In dim red cradles of artificial leather and chattering machinery, two-person interceptor crews flick automatically through their pre-combat checks and their private litanies. Pilots adjust gyroscopic navigators. Gunners zero heat gauges. A vividly azure woman with a braided sideshave shares a long, lingering kiss with a crouching marine at the gull-wing door of her fighter. A soldier hangs his anticomps on the twin joysticks of his swivel gun and rests his forehead on his tattooed knuckles in silent prayer to his homeworld's dozen goddesses of war. His pilot snaps her gum and drums her palms to the saccha-pop single that's been stuck in her head all day.

An insistent beep brings everyone's attention to their dashboards, and the face that fizzes into visibility on their screens. The Princess of the Black Pike, tricorne low on her head, hair flowing weightless around her, eyes shadowed and fervent.

"Warriors of the Black Pike," she says, and they attend every word, watch every movement. "You go now to answer the call of a needful firmament. Fight with valor and with my faith and love at your backs. Bring the fury of your Empress's reproof down upon these alien machines, keep one another safe, and return in victory. Glory to the Pike. Glory to the Empress. Stand by for launch."

The Brigadier's voice cuts in. "All Indus vessels, Black Pike transmitting. Comm check."

Atrakai tucks her mother's lucky coin into her flight suit's sleeve. "Indus Red. Comms clear, Black Pike."

Suthuk raises his anticomps to his forehead—he never flies in them, and who'd flash him anyway? His gunner? "Indus Gold. Comms clear. Let's pop these ticks."

Kolari is as motionless as she's been since she buckled herself in. "Indus Blue. Comms clear."

More craggy vessels stream toward the Imperial line; a kicked wasp's nest, fretted with the flashing light of cannon.

The Pike looms vast and dark and invincible across the horizonless void, sending great raking beams and bursting flechettes across the oncoming horde. The shepherded frigates flicker fitfully below the fire of pestilential drones.

"Pike's up," the Brigadier says.

The three squadron leaders join their voices: "Pike's up."

The launch lights toggle blue.

A broadside of interceptors, gleaming and razor-winged, erupts from the split-open flanks of the massive ZKZ. The fighters cant and spin along the luminous ribbon flight paths guiding them to their targets. Color-coded formations mobilize into spearheads that cut through the violent void. Membrane envelopes flash white and resolve into scintillating shields.

The drones' cannons burst bright, flickering like will-o-wisps in the diffuse nebula light. The Pike's combat pilots stream through their line and twist round again, into intense spiraling dogfights.

Silent vacuum. Pluming vapor. The fizzy thud-thud-thud of the interceptor membranes as they're raked with tracer fire, the strident beeping of the cockpit systems. The chirp-clack of the target acquisition kicking the missile pods into gyroscopic motion. Knuckles tighten and sweat runs down foreheads. The Princess and her Pike can rely on the membrane. The interceptors who slice outward from the bulwark must turn to their skill instead.

"Over to you, Hyax. Task them." Sykora turns from the fight to her Brigadier. "First priority is holding the defensive sphere around the Pike. Second priority is the disabling and retrieval of an enemy unit for the engineering corps."

Hyax snaps a salute. "We'll get it done." The gesture swishes her halfcape outward like a cardinal's wing. Her short platinum hair is a pale halo around her in the gravityless chamber. "Depend upon it, Majesty."

She takes two loping steps and then leaps out onto the bridge. Her HAK suit fires out jets of vapor that turn her in the air and land her before a bank of tactical consoles, each crewed by a murmuring crewmate with a sizable headset and a gridded view of cockpits and readouts. Their tails snake behind them to the split console telescoping from the rear of their seats, nudging joysticks and swiping across touchpads to navigate their camera feeds without taking both hands off their keyboards. Grant wishes, not for the first time, that he had a tail.

Around a score—

Around two dozen status bars snap into existence in flowing columns around the edges of the massive monitor out to space. Vital signs, system statuses, metered bars representing membrane strength. Grant's been hanging out with the Taiikari too long. He's thinking in base-twenty.

"I didn't know HAKs had those little thrusters on them," he says. "I spent all this time learning maneuvering and I could have just been a rocket man?"

"It's better that way." Sykora hops into the air. "You're getting your voidlegs."

"Won't always have a HAK suit on, after all," Vora adds.

"You say that," Grant says. "But gimme a spare for the laundry and I'd live in one."

"And miss out on my husband's legs in tight breeches? I forbid it." Sykora twists round and holds her hand out. "You remember the launch kick?"

He kicks off from the deck, rolling the movement from heel to ball, and floats into the ether. Vora applauds. "Well done, Majesty!"

Sykora takes his hand in hers and anchors them both to one of the bridge's columns by her tail. She's got that smug grin on her face she gets sometimes, when she shows him off.

"Before you ask," she says. "As long as we keep the occurrences brief and uncommon, the triplets should be fine in zero gravity."

"Knew that already," he says. "Waian's got me reading all kinds of literature."

"Ladies of the Heavenly Court preserve you." Sykora rolls her eyes. "Don't put too much stock in all those baby books. We're going to have to improvise."

"Why's that?"

"Because you won't want to raise your children in the programmatic way, dove. I know you." She pats down the floating chains and braids on his uniform.

He catches her hand and kisses her knuckle. "I'll behave."

She gives his nose a playful flick. "I've heard that before."

A ringing cheer from the bridge as one of the enemy capital ships detonates, sending a spherical supernova across the battle line. It shines in his wife's big beautiful red eyes.

"We're mowing them down out there," he says.

"The crisis is whether we can do it quick enough." Sykora frowns at the war outside. "Those machines out there represent a civilization that grew into a mighty carapace and died within it. It's always bittersweet to witness a technology tomb. Like witnessing the great ribs of some ancient megafauna." She looks his way. "Does Maekyon have megafauna?"

"Yep," Grant says. "Remind me to show you Jurassic Park sometime."

Sykora's ears perk up. "Is that some kind of nature preserve?"

"It's a movie."

They float together, Grant and his alien wife, in the cocoon of murmuring dark and blistering light. Grant listens to Hyax and her officers calling out commands and the constant drumming of his massive home's massive cannons.

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He huffs a laugh. Sykora glances at him. "A park is a nature preserve, isn't it? Did it translate oddly?"

"Not that," he says. "I was just thinking. A couple years ago I had a ceiling tile in my bathroom fall out. Leak in the apartment upstairs. That building had a terrible landlord, a real slumlord type, and—"

A ship the size of a cruiseliner plows into the Pike and rebounds from it, tumbling end-over-end. Its metal skin peels outward from the heat and impact, bleeding great rivers of shining fuel.

"Sixty-eight, Majesty," Waian calls. "Running out of camouflage."

"Acknowledged, chief engineer," Sykora calls. "Your landlord, dove?"

"Right. We were arguing over comms about getting someone out to fix it. And I remember thinking…" Grant follows a wing of interceptors tearing past the main monitor, widening from a speartip to a chevron as they strafe a beetle-shelled drone carrier. "I remember asking myself why is every day such a battle?"

A scoffing laugh from Hyax at the tactical bank. Vora's silvery giggle sounds from the command deck. Sykora joins in. "Why is every day such a battle?"

"Blue Four is at sixty-six percent integrity." The sharp report from the combat analyst punctures the levity. "Blue Squadron is engaged at seventy-Z. The hostile smallcraft form designated as E-drone has a self-detonation module that threatens major damage to the interceptors' membranes."

Sykora parts from her husband; her tail delivers a final brush against his jaw as she floats back to the command deck. "Put Blue's tactical view onscreen."

An eight-part splitscreen sprawls across the main monitor. Eight whirling cockpit views full of railfire and flashing missile indicators and shattering drones. To Grant the effect is dizzying, overwhelming, and not a little motion sickening. Sykora's trained vision dances across them without visible effort.

"Staggered crescent, Majesty?" Vora calls.

Sykora nods. "Staggered crescent at a ninety to the Pike. Keep them split, Brigadier." She hisses aggravation at a bursting drone which bathes one of the cockpits in the white glow of a pummeled membrane. "Vora. Patch me through to those privateers."

Grant pushes off from the column and floats to Sykora's side. "What do we need from them?"

"It's time for these noncitizens to put their own people on the line." Sykora rests a palm on the burnished mahogany bannister. "Perhaps you've made me good, but you haven't made me kind."

The front panel of the bannister slides open; the directional mic slides up from it. "Connected, Majesty." That's Ensign Valduei, Grant thinks; he has begun an undertaking to learn everyone's names.

"Black Pike to Iron Promise and Cinnabar Dawn," Sykora says. "Three interceptor squadrons are braving the fight to defend you. Whatever ship-to-ship smallcraft you have, you are ordered to launch them in support of my warriors. Obey all tactical commands and you may yet survive."

"Cinnabar Dawn to the Pike." The trembling chihuahua captain's voice pipes in. "Many of our ships were destroyed in the initial contact. We'll send out what we can."

"That will have to do. Pike out." Sykora slaps the hardwood covering back over the mic. "Indus Blue is to cycle its low-membrane interceptors back into hangar for recalibration. We'll plug the line with privateer mettle, such as it is."

The servants of the Bright Covenant launch their patchwork fleet into the firestorm firmament. Grant doesn't know much about stellar combat, but he can tell the divide between the Pike's warfighters and these. Their vessels are plainly bulkier and less advanced than his wife's complement of sleek Kovikan-wrought interceptors, and their formations are haphazard in their flight.

And they're not doing this by choice, he remembers. The Pike pilots swore themselves to this life. The privateers have had it forced upon them. He glances at Sykora's unpitying face as their rescuees join the battle. If it weren't for her, all these people would be dessicating corpses in cold vacuum. He must try to remember that.

"I need a sample, Majesty." Waian throws another readout onto an increasingly-crowded desk at her side. "We're out of plug-and-play solutions and we're almost out of fake membrane space. I'm not bringing us below fifty."

"You needn't, chief engineer," Sykora says. "Hyax. We need a specimen, Brigadier."

"All interceptors." Hyax is pacing across the tactical row. "Redouble your efforts on drone capture. I want to see those EMPs firing."

"Majesty." Vora's urgent by Sykora's opposite side. "Gold Squadron. Look."

Sykora's nostrils flare. "What's happening with Gold Squadron? Put them up on the monitor. Black Pike to Indus Gold. Your position is fraying. What's your situation?"

"It's these self-detonators, Black Pike. And these goddamn amateurs." Indus Gold's voice is straining through gritted fangs. "We need tactical oversight on them. My people can't keep them—hellfire. Hellfire."

Everyone's talking at once, suddenly.

"Gold Three is critical. Repeat, Gold Three critical."

"E-drone on your fifty down. Stay tight. Stay tight."

"Gold Three, your membrane is on the verge of failure. Pull back immediately."

"Trying, Pike." The woman on the comm is clipped and professional. "There's no path back."

"Stay evasive, Three. I'm coming."

"Too late." The helmeted woman in the cockpit camera flips her visor up. Her face is full of focus and conviction. Grant knows that woman. He's met her, spoken to her. What's her name? "It's too late. Hull integrity failing. Break off, Suana. Don't overextend. We'll draw them away." Her fist rises from her controls and slaps into her chest. "Glory to the Pike."

A brief bright flash as a second-long addition to the burning starscape blooms and flares out. The blinking Gold Three goes gray.

"Fucking hellfire," Sykora murmurs, quiet enough that only Grant can hear.

Grant watches as the dying interceptor's glowing nova flares out and dies away. First the vision, then the fact, then the import, then the emotion taking up the rear as understanding coasts into his mind.

For the first time, he's just witnessed the death of a Black Pike soldier.

Don't show this on your face, Grant. Your wife has enough to worry about right now. She's about to look at you. Be a Prince. Don't stand there like a horrified civilian.

He snaps his mouth shut by the time of his wife's fearful glance his way. "Do we just tell those ships to go back in?" he asks, before she can fret over him. "We can't burn people playing sheepdog to them."

"We need their numbers." Sykora shakes her head rapidly enough she needs to hold a hand up to keep her tricorne in place. "Especially if we're going drone hunting. No; they're staying out there. But I'm not getting any more of my people killed protecting them from their mistakes." She raises her voice as she stomps across the deck. "Tell that thickheaded crook in the Iron Promise's captain chair to tighten her smallcraft the fuck up. Brigadier, keep our pilots back. If their outriders want to get themselves obliterated, they can do it without our bulwark."

Hyax huddles over her comlink. "All units, pull closer to the Pike. Your defensive perimeter is not to extend past the larger vessels."

Sykora turns back to him, her face full of anxiety, her lips trying to form the words for some comforting word or explanation. "It's okay," he whispers. "I get it. It's okay."

"Blue Two has drone capture." The steely training and the distortion of the comlink can't hide the excitement in Indus Blue's voice. "Black Pike, be advised. We've got one."

"Thank the Gods of the Firmament." Sykora sighs and breaks the momentary frozen moment with Grant. "Chief Engineer."

"I know. I know. I'm on it. I'll take it on H4." Waian hurriedly stuffs her tablet into a chunky yellow-striped duffel. She yanks her communicator from her belt and taps it on. "Hangar four, we have an incoming capturecraft. Hangar four, incoming. Maz and Meena. Get to—uh, not Meena. Meena's on maternity. Maz and mek-Taqa. Get to H4 and prepare to attune membrane. Load a modular harness into bay. I'm a minute away."

Sykora's muttering something under her breath, eyes lidded. A prayer, Grant realizes, as he hears a snatch of it. Has he ever heard Sykora pray before?

"Majesty." Waian is clomping up the command deck stairs on her way to the lift. "Can I borrow your husband? The modular harness is usually a bastard to refit onto a captured vessel. I've got a theory that with two big strong aliens it'll go a lot quicker. And every second counts."

Sykora looks up from her orison. "I, um—" Waian pulls Sykora closer in and whispers to her. Sykora's focus flips briefly to Grant, and back. Her spine straightens. "Right. Dove, would you go with the chief engineer? Please."

"Yep." Grant has an idea of what they're saying, of their anxiety over him. He is a Prince now. He will not be a problem or a distraction. He strides toward the exit, and if his head is cloudy with emotions he doesn't have a name for yet, he's proud of how sure his feet are now in these magnetic boots. He crouches down by Sykora and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Fuck 'em up, Batty," he whispers.

She returns the kiss. "I will."

Then he's off the deck, and his stomach does a twisty somersault as gravity's tug returns.

"Okay." Waian's jogging across plush carpet and lab-wood tile to the lift; Grant only has to powerwalk to keep up. "You come with me, stick close, let's make ourselves useful and get our people home. Yeah?"

"You got it, Waian."

"You're good, Grant. You're doing really fucking good. I see you up there." She delivers a punch to his hip. "Stay strong while we're in it, open up after. And to your wife, too, I mean. I know you're seeing Oryn. But don't be afraid to let her in."

"I'm okay. I'm honestly okay."

"All right." Waian does not sound convinced. "But once this is over, she's gonna want to talk to you. Be honest with her, yeah? She'll feel like she's being useful if she can help you process it. And you're gonna need to, once the jitter-juice is out of you. A talk and a drink. Trust."

Grant chuckles. "Jitter-juice?"

"You know what I mean." Waian sticks her tongue out.

"I do."

"I'm gonna need it," Waian continues. "That was Reina. You knew her?"

"Reina?" Grant's pace slows down. "I did. Fuck me. She was one of the first people I met on the Pike. Shooting with her boyfriend on the range."

"I'd started something up with those two," Waian says. "Guy's named Kamen. I kept telling them to make it official and stop putting it off." She takes a deep breath and lets it out through her mouth. "Strong while we're in it, Majesty. Okay? Strong while we're in it. Make sure it meant something. Get everyone home for a drink in her memory."

"Strong while we're in it," Grant echoes, and if he doesn't feel better as he slaps the lift summon button, he feels focused. And that's something.

Waian's metal fingers flex backward at a biologically impossible angle and snap back into place. "Let's collar this fucking drone."

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