Two Cycles into Sykora’s Pregnancy
“I’m showiiiiing!”
The cry jolts Grant out of sleep. He snorts and pulls a silk pillow over his face.
“I’m showing. I’m showing. I’m showing, showing, showing. GRANTYDE.”
A body collides with Grant. He grunts with surprise and wakes the rest of the way up. Sykora is kissing his chest, tail wagging with such speed that it whooshes through the air.
He blinks into the artificial morning and chuckles. “Good morning, Batty.”
“Grantyde of Maekyon.” Her eyes sparkle. “I am showing.”
“It’s too early.”
“Maybe for Maekyonites.” Sykora sits upright. “With your buns and ovens and such. But for Taiikari—”
“I an it’s too early in the morning for you to be in gremlin mode.” Grant sits up and lifts his giddy wife off him. Her tiptoes tap for purchase as he raises her into the air and lifts her shirt (well, his shirt, but she stole it) past her belly. “Are you sure?”
“Are you blind?” She fras her stomach with her hands. “Hold on. Put down. Maybe it’s the lighting.”
Grant deposits Sykora onto his lap. She traps the hem of her shirt under her chin and performs a presentational twist. “See?”
And Grant’s heart lurches. He does.
It was the lighting. It’s small, and it’s slight, but it’s there, undeniably. A bump on his wife’s belly.
“Oh yeah,” he breathes. “Oh, shit. There they are.”
He rests his hand on the subtle swell. It’s firr than he thought it would be, like a tensed muscle. And hot. Sykora already runs warm; the little pooch under his hand is practically a space heater.
“There they are,” he repeats, barely above a whisper.
“I’m having Grantyde’s babieeees,” Sykora sings. “Victory is mine, Maekyonite. My wicked plan has borne fruit. Taiikar three, Maekyon zero.”
He laughs as she punctures his breathless solemnity.
“I’m Grantyde. I’m sooo independent. Look at . Look how easily I can pick you up. Rebellion, democracy, et cetera. And then you ca in my royal pussy like a big dumb beast and now you and your lineage are prisoners of the Princess of the Black Pike.” Sykora shimmies her hips. “Clan Hyde is conquered. Its heirs are mine.”
She pushes the hem of her shirt down over Grant’s head.
“This is what I’ll look like,” she says. She scritches his head through the fabric. “I’m gonna get so fat and sweaty and crabby and gross and you’ll have to tell I’m beautiful every day.”
He kisses her stomach. “You are beautiful.”
He lunges forward and bears her onto her back.
“You’re beautiful. You’re so fucking beautiful. Look at you.” He covers her in kisses. “Holy fuck, Batty. You’re perfect.”
“You—hey—your beard is tickling .” She giggles and squirms under the amorous assault. “Dove! The pact. No tickling—ooh.”
He’s peeling her panties off. He kisses her belly, kisses the firm, radiating heat. Then he kisses lower, and when her foot nudges his face he catches her ankle and lifts it upward, admiring the supple fold of her leg in the morning light.
She pouts. “Big bully. You’re going to have to be more delicate with us soon, you know.”
He rests her foot on his shoulder. “I can be delicate.”
“Well.” She hooks her calf around the back of his neck. “Not yet.”
***
“It’s funny.”
Governess Doxima gazes out the do’s window, past the tempered glass and the sheets of rain. In the distance, across the rocky shelves and the oceans of mist, a strut of the geostabilizer station arches away, caging the troposphere like a nding stitch in Qarnaq II’s sky. A bolt of lightning reflects in her eyeglasses and splashes pale light across today’s humming little gathering of Governesses.
“The ghastly expense we underwent to make it rain on this world,” Doxima says. “The literal mountains we have moved so far. And then when it finally happens, one misses the sunshine.”
“I rather love the rain, actually.” Sykora moves her piece. The crawler they’re all aboard is moving quickly, clambering across the jagged stones of the still-inhospitable world, but through so Taiikari magic of gravity or gyroscopy, the ivory Gravitas board between her and Doxima is staying still. “Though I suppose a navy voidborn never gets the chance to grow sick of it.”
Doxima squints at the Gravitas board. “Hellfire. My periter. You are a terror, Majesty.”
Sykora laughs. “I learned from my majordomo. That is terror.”
“How plays this ga?” Governess Qilik-k-Eqtor leans forward on her overtaxed armchair.
“It’s a real bastard to get your head around,” Grant says. “You might want to use your translation panel.”
“I am think it, uh, dayti—ahk. Pardon.” Qilik turns the panel on. I think it’s about ti to switch back regardless, if you’ll pardon my weakness. There’s only so much new language an old brain like mine can take before I get a headache.
“I took a shortcut,” Grant says. “I can’t imagine it’s an easy language to learn the old-fashioned way.”
The captain of the Riven Land is developing voraciously, Qilik says. He inspires . I resisted a while, but it’s a pretty language, and I fear that by dragging this around—she taps the tablet as its words populate—I’ll seem unserious.
“You could use a live translator, if you prefer,” Sykora says. “A little classier. It won’t be begrudged.”
Sothing in that discomforts , Qilik says. I prefer to choose my own words, I suppose.
“Would you like to see if our lexicon is good enough to grasp the rudints of Gravitas?” Doxima waves her hand at the ga. “Resetting the board gives a splendid opportunity to gracefully concede to the Princess.”
I must pass for now, I’m afraid. But seeing the devilish complexity of the ga gives a new understanding of Imperial success.
“Not at all, Governess.” Doxima smiles. “What you and your people achieved within the confines of a republic is highly impressive. I have quite a lot of asuring up to do.”
Your stewardship of Qarnaq is much anticipated among our council, Governess Doxima. We’ll be watching to see how the Taiikari do it.
“I warn you I anticipate this expansion to be irregular,” Sykora says. “The Prince has indicated his intention to work closely with the Eqtoran Imperial Council. We will rely on your expertise as a forr mber, Qilik.”
Doxima glances up at Grant as Sykora says this, her expression carefully neutral. The Council is a risk they’re taking—it’s a vestige of the Eqtoran republic that has been allowed to retain a asure of power in the Paas system. Elected officials are not a common feature of Taiikari governace.
Whenever called upon. Qilik inclines her large head. Of course.
“Speaking of which.” Sothing else has snared Doxima’s attention. Sothing on her communicator. “Must jog for a mont, friends. Piece of business.”
Sykora replaces the kettle she was pouring. “Anything severe?”
“I’m not sure,” Doxima says. “Sothing needing attention at the Exo ring buildout, it seems. I’ve got a call to attend that will tell more.” She stands up. “I concede with no small relief, Majesty.”
The conversation reorients itself after Doxima’s exit; Sykora engages the keeper governess of Taiqan, a world she nearly destroyed, in a conversation about Eqtoran fashion. An overconfident baroness slides into Doxima’s abandoned seat to beco Sykora’s next victim. Qilik stands and walks to the edge of the observation deck. Another distant lightning bolt throws her bulky shadow across the floor.
Grant refreshes his savory, saffron-colored tea and approaches her.
“Governess Qilik,” he says. “We haven’t gotten the chance to speak one-on-one yet.”
Qilik looks over her shoulder and smiles. “Majesty.” She switches her translator panel back on. Would you mind repeating that?
He does, and she nods in recognition. Indeed we haven’t, she says. I’d like to thank you for all that you did during the initial annexation. I am told that Taiqan owes a great deal to you.
“I’ve been eager to spend more ti with the Eqtorans,” Grant says. “The Pike can be insulating in that way. But I happen to owe my life to one of the two Eqtorans aboard.”
You’re speaking of Ipqen-honoring-Taqa, yes? We’ve heard that she is advancing the ranks quickly.
“I am,” he says. “And she is. Ipqen’s been pretty incredible so far.”
I am quite happy to hear that, Majesty.
“You’re happy for her,” Grant says. “But are you happy?”
What do you an?
“It was difficult for , at first,” he says. “And I’m a Prince. You can keep it to yourself if you like. I know firsthand how hard it can be to say yes to the Taiikari.”
It’s a lie—saying no was the real challenge—but he’ll keep that to himself.
Qilik-k-Eqtor’s nostrils flicker; her broad chest expands with a slow, pondering inhale.
When I was Ipqen’s age, I lived with a sledge convoy on the Southern Ice. I was the best diver in my convoy. Put down below the ice with a spear and a searchlight and I could co up with a banquet’s worth of fish. And I loved it, loved the pressure and the dark. Like the ocean was embracing you. I moved to Highstep because I caught sothing called Whirlpool disease. A degenerative infection of the gnuik.
The tablet puts a dot next to that, and an amber line of text: [trans. note: an Eqtoran organ responsible for electroreception and barotric stability]
When I went below two lengths, Qilik says, that embrace I loved spun around instead, made sick and panicky. I t with an Eqtoran doctor who told that I could never dive again. I t with a Taiikari doctor a smallspan [trans. note: eight days] ago, She tells that I could have an artificial gnuikwithin a cycle. That I could dive deep again. Told it to as if she was advising tea for congestion.
Qilik pauses to take a drink of her own tea, as if she’s only just rembered she’s holding it.
I fought so hard against this. And I still rember my reasons. All my reasons. And how important they were. And now I am so comfortable, and I rember them as if rembering sothing embarrassing from my childhood. Is that right? Is that how it ought to be?
He realizes by her probing face that this is a genuine question. “I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t been in the Empire long enough to know. But if there’s anything amiss, anything you can think of, I want to hear it.”
It had been my fear that when the Empire claid us, they would be cruel. Treating us with suspicion or derision.
“Have they?”
Oh, no. Of course they haven’t. Qilik shakes her head. There is a—matronizing attitude I can detect at tis. They think us provincial. This rankles so of my colleagues. But I find little grit in the bite of it. We are, after all, provincial. As splendid as we thought ourselves, we are provincial. No; you have treated us well in these early days. There is friction, there are incidents, there’s compulsion and confusion. Inevitable that these things should happen. When they are brought to your attention or that of your ministers, they are rectified. My problems… aren’t logical, Majesty. It’s just a greedy sorrow. You need not listen.
“I know I don’t,” he says. “But I want to.”
Qilik sighs, and speaks:
Ipqen-honoring-Taqa now lives a life of awe and discovery. A long and splendid life. And the Empire is discovering in her the best of our kind. We are strong, and civic-minded, and loyal, and to many Taiikari, I’m told, we are beautiful. The integrated ships and the integrated armies. They progress well. You told we’d fit, and we do.
But Ipqen is the first, you see? Before I go to the far shore, I will bear witness to generations of Eqtorans who have never seen the first aurora of the dark season, who have never seen snow or the sun shining through the ice. They’ll never suffer from Whirlpool disease, as I suffered. And they’ll never dive Eqt’s waters, as I dived. They’ll never know the Republic. They’ll have their lives laid before them, packed and prepared like a gorgeous gift. Already they grow accustod to obedience. When your Empire masters the peak and the music, it will only accelerate.
It took many long turnings of the Republic for my people to learn to love such a wide and woeful thing as freedom. The vertigo of a choice placed firmly in their hands. It took scripture and song and generations. It will go away quickly, and the ones to co after will not miss it.
Grant rembers his conversation with Ipqen. The way she has to remind herself to be sad.
And so the Empire will adopt the Children of Eqt, as it adopted you. They will board Imperial ships and journey across the stars, away from the cold, dark, backward chill of their howorld. They’ll find their place in the Imperial sun. As warriors and explorers and engineers and husbands and wives. They’ll learn how to fly Taiikari ships and how to sing Taiikari songs. And here I stand like a still-breathing wraith, asking the unlistening wind—who will teach them to fish? Or ice-crawl? Or carve wqinik[trans. note: religious charms wrought from ivory or qlek nut] to the gods? They will have more of this life than my siblings in the council could ever offer. And I should be happy. I am happy. I am, Majesty.
She chuckles ruefully.
I’m like an overshelled qipnuq [trans. note: Southern Ocean shellfish, common food source of the High Ice Eqtoran tribes]. My joints are too calcified for the crawl forward. My fellows will cheerfully drag along, I’m sure. I’ll be no trouble, Majesty.
Her thick, blunt hand pats him on the shoulder.
Better this way, maybe. Better for everyone. Even for , with my grumblings. Forgive an old woman her sentintality.
“Nothing to forgive. Really. And, uh—” Grant hesitates. He doesn’t know what to say. He raises his hand to his eye, puts thumb and forefinger together around it. It’s a gesture he’s seen the Eqtorans make many tis.
Qilik smiles and mirrors the gesture. “Mjuk Eqt nqunuik,” she says, but she’s already tucked her translator under her arm, and Grant doesn’t see what it ant.
He wanders across the deck, finishes his tea, and crouches on reflex to place his teacup on a low side table, even though there’s several Eqtoran (and Maekyonite) sized ones scattered about the crawler’s cozy confines.
A laugh draws his attention. A familiar voice making an unfamiliar noise.
“I’m afraid you’ll have beat on the particulars, Ms. nai-Taqa.” Hyax is sitting between Ipqen and Ruaq on a fur-tufted couch, legs crossed. “It turns out that destroying a world is significantly simpler than creating it.”
The couch has an open strip at butt-level. Their three tails hang out of it; Ipqen’s is long enough for its thick, finned end to rest on the floor. Ruaq’s rests on Ipqen’s. Hyax’s is close, but not touching.
“It’s not so far off,” Ruaq says. “You’re still toasting a planet. You just stop when it dings.”
“That’s your official opinion as a terraforming expert?” Ipqen asks.
“Uh huh.” Ruaq puts a tile into a puzzle that sits before the three of them. “Just two kinds of firmant lasers.”
Hyax chuckles again. “That’s the great Imperial task. Picking the right laser.”
Ipqen clacks another tile down. “How long will it take?”
“A kilocycle from now we’ll be able to survive on the surface outside the dos,” Hyax says. “And then a kilocycle more, Gods of Qarnaq willing, we’ll have a paradise.”
“Two kilocycles.” Ipqen rubs her snout. “That’s around a hundred and fifty full-spans, right?”
“Yes,” Hyax says. “Just about.”
“Maekyonites would say about a hundred and twenty years,” Grant says.
Hyax grunts in surprise and turns around on the couch. “Majesty. You move far too quietly for your size. I bla Waian’s training.”
“Before you kidnapped us,” Ruaq says. “I thought I had fifty full-spans left, if I was healthy and lucky. I t a Taiikari doctor who tells I’ll live five tis that.”
“You don’t need to be lucky,” Hyax says. “Just remain aboard the Pike and we’ll ensure it.”
“Maybe two kilos from now we could co back here,” Ipqen says. “See the first flowers bloom on Qarnaq II.”
Hyax’s tail swishes to one side, and Grant could swear it was about to wag, the way it twitches still with sudden conscious effort.
“Maybe,” she says.
“Definitely,” Grant corrects.
“Dove.” A nudge at Grant’s hip draws his attention to Sykora, who’s being trailed by Lady Lakai of Kyin, the little purple imp who’s attached herself to Wen and Tik like a stray cat. “I hate to interrupt, but…”
Grant scratches Sykora behind the ear. “Not a problem. Hi, Lakai.”
Lady Lakai bows. “Majesties. Countess Wenzai and Governess Doxima would appreciate your presence. If Milady and Milord would accompany .”
Grant gives Hyax a parting salute and accompanies his wife in Lakai’s train.
“Very politely summoned, Lakai,” Sykora says, as Lakai leads them off the zzanine and into the crawler’s churning underdeck. “You’re developing manners.”
“Yeah.” Lakai winks. “I can clean up around strangers. Pretty good, right?”
“And we don’t count as strangers?” Sykora raises an eyebrow. “We’ve exchanged a score of words at the most.”
“Nah,” Lakai says. “Wen and Tik are your friends. That ans I get to claim secondary friend allegiance.”
“What are you to them, anyway?” Grant asks. “Wen and Tik, I an.”
Lakai cocks her head. “What do you an?”
“Like—are you their girlfriend now? I always thought of you as the type to bounce around the firmant. Now I always see you with them.”
“If it’s any consolation, Majesty,” Lakai says. “I’m still doing plenty of bouncing.”
Grant lets a laugh slip at the Lady’s audacity.
“Condolences if you were trying to get a piece,” Lakai adds.
“We were not, Lady Lakai, but congratulations,” Sykora says.
They move across a catwalk over a colossal set of pistons that grind as they position the crawler’s many exterior legs. A curiously circumspect pathway, Grant notes. “Where are we headed?” he asks.
“The hangar,” Lakai says, casually.
“Why are we going to the hangar?” Grant asks. “You couldn’t just tell us abovedeck?”
“Tell you what?”
“What’s going on?” Sykora’s celebratory mood is siphoning out of her.
“Oh,” Lakai says. “Thought I’d ntioned. Big chunk of the exo ring just fell off.”
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