Princess of the Void ch 5 - You're mine

They dress Grant in a black and scarlet tunic, with a high, asymmetric collar. A tight cut. He’s not sure if that’s just for the flattering drape or because he’s at least a foot taller than everyone else here. There’s no sleeves, but judging from the crewmates he sees along the way to Sykora’s cabin, sleeves are a rare commodity around here.

Two commandos in black lead him. Whispers and stares follow him. As he trudges the red-carpeted halls, he notices the clear divide in his captors. The men are smaller than him, but not vastly so. He’d guess the tallest he sees are around five feet. All of them have opaque glass masks over their faces, in various degrees of coverage, always hiding their eyes. Unlike Sykora, whose horns come and go, they seem to have theirs extruded permanently.

The women are much shorter, and barefaced. He sees a panoply of cool-spectrum colors, from magenta to midnight. But always their uniforms are scarlet and black, and always their eyes are red. And always as he passes, the eyes follow, gawking. He sees no other human in his journey. No other aliens of any kind.

They pause before a large door with a golden seal set into the center of its double panels. Two halberds crossed. A guard presses the seal, and speaks: “The alien, majesty.”

A voice pipes through an unseen speaker. “Let him in, thank you. And then remain outside.”

The guard jerks his head to Grant. “Step through.”

Grant places himself before the seal and it spins to inversion as it sinks into the door. The panels slide apart and Grant is buffeted with humid, sweet-scented air.

Princess Sykora’s spacious cabin is appointed in scarlet and jet. Silk curtains with intricate millefleur designs and divide the space into thirds. The first, where Grant stands, serves as a gallery full of trophies. The skulls of strange beasts, ornate and alien relics, a wall full of exotic weapons. Drake’s pistol is here, slung on the wall, incongruous to him among the bizarre forms.

The second is dominated by a cylindrical pit within which a riot of overstuffed cushions and draping blankets reside. It’s as much a nest as it is a bed, and it’s huge. Grant’s stomach goes hollow as he surveys it. If he’s understanding Sykora right, he’s going to become well-acquainted with that bed.

The final section is some kind of kitchenette/bath-house combination that eschews carpet for onyx tile, and has a hexagonal tub set into its wall, which is currently overflowing with bubbles. Sykora lounges in the foam, naked as they day she was born (and the day they met). Her robe lies crumpled a few feet away.

She raises her well-hewn arms in welcome. “How do you like our cabin, Grantyde? Not exactly as decadent as the terrestrial royal houses, but comfortable enough for you, I hope. Certainly it beats our previous rendezvous, hmm?”

“Bat—uh, Princess.” Grant takes a step in.

“Ah—shoes, please.” She sticks her foot up out of the water. He steps out of his slippers and approaches.

“Princess Sykora. Listen. I’ve got a… a life down there. You have to take me back, so I can, I can tell someone what’s happening at that place—”

She sinks into the bubbles. “No.”

“You don’t understand. We—”

“You don’t understand, Grantyde. This isn’t your choice to make.” The water sloshes as she lounges back. “I told you. You’re mine.”

“What?”

“You’re mine. By right of my station, I claim you as my property and my husband. That dusty little world does not concern you anymore.” Her knees pop out of the sudsy water. “And I am quite excited to introduce you to what does.”

“What?”

“Did the translator not take? Why do you keep saying what? Surely you know what it is to own someone. Your people thought to own me. To keep me in that little glass box forever. Me. The Princess of the Black Pike.” She bares her razor-sharp teeth in an unkind grin. “No. I take. I am not taken.”

“Are you… abducting me?”

“Yes,” she says. “You will never set foot on Maekyon again.”

“No. Wait—no no no.”

Her foot splashes with playful emphasis. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“I… I saved you. I let you out.”

“And in recognition, I spared your life and permitted your world’s backwater biosphere to remain intact, rather than cracking its crust.” She scrubs at the blood beneath her nails. “You will serve as—what was your name for Maekyon?”

“Earth.”

“Earth.” Her nose wrinkles. “Like dirt? That’s quite literal. You will serve as Earth’s reparation for imprisoning a Void Princess of the Taiikari.” When she says that, Taiikari, for an instant her lips and her voice form the same sound. “This is hardly sufficient punishment for such a transgression, and yet...” She taps her lower lip. “It’ll do. You thought to own me. Now I am your owner.”

“I—I didn’t do a thing. I’m nobody. I’m a fucking custodian. They aren’t going to miss me or beg you or—there’s no ransom.”

“Come over here and kneel.” Her voice is flat. “I’m tired of craning my neck.”

He hesitates. This is clearly a being used to getting what she wants, and he’s deep in her territory. He approaches the tub and takes a knee.

“I don’t want any begging, and I don’t want any ransom,” she says. “The only thing I wanted from your world is kneeling before me. A beautiful alien to fill my insides and warm my bed.”

“What?”

“Perhaps I should speak more directly while you get used to the implant.” She purses her lips. “I’m taking you as my lover. Husband means—”

“It translated.”

“Then why the what?”

“Because it’s fucking crazy.”

“No, it isn’t.” Her face is inches from his. “You excite me. Your voice, when you sing. Your face, with this bony nose and this strange scruffy hair around your mouth.” She scratches his beard. “It will serve as a fine seat, I think.”

His breath hitches.

“And you’re smooth. No horns or scales or fangs. Like you were made to be touched. And oh, you’re big. It surprises me every time.” Her touch strays down his chest. Soapy water trails down the silk. “You entranced me from the moment I saw you. Now I possess you. You’ll make a splendid husband.”

Her hand lands on his thigh and squeezes. He flinches.

“You could lift me up so easily, couldn’t you?” she muses. “You could do it one-handed. You could do all sorts of things with me.”

She stands and steps out of the tub. Her skin glistens. There’s a flush along it from the hot water.

“I don’t want to.” He speaks over the lizard-brain parts of him that are clamoring to the contrary. “I don’t want this.”

“You do.” Her sturdy hips cock to one side. Her tail flicks downward and plucks a towel from a pile on the floor, catapulting it into her hand. “You’ve wanted me ever since you saw me in that cell you kept me in. And now that our positions are reversed, you shrink from me. But I’ve seen your desire. I see it now, though you shift to hide it from me.” Her red eyes dilate. “I smell it.”

“I wanted you when I thought you were…” Were what, he asks himself. When you were trapped? Helpless? But he refuses to shame himself. He’s not the bad guy. “I wanted you before I realized you were an asshole,” he says.

“An ass hole!” She laughs delightedly. The towel thwips upward and loops around the back of his neck. She pulls him forward with it, nose-to-nose with her. “We’re going to have some misadventures with this translation implant.”

“I mean what I say.”

Her laugh trails off into a smug grin. “I’m sure you do. It’s just not a common insult among the Taiikari. I might start using it.” She slips the towel across herself. “I look forward to our cultural exchange with great anticipation, Maekyonite. This will be fun.”

“For you, maybe.” He glares. “Where I come from, this is about the most evil thing you can do to someone.”

“You did it to me!” Her voice breaks into a growling snarl as her anger slips the leash. “I lost count of the days you did it to me. You stripped me and filmed me sleeping and pissing and weeping. And ran your little tests. And now the tables are turned, and instead of a fish tank, I am offering you my bed and a vaunted place at my side. You should be kissing my feet.” She leers. The horns are back, growing from her crown. “Maybe I’ll make you.”

“I didn’t do any of that,” he says. “I worked there for two fucking weeks. I didn’t even realize what I was signing up for. And I freed you.”

“You did what I told you to do. Nothing more.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

She takes a deep breath. She shuts her eyes. When she reopens them, her regal aloofness has returned.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “We are far from your home now. Far from any who could keep you from me. Farther than you have ever been. You still don’t understand your situation. Here, you are mine, to have however I wish. Any choice I give you is purely out of my generous mercy. Do not look away from me while I am speaking to you, husband.”

Her eyes flash. He refocuses on them with a scowl.

“The things I could do to you.” Her tail draws figure-eights in the air. “I could take you to heights that would melt your Maekyonite mind. I could drown you in such sensation that you’d forget even to dream of defiance, and beg to be my concubine. Or, if you’re truly determined to flee this marriage, I could release you into the void, and watch you stiffen and dessicate. Deal with you like I dealt with your coconspirators.”

He can’t suppress his shiver. How could he have misread this little tyrant so severely?

“Maybe,” he says, trying to keep his voice under control, “you ought to go prepare the airlock.”

Her blood-red eyes narrow. For a moment he sees that fire of anger spark up again. Then she blinks it away and the grin is back. “Now where would the fun be in that?” She gives his cheek a light tap as her hand departs it. “No. I won’t hurt you, and I won’t compel you. Not into my bed. I admire this rebellion in you. This fire. It has a hypnotism to it, as fires do. I’m quite content to watch it burn low and flicker out.” She slips back into her robe. “And when it’s gone, and you need a newer, sweeter warmth, when you’re ravenous for me, I’ll have you, and have you, and have you. Until you forget your new language, too. Until the only things on your tongue are your bride’s name. And your bride’s taste.”

He has never experienced such an intense cocktail of fear, anger, and arousal.

“Unless, of course, you want it now.” She nods toward the tub. “Still warm in there, darling. And room for two, even one as tall as you. What do you say?”

“I say.” He licks his lips. “No goddamn way.”

Her grin is sharp as a knife. He remembers seeing those fangs steeped in human blood. Drake said they drink it, didn’t he? “Good boy.”

The Princess stares at the prisoner. The prisoner stares right back.

Their glaring competition is interrupted by a chiming ring at the door.

Grant starts and nearly jerks to his feet.

Sykora points at him. Her eyes do that reverse-blink that makes them shine. “Stay.” She raises her voice: “Is that Vora?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Enter.”

Another Taiikari woman shuffles into the room. Even shorter than Sykora, with larger ears, night-sky skin, and her silver hair in a complex, plaited updo. Her uniform is trim and scarlet, with a high stand collar and a set of command pips along her sleeveless tunic. She has an owlish pair of round spectacles on. “I can come back, Majesty. If you’re busy.”

“Never busy for you, majordomo.” Sykora’s hair drizzles on the carpet as she strides across it. “God, Vora. I never thought I’d see you again.” She clamps the little woman into a tight hug.

Vora returns it with a timid pat on the back. “It has been far too long, Majesty.”

“How long has it been, Vora?” Sykora breaks from the hug. “I lost track of time on Maekyon.”

Vora flinches. “Majesty—”

“Don’t spare me. I’m braced.”

“Fifteen cycles, Majesty.”

“Fifteen cycles.” A shake enters Sykora’s voice. “Fifteen cycles in Hell.” She shuts her eyes. “So much to be done. Is Narika still pressing her claim?”

“She is, Majesty. She has made progress.”

“That mad bitch. And I suppose the Ptolek business isn’t over with.”

“No, Majesty. A few more deaths. Our assassination theory seems likely.”

“God. So much time lost.” When Sykora’s eyes open, they dart to Grant’s face with renewed iciness. A thin, unfriendly smile colors her words. “This is Vora of the Black Pike, Grantyde. My worthy majordomo. Without her, I wouldn’t be able to find my ass with both hands, ample as it is. Vora, this is Grantyde, my groom.”

“Oh!” Vora gives him a short bow. “Congratulations to you both. Did you take him from Maekyon?”

“Indeed.” Sykora wears a smug grin. “Some minor consolation for my time on that wretched world.”

“If you’ll forgive my saying, Majesty, he certainly doesn’t look wretched.”

“Oh, yes. Terrible accommodations, backward technologies, but quite gorgeous, the inhabitants. Thank you, Vora. My remarks will come shortly.”

“Of course, Majesty.” Vora bows as she shuffles backward.

“And Vora.”

“Yes, Majesty?”

Sykora folds Vora into another embrace. “Thank you,” she whispers. “All that I clung to in my imprisonment was the knowledge that the Pike was in your hands. You have honored me. More than I know how to say.”

“Oh—Majesty. Really.”

“It’s just us and my husband, Vora. Sykora will do.”

Vora looks nervously, apologetically even, to Grant. “As you say, Sykora.”

“Were it not for our different stations, I am sure you’d be a better Princess than I could ever be. I must work hard not to disappoint the crew, I think. They’ll miss your hand on the tiller.”

“Sykora, please.” Vora’s flushed a dark violet. “You overpraise me. They’re breathless for your return.”

“I’d better get on with it, then. You may go.” Sykora plants two quick kisses on either side of her majordomo’s face.

“Is your husband—is everything okay?”

“I’m not,” Grant says, “her husband.”

“He’s quite willful.” Sykora titters. “But he’ll be a wonderful companion, I think, once he’s learned his place.”

“Do you think he’s— uh—” Vora mutters into Sykora’s ear, blocking her lips with her tablet. It’s not like Grant could read them anyway.

Sykora bites back a giggle. “Vora, my dear, I intend to find out.”

Vora peers over Sykora’s shoulder at him. “Will you compel him?”

Sykora binds her voluminous hair in another fluffy towel. “I don’t think so. They were so proud of their bare civilization. And so callous in their dealings with me. I intend to extract every dram of pleasure I can from taming this one.”

Grant feels a stab of anger twist his gut. He saved her. He fucked his life up to save her. And this is how he’s repaid. Lumped in with the bastards.

Sykora sees Vora out and insists upon a third and final hug before the majordomo departs. Again, another flash of that warmth he remembers. Why has it twisted so darkly in his direction? What does she think he did?

She returns to him as her door slides shut. She unhooks some kind of heat-element wand thing from the wall by the tub and passes it over the long silky rivers of her hair.

“You’ve never been in the void, Grantyde,” she says. “It’s vast, and dark, and cold.” She switches sides and draws out another long lock. “You’ve never been in me. I’m small, and soft, and warm.” She wiggles her toes at him. “And clean now.”

“My answer doesn’t change.”

She hums. “That’s all right. You’ll come to understand how truly far from your home you are, and the comfort I offer. An existence of ease and pleasure, and the wonders of the firmament laid before you. And all you’ll have to do—” She leans forward. Her cleavage swells from the front fold of her robe. “is submit.”

He refuses to entertain her presentation with a glance.

“Say yes, and I will give you the first night of your voluptuous new life as my bedmate.” She indicates her massive, jewel-toned bed. “Say no, and you sleep in a cell. I’ll even provide you a cot and a bathroom door. I trust you know what those are, despite their absence in my enclosure.”

She sits on the edge of her bed. It sinks subtly under her butt. It looks very soft.

“Will you share yourself with me?” she asks.

“No,” he says, and he’s proud of the iron in his voice.

She clicks her tongue and steps past him to a console on her wall. She presses a button on it. “Ajax,” she says. “Fion. Enter.”

The door hisses open and two musclebound armored stormtroopers step inside.

“Highness,” Fion grunts.

“Remove the alien to his cell, please,” she says. “And if you could inform the quartermaster to have the curry sent to him there, instead. I’ll dine alone.”

The other steps forward and plants a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “As you command.”

“Thank you, Ajax.” She nods to her prisoner. “You’ll be brought to me again tomorrow, husband. For now, please enjoy the curry, and if asked, report that it was fantastic so that my beloved quartermaster doesn’t quit. It’s always an artistic crisis with him, but the entrees are worth it.”

In the glare he gives her as they take her away, he tries to channel the same chill that she did, the first night he saw her trapped.

“Good night, Grantyde,” she singsongs.

“Go fuck yourself, Princess,” he says.

“You know, I don’t think I will tonight. I think I’ll save my energy for you.” She winks. “See you tomorrow.”

The door closes in his face.

***

“Bathroom’s that way.” Ajax points. “Going to need to duck, big man.”

Grant cracks the hatch and glances inside. It’s not exactly one-to-one with the shitters he’s used to, but there’s enough resemblance that he imagines he can figure it out.

The rest of the cell is, he has to admit, nice. Better described as a dorm room than a cell. There’s a little cabinet with his go-bag deposited at its foot, sat next to a cot made up of the same memory foam stuff his shuttle seat was. It’s thin but it’s surprisingly comfortable. On an unrolled woven mat atop the cabinet is a steaming tureen of bright green curry.

Ajax’s shiny maskplate reflects Grant’s face back to him. “You get hungry again, you hit that button. We are watching and listening. If you need anything, ask. If there’s no response, assume the answer is no.”

“Okay,” Grant says. “Fine.”

“One more thing.” Ajax steps into the room. His fellow guard keeps a wary stance as he pulls a rolled-up scroll from under the bed and tapes it to the wall next to the starscape window.

It’s a poster of the forest. Just like the one that hung in Sykora’s cell. He sits in front of it and stares. He looks up at the bulbous camera, where—presumably—a Taiikari version of the same working stiff he was a week ago is sitting and watching him. “Very fucking funny, folks,” he says.

“Glad it lands.” Ajax shrugs as he departs. “I don’t get it.”

They slide the glass door shut behind him. The lock engages with a red beep. And Grant Hyde is Batty’s prisoner.

He picks at his curry with the wide-bottom soup spoon provided. It’s smoky and buttery and ought to be quite delicious, he imagines, but he barely tastes it. After a few bites to give his stomach something else to complain about, he crouches by his go-bag. Someone’s picked through it, removed his utility knife and his gun, of course, and a few other things you’d want to keep from a captive.

He finds one of his paperbacks. A John Carter of Mars thing. He opens it to the dog-eared page—

And he can’t read it. Not a word of it. He barely remembers to look left-to-right; the characters swim on the page. That dementia feeling returns.

A wet mark lands on a drop cap. That’s the letter— the letter— what letter is that? He sniffs. Then he snorts. The tears are coming unbidden down his face.

These are his father’s books. The last of them. He doesn’t know what will happen to the rest, the ones at the Colorado apartment.

He has a sudden burning urge to call the guard back and go back upstairs to the only familiar thing in this place. To the beautiful little despot in her silk chamber, whose only demand of him is the thing he’s been aching to give her.

And then he’d be her property for the rest of his life.

Besides these books, his refusal is the only thing he has left. He needs to be smart in spending it. He needs to figure out his way in this world. And who this woman really is, and why she’s treating him this way, and whether there can be something real and decent between them.

Out the window, Maekyon isn’t even visible anymore. Just one glowing dot among many.

Earth. Maekyon’s name is Earth. Earth Earth Earth Earth. He will not forget that.

He looks at the backlit panel by his door. Bathroom, it says, in glyphs he’s never seen before. But that’s the bathroom. He can read it. Or he could, if his eyes weren’t blurred by his tears.

The window’s view of the stars disappears. In its place is the face of the alien calling herself his wife.

“Company of the ZKZ Black Pike. Your Princess has returned. I am resuming command of the vessel, effective immediately.” Sykora’s expression is regal and serious. Her eyelids are marked with rings of dark maroon.

“Majordomo Vora has regaled me with stories of your competence and loyalty. All probational positions and promotions are hereby confirmed. For the next tenday, starting tomorrow morning, half-duty is in effect. The precepts are relaxed accordingly. Boatswains: break out the kegs. Sergeants: overlook modest breaches of code. And be as joyful in your days as I am, to finally be among the most peerless crew on the frontier once more.”

She allows her stern face to soften.

“You have kept the ship and the sector. You have awaited me faithfully and heeded the orders of my command group. I am humbled by your faith and awed by your loyalty. Reap your rewards fully and without shame.”

Her eyes gleam. And for a moment it’s as if she’s looking directly at Grant, huddled on his cot. A full smile melts through the formal air, full of predatory promise.

“I know I intend to,” she says. “Glory to the Black Pike. Glory to the Empress.”

The broadcast ends.