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Princess of the Void 5.2 - Blushing Little Bride
🕑 Added 2025-09-20 06:25:47 +0000 UTCOn a silver spinning-top survey station, high over the roiling clouds of Qarnaq, the reception for the Princess and Prince of the Black Pike is in full swing.
Grant returns from the washroom down the retrofitted hall and catches a glimpse of a knot of Black Pike marines. Pentine, his Ajax replacement, is speaking with Talem, a good friend who transferred off the Pike and onto the Eqtoran world of Harok.
“I have so much to tell you guys.” Talem’s tail wags. “Fellas. Eqtoran girls. Holy fucking hellfire, man.”
“Did you finally get with one?” asks Pentine.
“Did I get with one.” Talem’s got a huge shit-eating grin on his face. “Brother, when you hear—and the Empress cut my tongue out if I’m telling lies, I swear—”
“Gents.” Grant gives them a salute as he passes.
The marines snap immediately out of fraternization mode and share a prompt returned salute to their Prince. “Majesty.” Talem takes it further and bows, as well, fist still to chest. “A privilege to see you again.”
“Likewise, Corporal. Or Lance Corporal now, right?” Grant gestures to the pips on Talem’s armored shoulder. “Congrats, man.”
Talem nods vigorously. “Yes, Majesty. Thank you, Majesty.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your story,” Grant says. “You doing important xenoanthropology over on the Qena-Qel, sounds like?”
“That’s Talem,” Pentine says. “Brightest mind in the corps.”
Talem clears his throat. “I’ve been doing my best to fit in, Majesty.”
“I’ll bet you have,” Grant says.
A susurrus of laughter through the marines. Talem looks like he’s hunkering down under automatic fire.
“So you’d say they’re compatible?” Grant asks.
“I’m not really sure what you’re, uh…”
“With the Empire.”
“Oh. Yes, Majesty. For sure.”
“I really am interested in how it’s been, corporal.” Grant gives him an encouraging pat on the pauldron. “And what you’ve experienced living with them. I don’t need the blow-by-blow or anything.”
“I would call them very, uh, loyal, Majesty,” Talem says. “And resolute, once you win that loyalty. It’s not automatic, but when you get to know them. I’ve been embedded in Knife Seven for—”
He pauses as his fellow marines attempt with varying success to hold their posture without laughing.
“I’ve been advisor to Knife Seven for a few cycles.” Talem says. “You people are a pack of throoks, I swear to God.”
“There you are, Tale.” A six-foot-three Eqtoran woman in supersized HAK armor comes swaying down the hall. She’s got a pixie-cut length fringe of fins atop her head and a brass ring through her sharklike snout. Her tail taps on the floor. “Sarge is looking for you.”
“This is Corporal Shaneq-mek-Hvok,” Talem says. “You’re gonna behave, right?”
Corporal Shaneq-mek-Hvok snorts. “Sure.”
“In a few minutes, Shan. Catching up with the boys.”
“The boys?” Shaneq’s eyes flicker across the marines. She smiles big. “Hello, boys.”
Pentine nods. “Ma’am.”
Talem angles his head meaningfully toward Grant. “And the Prince.”
“Ooh. That’s him?” Shaneq’s pierced brows raise as she takes Grant in. “Tall.”
“Bow, dumbass,” Talem whispers, teeth gritted.
Shaneq scoffs at Talem, but gives a low and, to Grant’s eyes, picture-perfect bow to him. “Majesty. Welcome to the Paas system.” She glances at Talem. “Good?”
"You don’t ask if it’s good right in front of him, Shan. That makes it less good."
Grant grins. “It was very good, Corporal.”
“The Prince says I’m very good, Tale.” Shan cocks a hip in Talem’s direction. “Don’t keep her waiting too long, right?”
“Tell her five.”
Shaneq gives a lazy salute. As she turns to leave, her tail gives a solid smack to Talem’s butt. She flounces down the hall.
“Forgive their sloppy manners, Majesty.” Talem bows again. “The other knives are much more, uh—Knife Seven is kind of odd. But they’re great warriors, and they’re trying. They’ll adjust.”
“They couldn’t ask for a better liaison, I’m sure.” Grant inclines his head as he strolls the opposite direction from the Eqtoran corporal. “Don’t work too hard, gentlemen.”
One of the station’s hangars has been converted into a feast-hall, its floor cleared of vessels and lined with fine carpets, its towering catwalks draped in black-and-crimson livery. Eqtoran design is evident in pops and flourishes around the hall; the hanging tapestries are lined with fur and hung with intricately carved megafauna bones and the seats are all done in the Equatorial Eqtoran style, with tusked tops and high wooden backs painted like medieval pavises. Apparently these were custom-made by master craftsmen on Eqtora in Taiikari form factors, but out of incredulity over the heights of their conquerers they’re still oversized, and the baronesses and bourgeoise who elect to occupy them look comically small.
One wall is absent entirely, a balcony out to a massive membranous window into the void, pointed directly at Qarnaq. The interior designers have matched the rosy sconce lights to the opalescent swirling clouds swirling psychedelically outside.
Grant finds his wife holding court on the balustrade before the phantasmagoria, backlit by the massive planet they’re preparing to transform into the system’s piggy bank. She’s in a corseted black dress with an embroidered crimson sunrise across its length. I’m going to wear all my snug stuff while I can, she told him when they were dressing for the evening. Give me a cycle or two and this little number will be rather out of reach.
“They are so tempestuous sometimes.” A periwinkle woman with cropped hair is worrying the tassels on her sash. “I’ve hired a tracker to show me around Harok. One day she’ll be all courtesy and curtseys, then the next she’s glaring at you like you’re some kind of nemesis.”
“It’s the music,” Sykora says. “Are you playing music around them, Baroness Jaka?”
“Yes. Of course. They love music.”
Sykora holds up a finger. “Are you letting them pick it, or is it your soundtrack?”
“I, uh…” Jaka lowers her fidgeting fists.
“You really must let them choose, Baroness,” Sykora says. “Eqtorans are quite sensitive to music. Think of it like the weather, or when you last ate. Until we have a better idea of the exact way their affinities work, it’s best to let them supervise their soundtracks themselves.”
“I will be sure to, uh, to do that, Majesty. Forgive my foolishness.”
“Not foolishness.” Sykora favors Jaka with a smile. “Just ignorance. And now you’re no longer ignorant, and you’ll be more careful. So there’s nothing to forgive. Yes?”
“Of course,” Jaka says. “Of course, Majesty.”
“And here he is.” Sykora’s face breaks into a bright sunrise as she looks past the gaggle of noblewomen. “The hero of the Paas system. How’s the mead, dove?”
“Good,” Grant says. “Strong, but good.”
“Stick by me the rest of the evening,” Sykora says. “So you can describe it in detail to me and I can imagine drinking it.” She inclines her head to the fawning crowd. “Pardon me, ladies. The Prince and I really must get some face time with the Governess. Majordomo Vora will answer any further questions about the opening of Qarnaq.”
Vora steps seamlessly into the place that Sykora occupied. “If anyone is curious, our Eqtoran crewmates have reported excellent and energetic reactions to a recorded Maekyonite song entitled Kummon Aileen, which we would happily distribute to you.”
“I know I don’t have to tell you to be nice, but we owe Doxima gratitude for agreeing to this position,” Sykora murmurs, as they cross the hangar. “She is a fantastic acquisition. For a Countess or a Baroness, a governess-ship is a choice promotion. For a Marquess, locking yourself down on one world is something of a step down. Doxima’s taking a double risk on occupying a newly annexed planet as well. We’ve really lucked out sniping her.”
“Where’d we source her?”
“Cloud Gate,” Sykora says. “The I thought I’d have to fight Narika for her, but I suppose this was a juicy enough position for her.”
“And obviously the Black Pike sector clears Bright Covenant and Glory Banner.”
“Well, obviously.”
“You barely mauled Jaka back there,” he observes. “Good mood?”
She beams. “Just feeling… fulfilled, I suppose.” Her tail swishes around his thigh as she points across the floor. “There’s Doxima.”
The Governess of Qarnaq wears a pair of thick glasses and a fringed calf-length duster, open in Eqtoran style, over a black-and-scarlet checkered sheath dress. Like all lady taiikari Grant has met, she is stunning. it’s obvious. Her ginger hair, her dusting of freckles, her round, open face. Her eyes have that heavy, worldly wryness to them, like a schoolteacher you’d have a shameful fantasy about in High School.
He’s gotten over the consternation, but it still drops a question mark in his mind sometimes. Why is every Taiikari a knockout? Did they gene-edit themselves this way? It’s not the kind of question he’d broach with his wife, obviously, but it might be time to bring it up to Chief Engineer Waian.
“Majesty. An honor to meet you.” Their newest noblewoman bows low. “I am Governess Doxima. Formerly the Marquess of Priil.”
“Governess.” Grant bows at about forty-five degrees, which is as low as he can get away with given their divide in stations. “The honor is ours. I’m so thankful that you’ve taken the journey and the risk.”
“It was an easy decision,” Doxima says. “The Black Pike sector is where the eyes of the firmament have turned. And I admit I had some curiosity about what the Maekyonite Prince of the Black Pike would be like.”
“I hope I don’t disappoint.”
She curtseys. “Certainly not on first impressions, Majesty.”
There was an earlier version of Sykora whose tail would be twitching at that little exchange. But that was the Sykora who wasn’t carrying Grant’s children inside her. The Princess favors Doxima with a kiss on the cheek, free of malice. “How goes the colonization of Qarnaq II?”
“Oh, it’s going.” Doxima brushes a dark, springy curl behind her ear. “There are some challenging weather conditions on the world. And we’ll need to be judicious with electromagnetic shielding to ensure that the flare-ups from the main body don’t interfere with our communications. But I anticipate that by next cycle we’ll be able to move into our preliminary habs on the surface.”
“That’s splendid news,” Sykora says. “I’ll be quite thrilled to visit. You’d think the novelty would wear away, stepping on a new world, but it never quite does.”
Doxima smiles at this. “It won’t be a Governess’s mansion, of course. But it’ll be nice to stand on terra firma again. A long time floating. Good to have a home.”
Grant excuses himself from Sykora and Doxima’s niceties to the refreshment table. He scans the colorful Eqtoran meads on display for one he hasn’t tried yet.
“Heya, Majesty.”
He turns, selection in hand, to the black, glossy smile of Countess Wenzai of Korak, his future partner in the Exo industry of Qarnaq. The chilly climate of the station has finally forced her, for the first time in his acquaintance with her, into an outfit which more than halfway covers her remarkable chest: she’s in a trim black pantsuit with a chrome shoulderpiece that cascades chains along her bicep. He holds up his glass in greeting. “Hey yourself, Wen.”
“That pinkish one is amazing.” Wenzai gestures to his drink of choice. “But I can only have a thimbleful at a time. Gotta envy your Maekyonite fortitude.”
“I’m trying not to indulge too hard,” Grant says. “Taiikari drinking has made me a bit of a lightweight.”
“You feeling of sound mind right about now?”
“Sure.”
“You want to come with me and get a look at these initials, then?” Wenzai glances around the feast hall. “I know this shindig’s still going, but it’s the wind-down and I’m kinda excited to get into it. I can grab us a conference room. Probably good to have a first blush before we rope the Governess in.”
“Absolutely. Mind if I bring Sykora?”
“Sure.” She plucks a shingled plate off the table. “And some of these shellfish puff things, while we’re at it.”
***
“Tikani’s not here for this one?” Sykora asks, as the three of them depart the fine carpets for the workaday metal walkways of the station.
“He’s overseeing the movers right now,” Wenzai says. “We’re taking a bunch of stuff from the Ptolek bungalow and bringing it over to Qarnak II. For a decacycle at least, we’re going to be working direct from here.”
“What about the kids?” Grant asks.
“They’ll be coming with,” Wenzai says. “Attending their pods virtually. It’s a bit of a pain in the butt, but worth it. If I’m what you need me to be, this world is gonna be their big inheritance. We’re moving into the exo business.”
Grant stoops through a Taiikari-sized archway. “New ground for us both.”
“It’s weird, y’know.” Wenzai opens a door into a tidy, compact conference room, its window to the void flanked by pinkly glowing planters full of technicolor Taiikari flowers. “I resisted making Korak an exo clan for so long. Thought that it was the kind of field I wanted no part in.”
“What changed?” Grant asks.
“You did, Majesty. If anyone can make the exo trade less of a spear fight, it’s you.”
“Look what he did to me, after all.” Sykora finds a seat. “That’s what they’re saying, yes? The infamously temperamental Princess of the Black Pike turned into a blushing little bride.”
Wenzai blanches. “I’d made no assumptions in that direction, Majesty.”
Sykora laughs. “I’m not trying to trap you, Countess. It’s quite all right. I like who I am now.” Her hand slips under Grant’s. “Just trying to get a pulse on where the peerage is. I used to rely on a certain ex-friend of ours for this; I hope I can rely better on you. Has Sykora’s gone soft become a narrative, would you say?”
“Not soft, exactly.” Wenzai adjusts the complicated caging chains of her shoulderpiece. “But there is the perception that you’re… well, you’re a family woman now. It’d mellow anyone out. It mellowed me out, if you can believe it.”
Sykora nods thoughtfully. “I can work with that. Just have to crack a few skulls to ensure nobody thinks I’ve lost my grip on the rod.”
“Not like you’ll be hurting for opportunity,” Grant says. “With the Cloud Gate sector opening and Qarnaq spinning up I bet we’re gonna be navigating some rocks.”
“I daresay you’re right.” Sykora cracks the knuckle holding her wedding band. “An excellent opportunity to demonstrate some aggression.”
“Let’s hope this bit is nice and straightforward,” Wenzai says. “My money gals sent it over this afternoon, but with all the party hubbub I haven't gotten a chance to go over it. Scoot over here, Majesties. Take a look.”
Grant and Sykora slide their seats to either side of the Countess. She pulls a lengthy list of forms and figures up on her tablet.
“This is our initial finance estimate,” she says. “It’s the first three cycles of our operation, minus the prices we’re paying on equipment and imports. Not too complicated a balance sheet, really.”
Grant eyes the long scrollbar on the tablet’s edge. “No?”
“Yep. market rate is always flat with exo. So this percentage here, this whole column, really, never changes. We are selling directly to the Empress, and the Empress says this is what it costs.” Wenzai taps to zoom in. “What you really want to look for is the number right at the bottom-left. In its own box. The pre-fold margin, it’s called, because it’s raw earnings before the various sector-specific calculations and expenses. Our responsibility is toward the pre-fold.”
“Sort of like an EBITDA on Maekyon,” Grant offers.
“Sure. Maybe. What’s that stand for?”
Grant rubs his chin. “I don’t remember,” he says.
“For exo, you’re looking at a really healthy pre-fold margin,” Wenzai says. “Twenty-five percent is the ideal spot, plus or minus five. We pump ourselves past thirty, we’re heroes. Fifteen, we start sweating. Ten, something has gone seriously wrong.”
“Surely we’re not looking at hitting that right away,” Grant says.
“Not right away, obviously. This is cycle one of operations, so we don’t have to be all the way spun up. We’ve got a little more wiggle room while we put our roots down. But the refiners are plug-and-play prefabricated, and we’re not paying for the orbital ring or the atmo infrastructure. That all comes out of the Governess’s budget, which your wife controls, and your wife doesn’t give a shit about money.”
Sykora shrugs cheerfully.
“But we do?” Grant asks.
“Yep,” Wenzai says. “This counts as a privately managed venture of the House of Korak, using the civic good of the ring. It’s our duty to turn a profit. If we don’t, then I get sacked, reassigned, and financially ruined. And you get, I dunno. A spanking.”
“There’s an idea,” Sykora says.
“While the ring builds out, we can carry the refiners on aerostats,” Wenzai continues, as she hands the tablet off to Grant. “It’s a lot less efficient, but we can start producing exo right away. So a rolling start and a certain amount of profit are expected. At least enough to keep the lights on till the ring’s done.”
“I have confidence in Doxima giving us a quick turnaround,” Sykora says. “She’s been working with Vora on the paperwork, and my majordomo seems quite smitten by the woman’s work ethic.”
“So these first three cycles,” Grant says. “How low can we get?”
“The preliminary my people sent in was seven percent, but they were getting shafted on some aerostat stuff, and I’ve got connections from my condenser fleet operations.” Wenzai taps the side of her nose. “So I’m betting the final initial improves on that. I’d like to get above twelve. That gives us enough cushion to keep the lights on till the ring’s done. But as long as it’s not, like, two, we’ll be fine.”
Grant squints at the figures. “And bottom left is what I’m supposed to be looking at.”
“Yessir.”
“And we want it to be above two.”
“Way above two.” Wenzai laughs. “If it’s two, something’s gone terrible.”
Grant looks up from the tablet. “How terrible?”
“Terrible enough we’d have to cut the plan entirely and figure out a new one,” Wenzai says. “It’d mean the surveyors found some complication in the Qarnaq atmospheric mixture, or we were ratfucked on the backend, or something.”
“Okay, uh.” Grant turns the tablet around. “It says negative four.”
Comments
alejandrox
Thanks for the chapter!!!!
Kevin Cashman
I think this is a typo: The I thought I’d have to fight Narika for her
Kevin Cashman
Lots of fun bits in this chapter!
