One Cycle into Sykora's Pregnancy

Throughout Grant's stay on the Black Pike he's stood atop the command deck in its conference configuration, sealed away from the bridge beneath a dome of stars and in close, private conference with his wife and officers. Its bridge configuration affords a view over the screenlit bullpen in which a score or more of the Pike's most talented and trusted servants handle the titanic tasks that maintain their Princess's control over the mile-long warship. As far as he knew, those were the two positions it was capable of.

So when the command deck, laden with garlanded blossoms and a bounteous cornucopia of food, slides through a suddenly open wall, and diagonally down a steeply grooved track, his first reaction is confusion.

His wife tugs at the fringed braids of his celebratory robe. "Watch your head, dove. The clearance on this track has me concerned."

Grant ducks down and witnesses the darkened passage through the Black Pike's red-lit guts. "Where are we going?"

"Hab level," Vora says. "We hardly ever use it like this because it's a pain in the ass to set up. But Newtide is an exception."

The darkness of the Pike gives way to the hab level's bright lavender day. The command deck descends from an ivory column built into the cavernous ring, and halts about ten feet up. The woozy gravitational view from here curls the ring-shaped level's ground somewhat away from them, creating an artificial distance that expands the size of the crowd they hover above.

Grant's never seen so many of the Pike's crew in one place at one time. Chattering engineers, sentinel marines in their beetle-shell HAK suits, dirt-smeared agro workers and robed priests of the omnidivine. A cloud of children perched on one another's shoulders or cradled in the arms of smocked and smiling caregivers. The miniature world over which he and his wife hold dominion raises a raucous cheer as Sykora steps to the bannister, resplendent in a golden laurel crown and a dazzling carnelian robe with its brocaded closure drooped artfully low to show off one sculpted shoulder. Grant stands at her side in matching—if borrowed—splendor, and feels somewhat like a mortal standing next to a benevolent goddess (and getting a fabulous view down said goddess's push-up bustier).

"Crew of the Black Pike," Sykora calls. "A joyful Newtide to you all. From your grateful Princess and Prince, we give to you three days of half-duty, feasting, and festivity. Take this time to celebrate yourselves and your place in the finest crew of the Empire. The capstone of the sector; the jewel of the Frontier. Let the cry echo through the conclusion of this decacycle and all through the next: Glory to the Black Pike!"

"Glory to the Black Pike!"

"Glory to the Empress!"

"Glory to the Empress!"

"And glory to you, my friends," she cries. "Now break out the kegs, fill your plates, and feast to bursting!"

A wash of applause and cheering unfolds in the wake of this pronouncement. Sykora waves munificently and turns to her command group. "Another decacycle down," she says. "I'm glad I was here for this one."

"Second Newtide in a row you don't get to sample the reserve, though." Waian swirls her long-stemmed glass of apricot-colored wine.

"You can't ruin this for me, chief engineer. I'm in too good a mood." Sykora crosses to the edge of the table and scratches Grant's beard as he takes his seat. "My stubborn lover. Just promise that you'll have fun once it's done."

"I promise." He unfolds the staplebound packet he's spent the morning on. "I only have a few pages left."

Her hand slips up from his chin to give him a light tap on the cheek. Then she turns to the command table, which is laden with redolent, brightly-colored foods. "And remember to eat."

Grant picks at a plate of jewel-tone crudités, popping a radish straw into his mouth as he chews over his papers. He usually does his homework in the cabin, but Sykora has lured him down. The amount of filing, itemizing, and overall mathematical horseshit to run a planet is exactly as much as he'd feared. But Grant's determined not to be an autopen; you only oversee the construction of your first planet once.

On the neatly typed pages, Wenzai's highlighted places where his decisions are called for and stuck sticky notes with her commentary.

Laskarix tW is the usual option for non-taiik ring harnesses but they can fail HARD depending on user error + our new partners aren't used to antigrav tech. Pazor Customs is asking for 40% for the Eqtoran retrofit but that's a onetime expenditure and then we are good forever, and it'll eventually pay for itself as other companies license the design. Maybe we get the Eqtoran council to bring that number down? Pitch it as an investment in the future of their commerce

-Wen

You talk to Pazor, I'll bring this to Qilik. If there's time give me the lowdown on Laskarix. Them being the usual option, and failing hard? I'm curious about that. Don't love it.

-Grant

OK hear me out. I know this seems like a bullshit upcharge but the workers are gonna be coming back from full days on their feet. I've seen the Eqtoran shuttles, and I have major safety concerns w/r/t the atmospheric conditions on a gas giant. I can get us a sweetheart deal on some marine surplus ships from a liquidating countess colony. The alternative is we tear out a row in each shuttle and redistribute the seats, but that retrofit is its own expenditure* and then we've got fewer bodies per shuttle.

*unless the Pike crews could do this for us?? Ask your wife maybe haha

-Wen

Not too worried. Eqtoran armada ships were cramped as hell. I like the sound of a sweetheart deal—send me some comparative interiors and I'll take a look.

-Grant

You can tell me to fuck off on this little upcharge, but I just really like crimson stripes for the atmo helmets. Sexy!!!

-Wen

Sexy indeed!!! Approved.

-Grant

A set of violet knuckles raps on the table next to his packet of paperwork. He glances up at Waian, a tankard in her hand and Pikkan cabbage wrap in her pointed teeth. She's wearing the same crimson engineering suit she always wears, her concession to the holidays a fluffy garland of black, white and red blossoms looped around her neck. Her fangs tear a hunk off the wrap and expose the crispy, saucy meat filling within; she takes hold of the rest and daintily removes it from her chompers. "Are you really doing paperwork in the middle of the Feast of Hope, Majesty?"

"Newtide's three days long, right?" Grant scoots his papers away from the turmeric-yellow sauce dripping from Waian's wrap. "I don't have that kind of time, I'm afraid. Gotta get these requisition orders checked and filled. I'm almost through. Just a few minutes and then I promise I'll be fun."

"Thought Wenzai's office would sort this part out," Waian says.

"There's some sections that it's illegal for her to fill out, as I understand it," Grant says. "And some other bits that need the Princess' signature on it. Or mine, I guess."

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

"You can probably go through the pages and initial everything."

"I can't just sign off on blank checks."

"You totally can, but I get what you're trying to say. Just don't take so long that the cabbage wrap fillings go cold. There's symbology at work with the plating. The quartermaster will vent himself if you don't make like you're wowed." Waian slides a laden onyx plate across the table and nudges a tightly-wrapped leaf into his hand. "Here. Made you one. Just try it, right?"

Grant takes a bite; the cabbage has the perfect balance between sauteed give and vegetal snap. "That is amazing. What are those little meat disc things in here?"

"You've never had hillduck liver?" Waian shakes her head. "I'm gonna go yell at Kymai."

Sykora points her gilded fork across the table. "Don't joke about that. He'll wilt."

Grant crosses out a final line and writes his signature beneath it, then sits back and clicks his pen shut. He scoots his chair out. "Okay," he says. "I'm fun again."

His wife leads him around the table, chattering about the different dishes on display and the far-flung sector worlds from which they've come. "Many of these ingredients we get from our Governesses," she says. "The first day of Newtide, the Feast of Hope, you give gifts that represent your hopes for the recipient's upcoming year. And everyone's grand hope for us is our mercy and our guardianship." She takes up a warty canary-colored hand fruit and wipes a lacy sleeve on it. "Here you are, dove. You're meant to eat the rind on this one."

Grant chuckles and takes a bite. The creamy flesh inside coats his tongue with an umber taste reminiscent of maple syrup.

He turns to a nudge on his hip. Waian's tail wags as she holds a tied-off velveteen sack up to him "Feast of Hope present for you, boss."

Grant licks his fingers clean and undoes the drawstring. Inside is a complicated harnessed backpack done up in linen and leather. "What's this, chief?"

"Baby bandolier." Waian points. "There's room for three and a diaper bag on the end there. This is my hope for you. That you'll be a hell of a dad."

Grant clips it on and does a little turn. "How's it look?"

Vora applauds. "Fabulous, Majesty."

"Oh, yeah," Waian says. "You're gonna be a regular shuttlebus with that thing. Shoulda given it stirrups so your wife could ride on the back."

"Grantyde gave you our gift already, yes?" Sykora asks.

Waian sticks her thumbs in her belt loops. "He did. I've got her in the terrarium. My first female bluff lizard. Gorgeous plumage. What hope does it represent?"

"That you'll keep being a great caregiver," Grant says. "We're gonna be counting on it."

Waian beams.

"What are you naming her?" Sykora asks.

Waian hums in faux contemplation. "I was thinking Ziavra."

"I told Sykora I wasn't ready to throw anyone in jail," Grant says. "Don't make me reconsider."

"If we are exchanging gifts." Hyax steps forward, hands folded tight at her back in habitual parade rest. "Would you be so kind as to accompany me to the lift a moment, Majesty? My Newtide present is something of a field trip."

Grant raises his brow, but Sykora is grinning and eagerly pushing him toward the lift. "Sure."

Hyax boosts them across the vessel, to a utilitarian hallway she took Grant down the day they met. He's used to seeing the armory crawling with marines; today they're all at the Newtide feast and his steps are loud and dry in chorus with Hyax's metalshod tread.

"You know, Hyax," he says. "Before the afternoon you and I spent down here, I hated my life on the Pike. You turned that around."

"I remember," Hyax says. "Such a mopey child."

"I'm trying to pay you a compliment, here," he says.

"Gladly accepted, Majesty." Hyax presses her tail to a plated armory door. "Here's my recompense."

The door hisses upward to reveal an armory, bristling with weaponry and HAK suits. Grant's eye slides across them and then stops on one suit in particular. The one that's been pulled from the rack and placed a step in front of the rest.

The Maekyonite-sized one.

"Happy Newtide, Majesty," Hyax says.

"Holy shit." Grant approaches the plated suit. He sees his own gobsmacked face reflected in its deep red visor. It stands sleek and martial and fucking badass. A scarlet half-cape, flourished and filigreed like a tapestry and stitched with the Pike's crossed-halberd sigil, hangs off one pauldron.

"This represents my hope that you'll continue your martial training," Hyax says. "And that you'll wear this HAK suit whenever an emergency calls for it."

"I absolutely will." Grant bends the suit's arm and stares at the woven crimson between the sleek black plates of the armor. "Goddamn, Brigadier. This is such an amazing gift."

A rickety grin crosses Hyax's face. "Don't salivate on the circuitry, Majesty."

Thank you." Grant digs into his pocket. "Sykora and I have something for you, too, by the way. Kind of a piss-poor exchange with how incredible this is, but…" He pulls out a pencil-sized vial with a stylized leviathan head at its crest. "Happy Newtide, Brigadier."

Hyax weighs it in her hand. "What's this?"

"It's a bottle of cologne," Grant says. "An Eqtoran scent called Luiqa's Shroud. Lance Corporal Talem says that Eqtoran ladies go crazy for it. And I guess he'd know."

Hyax grimaces. "I suppose I can guess what your hope for me is."

"Our first conversation," Grant says, "you told me that I was objectively attractive."

Hyax's face is a masterclass in blankness. Grant sees where Master Sergeant Ajax gets it. "I don't remember that," she says.

"You definitely did."

"It was a wide-ranging conversation," Hyax says. "All I recall is your commendable stubbornness and mediocre marksmanship."

"You said sploosh."

Hyax fidgets with the bottle. "If you say so, Majesty."

"You did a hand gesture."

"I'm sure I'd remember a hand gesture."

"Well, consider this an equal retort," Grant says. "A nonflirtatious, objective recognition that you are hot. Sykora and I hope the Newtide brings you the confidence to act on that. In whatever way you choose."

"I'm thinking, perhaps. If there is time." Hyax carefully considers whether she wants to continue. "Perhaps I might invite Lady mek-Taqa and her fiancee to a tour of the settlement on Qarnaq II."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I'm told their fishery has reached a stable enough population to permit limited catching. And I wonder if perhaps they would teach me how to ice-fish. Don't tell Wenzai I'm making this attempt or she'll be insufferable and I'll have to throttle her."

"Sounds like a wonderful time," Grant says. "Fishing, that is. Not throttling."

"And a useful skill," Hyax observes.

"And a good way to get chilly enough you have to snuggle for warmth."

"You people are lechers."

"Hey. I promise I'm done after that."

Hyax smirks and holds up a finger. "That's tomorrow, Majesty. Not today. Today is for what we choose to bring forward into the new deca. Tomorrow is for what we choose to leave behind."

"Like habits we want to break?"

"Indeed. Or pledges we're giving up on, or things we've outgrown. The second day of Newtide is the most popular day of the entire decacycle to break up with your significant other."

"That's a riot. I don't think Maekyonites ever had a holiday specifically designed to break up during." Grant hits the activation button on the chest plate console and watches the preferences unfurl. He sets the helmet HUD to a cool blue and affirms his right-handedness.

"There was a time when the only day of the decacycle it was safe for a man to break off a relationship was the second Newtide day," Hyax says. "It's a terrible look to insist a thing continue past a declared cessation on the second Newtide day. It afforded the vulnerable a way out."

Grant looks up from the chestplate control panel. "You have a way of accentuating the horrifying parts of your own civilization, Hyax."

"That's what I do," Hyax says. "Hover around and rattle the chains of the old Empire."

He sets the chestplate back on the HAK. "And the third day is for introducing the new, right?"

"That's right," Hyax says. "That's when your wife's announcement to the sector is scheduled, though I maintain it's too early."

"Why's that?"

"You and Sykora are the first Maekyonite and Taiikari to interbreed, Majesty. There is less of a guarantee than I think your wife insists upon."

Grant's throat goes dry. "You think?"

"Well, I'm no expert in gene-splicing, but I'd think that—" Hyax comprehends the look on his face. Hers immediately colors. "Uh. Forget I said anything, please, Majesty."

"It's okay."

"I am a worrywart."

"Sure," Grant says.

"I really ought to have thought before I spoke." She looks at him beseechingly. "Don't let it ruin your holiday."

"Right."

Hyax grimaces. "I don't mean to be insensitive. It just happens that way. And I make people uncomfortable. It is a very regrettable trait. Please accept my, uh…"

"You haven't made me uncomfortable," Grant lies. "It's all right, Brigadier. Really, it is."

Hyax nods, but the gruff cheer Grant managed to coax out of her has flickered out again, and as they depart the armory she's returned to her customary rigid silence.

In the early cycles of their relationship, Grant took Hyax's stony terseness for a warrior stoicism, and her solitude as a deliberate choice. Often, he's sure, they are. But he's come to the uncomfortable realization that, unlike all the rest of the command group—and most of the Taiikari he knows—Brigadier Hyax is not a happy person.

He's considering how he might bring a measure of festivity back to his dour Brigadier when his communicator chirps. He unsaddles it from its place on his belt and sees Vora's callsign. He clacks the answer button. "You've got Grantyde, here with the Brigadier."

"Majesty." Vora's voice is flat with anxiety. "The Princess is requesting you both report to the command deck as soon as possible. We've returned to the Bridge configuration."

Grant exchanges a glance with the Brigadier, whose dark mood darkens further. "Why's that?"

Vora clears her throat on the line. "We've received a transmission from the former Cloud Gate sector. Privateers belonging to Dantia of the Bright Covenant have been spotted less than 4 firmament leagues outside Black Pike space. Far closer than we'd counted on this early in its resettlement."

"What are they doing out there?"

"We're not sure, Majesty," Vora says. "But plasma discharges have been detected. Er, quite a few of them. I—hold on."

A shuffling sound as the communicator is passed from one hand to the other.

"Get up here, dove." Sykora's voice is rough-grained with indignation. "That Bright Covenant harlot's servants are blowing shit up next door."

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.