ladyship.”

  “Most disturbing. And who then, one asks, shall hold him to account? His own wife? She’ll just keep indulging his foolhardy flailings at leadership. For his own good, he needs to be taken away from her until we can sort this whole thing out. That is where you and your men come in.”

  Talanuri sighs and coaxes her hands out of their fists. Shoskia’s right. They can’t allow this Korak farce to continue. And His Majesty has clearly taken the sector’s loyalty for granted, with the way he’s barely got a security detail.

  “Just go in, find him, and compel him,” Shoskia says. “All we have to do is find our moment he’s out of clear public eye, and he’s ours. Take him back to the shuttle, and we’re onward to Bright Covenant.”

  Majordomo Wivvi rattles a shaky breath out that rustles her pages. “I wish I had your optimism in this, Marquess.”

  “This will not be difficult, Wivvi. He’s an overconfident idiot.” Shoskia barks a laugh and rewinds the footage their drone took, to the Prince weaving through the colorful skybarge hall. “Look at him. Where are the guards, despite the attempt on his life bare tendays ago? You have six trained men-at-arms, Tala. And all you have to deal with is a spoiled dildo of a Prince…”

  She taps the screen, illuminating the second man.

  “And his personal chef.”