Tymar is given a roomy office within the temple of the omnidivine. The deaconess happily surrenders it with a gentle bribe and so ungentle insinuations. Grant wonders aloud to Sykora about whether they ought to keep hiding their operations from the eyes of the clergy, but she declares the skulduggery at an end. “The Prince of the Pike will order and the Pike will obey,” she says. “Simple as that.”
She’s finally allowing Grant out of their bedchamber, but she’s sticking to him like an amorous pet, trailing in his steps all the way to Tymar’s temporary office like a little blue shadow, tail wagging, and lounging in his lap while he researches. Tymar excuses himself to the easy chair by the simulated fire.
“You can keep prepping for the doctrinal solution, hon,” Grant says. “I won’t reproach you or anything.”
“Absolutely not. I’m monitoring this little insurgency. I’ll find a way to be useful.” She demonstratively turns a page for him. “See?”
“Oh, yeah.” He kisses the crown of her head. “Essential.”
Tymar moves another of his translated Eqtoran books onto the growing pile at his feet. “That’s that for the Book of the Thaw.”
“Anything promising?” Grant asks.
“A few chants of allegiance. A few repeating structures. But nothing like a frawork for a full performance.” Tymar steps around the teetering stack up to the whiteboard the n have wheeled into the office. They’ve divided it in half; on top is a neatly ruled line of guitar tablature that Grant’s been filling in with a steadily evolving set of verses. On the bottom are Tymar’s notes, a chaotic tangle of cross-references, fragnts, and abandoned lyrics.
Tymar tucks his sleeve up over his palm and erases a chunk of text, careless of the smudge it forms on his mahogany robe. “I’m increasingly convinced by your Book of Renewal theory. We need to lean into the Tamuraq connotations.”
“It’s a big risk,” Ipqen says. She’s at the mantle, tinkering with a little brass gyroscopic statue of the swirling spiral form that represents the omnidivine while she tries to figure out the gravitational anomaly that powers it.
“Maybe.” Grant tears another pageful of drafts from his pad and crumples it. “But it’s where the Taiikari fit. Destruction and renewal. That’s annexation. We can’t divert the story; we have to convert it. The Book of Renewal’s the key.”
“I believe it’s ti to accept that we’ll infuriate so hardliners,” Tymar says. “Hopefully, they’ll be outnumbered and brought into consensus.”
“They will,” Grant says. “If we’re good. I like your idea of repurposing the marriage harmony from the Book of Oaths. Tying the knot between our cultures. That’s fun.”
Sykora turns another page for him. “If I ask what’s going on, will I understand, or is it a fool’s errand?”
“Tymar’s handling the words and I’m handling the music, basically.” Grant indicates the guitar he’s leaned onto the corner of the desk. “And Ipqen’s our bullshit detector.”
The Eqtoran flashes him a crooked finger that Grant’s learned is her species’ version of a thumbs up.
“What I need to do is figure out how much of the stuff I already know applies here,” he continues. “Like minor key, for example. I know that’s a darker, sadder sound where I co from. Eqtorans might see it differently.”
Ipqen tilts her head. “Play sothing. Dark and sad.”
“Okay.” Grant apologetically scoots Sykora off his lap and onto the desk, replacing her weight with his guitar. He plays a few bars.
“See, that scans as pissed-off to ,” Ipqen says. “If it sounded like—” She hums a line. Grant replicates it with a harmony underneath. Sykora’s tail sways to his rhythm.
“Oh yeah.” Ipqen nods. “That’s the bittersweet stuff right there.”
“Sweet.” Grant plays it again doubleti. “Good spot in the second movent for it.”
“Can I ask you all sothing?” Ipqen puts the gyroscopic statuette down and wanders over to the desk. “About the Taiikari?”
Sykora pivots on her butt and sits cross-legged to face her. “Of course.”
“Why do all the fellas hide their eyes? Is it a cultural thing?”
Grant’s stomach twists. He looks at Sykora and Tymar; they share his trepidation.
He clears his throat. “Well—”
***
“Ipqen.” Grant knocks on the cherrywood door to the office’s bathroom. “Can you co out, please?”
“No.” Ipqen’s voice is muffled. “Take back to Yuvik, man. Sorry. I’m done.”
“They can’t help what they are. Physically, I an. You’re huge, compared to them. You could beat one to death with your bare hands.”
“Outside, please, Brother,” Tymar murmurs to a cleric who pokes his head into the office. He hastily bows and withdraws.
“They have a bunch of guns to make sure I can’t,” Ipqen says.
“You’ll have anticomps to make sure they can’t.”
“Oh—Grant.” Sykora, who’s been peering worriedly from Grant’s desk, draws a finger across her throat.
“What are anticomps?” Ipqen calls.
“Give a second.” Grant crouches to his wife’s level. “What’s up?”
“They’re not supposed to have them at the beginning, dove,” Sykora says. “There’s a gradual introduction of the technology while we wait for the integration to proceed.”
Grant is already shaking his head before Sykora’s done. “Not this ti,” he says.
“Grant—”
“If this works, I’m about to deliver our Empress a civilization with a goddamn singalong,” Grant says. “They can move up the titable. Who decides when the Eqtorans get anticomps?”
“I do.”
“Then let’s make anticomps available imdiately,” he says. “As soon as we make so that can fit Eqtorans. That—” He glances up. “Ty. Can you take a walk for a second?”
“Of course.” Tymar collects his books and slips past Grant to the exit. “Good luck, both.”
Grant watches the cleric leave, then turns back to his wife’s anxious face. “That vision you have. The one you told the councilor. I want it, too. I want our kids to have Eqtoran friends. The sooner they get used to anticomps, the sooner they can co into the fold on a wide scale.”
“We’re giving up a crucial lever of control,” Sykora says.
“You’re good enough not to need it. You won’t need the wait. I think the more they understand you, the better this annexation goes. And I think this is you.”
She frowns. “What’s ?”
“rcy,” Grant says. “Giving these people the anticomps early. You act like I’m the only thing keeping you from being a tyrant. But I don’t think that’s true. I think you’ve been waiting for an excuse to be rciful. You want that from , and I want to give it to you.”
“I, uh.” Sykora is blushing. She fidgets beneath the intensity of his gaze. “This stands us out even further, Grantyde.”
“You’re not afraid of that. Rember when you asked the Empress for my freedom? That was the bravest fucking thing I’ve ever seen anyone do. I’m still in your debt on that.”
Her blush deepens.
“We sailed off the map when I was freed,” he says. “Let’s keep sailing. See what we find.”
Sykora closes her eyes and inhales.
“Please, Sykora,” Grant whispers. His heart is in his throat. Does he have the power he thinks he might? How far is she going to let him go?
“Yes.” Her eyes open. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” Sykora says. “But we’ll have to—”
He interrupts her with an urgent kiss.
“Grant,” she giggles, when their mouths part. “You—”
He pulls her back in. By the ti he’s done, her spine has liquefied and she’s draping breathless across the desk.
His face is warm and tingly. He keeps waiting for Sykora’s promises to go hollow, for her to shoot him down or overbear him. But she never does. She really fucking loves you, Grant.
“What will we have to do?” he prompts.
Her eyelids flutter. “I forget.”
Grant helps her back to her feet. “Ipqen,” he calls past his dazed wife. “Are you still there?”
“Where else would I be?”
Grant crosses to the door. “Anticomps are eyewear that’ll protect your males from the compulsion. They’re not perfect and they’re clunky, but they work.”
“And you’ll just give them to us?”
“Yes, we will. If this works like we want it to, and if you co in on your own accord, we will.”
No reply from the bathroom.
“Look,” Grant says. “The bad news is this all depends on rcy. Mine and Sykora’s. And I know that feels awful. The good news is you’ve t us, and you can decide yourself how much we an it.”
The silence stretches for a long-held breath. Then Ipqen opens the door.
“Need a walk,” she says.
Grant steps aside to let her through. “Are you all right?”
“Getting there,” she says. “But I need a walk.”
“You need an escort, Lady Ipqen,” Sykora says. “Forgive .”
“I’ll go,” Grant says.
“A marine has to co with you, too, dove. I regret the intrusion.” Sykora’s face lights up. She retrieves her communicator from its place on the table. “But I have the perfect candidate. Just give a few minutes, yes?”
Grant looks over her shoulder. “Who are you calling?”
“The Brigadier.” Sykora looks up and wiggles her brows aningfully.
He chuckles. “You’re such a matchmaker.”
“I matched us, didn’t I?”
“I think I did,” Grant says. “Who knocked on whose glass prison?”
He leans into her ear.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Thank you, baby. This ans more than I can say.”
She touches her blushing lower lip. “I think I got the idea.”
“Not yet, you don’t.” He gives her a playful pinch on the butt. “That’s just the first installnt.”
Her little eep smooths into a giggle. “Grant. There’s people.”
He rests his palms on the desk on either side of her, though they still itch for touch. “I will temporarily behave.”
She rubs one of his knuckles thoughtfully. “If you’re right about this music thing, it’ll be easier than it first seed to control them.”
“There, you see? Plenty of room for my wife to be a tyrant.”
“And for my husband to be a goody-goody.” She smirks. “You can tell you want this because it’s the right thing, you know. You don’t have to co up with argunts about efficiency when it’s ethics. You’re my conscience.”
“I’m not just going to make naïve puppy dog eyes at you to get what I want, babe. I’m a Prince. It’s ethics and efficiency. I really believe that.”
“Sure,” she says. “Poker face.”
He gives the stalk of her tail a parting squeeze and leans back. “All right, Ipqen,” he says. “Let’s walk. Watch your head.”
***
“I knew, already. It’s not like the eyes change much. Not like I didn’t know.”
A light mist settles on Ipqen’s cool blue skin from the automatic watering berths of the shipboard greenery that decorates the hab level’s observation deck. In the massive glass window, the Eqtoran armada are tiny floating dots across Taiqan’s horizon. Like gnats from here.
But there’s knowing and there’s seeing.” She doesn’t turn from the tableau. “Your people,” she says. “The, uh, Maeqonites. Do they have stories about alien invasions?”
“Yes,” Grant says.
“Stories where you can fight? And win?”
He nods. “A lot of them, yeah.”
“You think, well. You think the mont cos and you’ll be able to do... sothing. To stand up.” She wears a brittle smile. “But we never stood a chance. Never even the ghost of a chance.”
A detachnt of marines wander by, their guns magged to their racks, chattering and jostling.
“All the work, all the history.” Ipqen watches them exchange salutes with Hyax, who’s standing far off enough to give them privacy. “Everything we were. And none of it makes a difference. This is just—physics. Just immutable.”
“You stand every chance,” Grant says. “The struggle’s not impossible. Just different.” He glances at Hyax, and then realizes that he doesn’t care if she hears. As scarred and grumpy as she is, he trusts her loyalty. “There’s still control here. It can’t be open and confrontational. It requires prudence and patience. But there are levers.”
“It’s different with you,” Ipqen says. “You got lucky.”
“I got insanely lucky,” Grant says. “But you have sothing I didn’t.”
Taiqan’s reflected light glows off her face as she glances his way. “What’s that?”
“,” Grant says. “I’m inside. And whoever is next will have both of us.”
“I don’t know,” Ipqen says. “I think they got to you, Grant.”
“They did. As far as I’ve seen, they get to everyone. All we can do is get to them back. That’s our responsibility. I don’t think the rebellion is coming. You said it yourself, Ipqen. It’s physics. We can’t wait for it, and we can’t ask the people to throw off their chains and get lted by plasma. It’s us. It’s this. This is the most we can do. Maybe it’ll be enough.”
Ipqen sighs and looks back out the window.
“I know it makes sound cowardly,” Grant says. “If you want to call that, I can live with it. As long as you live, too.”
“Nah. You’re all right.” Ipqen detaches herself from the bannister. “Let’s get back.”
She wanders absently along the hab level pronade, gathering the sa gawking crimson looks that Grant rembers from his first days aboard the Pike. He watches the crew’s attention slide from the Eqtoran to him and Hyax, and sees the common pattern: from confusion to relief as they understand soone is in charge and has a handle on the situation. It’s getting easier and easier to return those bows with a smile and an incline of his head.
It’s also getting a lot easier to walk while bent at the waist for quiet conversation. Grant takes advantage of his new talent with Hyax. “Guarding Lady k-Taqa by yourself, huh, Brigadier? Not exactly the most efficient use of your ti, is it?”
Hyax’s lips thin. “Are you ordering elsewhere?”
“I’m just making an innocent observation.”
“You and Sykora are trying to fluster and it won’t work.” Hyax folds her arms. “The Lady has made a great sacrifice for her people. She’s brave, to be the first Eqtoran who willingly enters the Empire. Incredibly brave. I’m not ashad to say I admire her.”
“I’m the first Maekyonite, you know.”
“That’s right,” Hyax says. “I admire you, too.”
“Oh.” Now Grant’s on the back foot. “Thanks.”
Hyax glances at him with clear satisfaction for putting him offguard. “You’re welco.”
“Do you want to date an Eqtoran? Because Sykora thinks so. And she’s planning on being relentless about finding you one.”
Hyax grimaces. “She doesn’t have to do that.”
“You know how she is. I can warn her off.”
Hyax falls silent.
Grant’s steps slow. “Do you want to warn her off?”
“Eqtoran won seem…” Hyax’s attention strays to Ipqen, who apologetically moves her huge tail out of the way of foot traffic. “Challenging. I like a challenge.”
“A mountain to climb, huh?”
Hyax acknowledges the salute of a passing gefreiter with a stubborn stoneface. “You’re as bad as the Princess. I never should have set you two up.”
“You’re taking credit for us, huh?”
“Credit? Try culpability.” She scoffs. “When they string you up, I’ll dangle too.”
Tymar intercepts Grant as the party returns to the chapel’s ornate wooden archway. “Majesty. A mont before we go back in?”
“Uh—of course.” Grant nods to Hyax and Ipqen to go on.
“I have it,” Tymar murmurs, once they’re alone. “I think I have it. It was in the Book of Renewal.” He taps the laminated cover of the heretical book under his arm. “And it’s perfect.”
“Fuck yeah, man.” Grant slaps Tymar’s back. “Why are we whispering, then?”
“Because,” Tymar says. “Kora is going to really hate it.”
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