A trill at Waian’s door interrupts the music momentarily. She dances over to the panel and thwaps her tail against it, as she finishes shimmying her pants on.

The cabin opens to the royal couple. Waian is pleased to see they’ve obeyed the come cozy mandate. Grantyde’s in a fleecy burgundy hoodie. Sykora is in one of Grantyde’s shirts, displaying a rangy-looking Maekyonite with a sleek, electrified geedar strapped to him. The hem goes down past her knees.

“Evening, Waian,” Grantyde says.

“Hey, kids.” Waian bows low, and comes up with her arms open and her fly zipped. “Welcome to the Temple of Waian.”

Sykora laughs as she accepts the hug. “I’m afraid we forgot our tithes.”

“That’s all right. I’m outta heavenly wrath for the day.” Waian’s tail points around her cabin as she embraces the crouching Maekyonite Prince. “Figured we’d watch in the nook. Bathroom’s just through that door. We’ve got still water, sparkling water, fruit nootch, beer, and this Kovikan booze I got as a gift and haven’t been brave enough to touch yet. It’s viscous. And we have Grant's thing in the kitchenette next to the stove. I’ve got an order halfway put-in to G&G if you take a look at it and get intimidated by the cheese factor.”

“Who’s—hey, man.” Grant waves. “Pardon the question, but who’s that?”

The marine sitting on the bed salutes as he zips his uniform on. “Hey.”

“That’s Lance Corporal Tilard,” Waian says. “Don’t worry about him. He was my previous appointment. He’s heading out.”

“Yup.” Tilard tucks his boots under his arm and bows. “Majesties.” He slips out Waian’s cabin door.

“You can call him back if you want, Chief Engineer,” Sykora says. “Everyone gets a plus one.”

“I gave mine up to Hyax,” Waian says. “She has a plus-two.”

“Oh, shit.” Grantyde’s eyebrow quirks. “Are they…”

“Yep.” Waian folds her arms in satisfaction. “She finally gave in and asked them. All I had to do was threaten to crash us into a sun.”

“Selfless of her.” Grant indicates the couch, which he’d take up about half of. “Mind if I sit here?”

“Nope. Your throne awaits, Majesty.” Waian’s tail scoots a throw pillow out of the way. “Is this a kissing kinda movie? Do you think we’ll get ‘em canoodling?”

“Not exactly a kissing one, I’m afraid.” Grantyde takes a load off. Waian is proud of her couch, the way it doesn’t even groan beneath the alien’s weight. His foot taps to the pakka music piping through Waian’s speakers.

“I have to doubt we win the war tonight,” Sykora says. “But I intend for this to be a critical first sortie.”

“We’ll do When Harry Met Sally next time.” Grantyde boosts Sykora into his lap. “That’ll be the killing stroke.”

Waian opens the fridge and passes out beers. “You up to give us a little intro before showtime?”

Grantyde pops his tab. The can is comically small in his Maekyonite hand. “Sure.”

Waian remembers when the Prince of the Black Pike first came aboard. How horrified and alone he looked. She’d pulled Sykora aside after her return, asked her: Boss, a husband of the void? I thought— And Sykora had fixed her with wide wounded stare and said That is not any of your concern, Chief Engineer. 

And that’s when she knew that Sykora wasn’t actually back, not really. That she wouldn’t be for some time yet. Waian went through the same thing when her ship went down with all hands but hers (and half of hers, to boot). They brought her back in, and they gave her a new arm, but she was still floating in the dark for half a decacycle after. Some hurts only fade with time, she figured.

But Grantyde sped it right the fuck up and got himself freed in the process. Waian remembers when all she saw in him was a born victim. Now she thinks the Prince is a great fucking guy. Cute, naturally curious, and just about the nicest man in the firmament to everyone he meets. She’d cheerfully fuck His Majesty until it broke off in her, but some folks you know not even to ask, and he makes as good a friend as he surely would a bedmate.

He’s going to give Waian such adorable grandkids. She cannot wait.

“You want an assignment while we’re watching, boss?” she asks.

“Sure thing.” Grant’s an eager student, which Waian always appreciates.

“All right.” Waian drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re gonna lift something off Oryn. I’ve let Vora know to expect it, so she’s going to have an eye on you. If she sees, you lose.”

“Really now, Chief Engineer.” Sykora’s mouth twists as she sets her beer on the couch’s arm rest. “You’ve press-ganged the majordomo into this now? You’re going to distract her from the movie.”

“She’s a multitasker. That’s what majordomos do. Anyway, she’s happy to play the spoiler. So keep an eye on her and time your move. Take something, hold onto it, give it back after the movie.” Waian wags her mechanical finger at Sykora. “And no help from your wife. We’re still working on solo lifting.”

Sykora grouses. “You know how I feel about this little apprenticeship in the first place, Waian.”

Waian and Grantyde share a look. Sykora chewed them both out when she found out about the Narika lift, but Waian was thrilled. That wasn’t her idea—it was extra credit. Big-ass fangs on Grantyde’s part, too. Picking a Void Princess’s pocket is an impressive piece of work. As protective as Sykora is of her big hunky husband, even she had to admit it. The Prince might not have a tail, but he’s great at the stall. His sheer size acts as its own novel distraction, and gives him admirable wingspan.

“I gotta make your husband useful somehow, boss,” Waian says. “You taught him flying. Vora’s teaching him Gravitas and which fork to use, Hyax is his shooting instructor. For me, it was this or interceptor maintenance.”

“And I didn’t fit in any of the maintenance hatches,” Grantyde says.

Sykora gives a dismissive swipe of her tail. “I understand the logic and the use. I just worry you’re a bad influence.”

“Which of us do you mean?” Waian asks.

“Both of you. On each other.”

Another chime sounds and Waian boogies back to the door. Here’s the Majordomo and her husband.

“Vor.” Waian gives her a tight hug. “Hey, kid. In you come.”

“Hi, Waian.” Vora kisses her cheek. “Thank you for hosting. You’re our heroine.” Her nose wrinkles. “What is that fascinating smell?”

“The Prince’s newest cheese monstrosity. Grab a piece.” She gives Oryn’s bicep a squeeze as he passes. “Hi, Specialist.”

He grins back and taps his tail against her hip. “Chief Engineer.”

Waian’s never done it with Vora, and very much doubts she’d say yes even if the majordomo asked. That’s one of her kids, right there. But the majordomo does barter Oryn now and then. Kind of a humble-brag, if you ask Waian. He’s one of those guys who’s mild as a field mouse by the light of day and a typhoon in the sack. Vora warned her the first time and she was all cocky, accustomed as she was to big strapping marines. She was walking zig-zag for a tenday.

Oryn retrieves a pair of slices for himself and his wife. He examines the loop-de-looping glassware set up next to the food and its opaque liquid. “What’s that bottle?”

“It’s this goopy Kovikan stuff,” Waian says. “The Chief Engineer of the Bronze Needle gave it to me after the nose cone thing. I’ll give you a cred if you try it and report back, Specialist.”

Oryn gives the bottle an experimental swish. “I do believe I’ll take you up on that.”

“Knew you would.” Waian pokes her head through the open door and looks down the hallway. “Hey hey. What’s up, fishies?”

Ipqen-mek-Taqa waves and breaks into a half-jog. The newest Lady of the Black Pike coterie is a stompy one. Ruaq-nai-Taqa, her perpetually cheery shadow, holds a foil-lined tin out. “We brought webfish clusters.”

Waian casts a doubtful look across the blobby pinkish contents. “They look very, uh, chewy.”

Ipqen rubs her indentured fiancee’s shoulder. “You said you’d try them if I balanced the manifold.”

“And did you?”

Ipqen grins and nods. “Ninety-seven point integrity.” That used to be a rare sight, a genuine Ipqen grin, but it’s gotten more common since her keeper showed up.

“Ninety-seven?” Waian tsks. “You call that balanced?”

Ipqen’s toothy triumph turns down at its edges. “The field regs says anything above a ninety-five.”

“I know. Just being annoying. How about I have half of one?” Waian opens the door wider. “Get in here.”

Ipqen ducks into the cabin and with a nudge from Ruaq remembers belatedly to bow. “Majesties,” she says.

“Lady Ipqen.” Sykora waves her in. “Cousin Ruaq. What are those?”

Grantyde reaches out; Ruaq passes him a webfish cluster. He chews. “They’re good as hell is what they are,” he says. “Kinda like fish jerky.”

“Ooh.” Sykora tries to look curious and not grossed-out. “I’ll give one a try.”

“We’ll split one,” Waian clarifies. “Not sure if my chairs are gonna work for you, Milady. Maybe there’s room on the couch.”

“All good, Chief.” Ipqen coils her thick tail beneath her. “Eqtorans like a floor just fine.”

Ruaq curls up next to Ipqen and lays her head on the larger woman’s big meaty thigh. “Your butt’s too big for the Empire, Ipqen.”

“Your head’s too empty for my leg.”

“Order me off it, then. Mistress

.”

“Don’t be a little shit.” Ipqen gives Ruaq’s fringe a flick. “Where’s Hyax?”

“Hyax is early to everything that involves her job, and late to everything that doesn’t,” Waian says. “On account of she’s off doing her job.”

“Do you, uh…” Ipqen uncertainly taps her fingers on her fiancee’s noggin. “She invited us, y’know.”

“Oh?” Waian makes a show of rubbing her chin. “Interesting.”

“Is that normal, to just invite your subordinates? She seems kinda… intense.”

“Well, you’re my subordinates, not hers,” Waian says. “Chain of command and all. And I say it’s all good.” 

About time to balance the scales, anyway, she thinks. The number of her marines I’ve slept with.

The Eqtorans introduce themselves to Oryn and fall into chatting with the ruling couple. Ruaq gesticulates excitedly as she tells them about her first few shifts with the medtechs. Waian busies herself getting everyone a plate and a drink and wonders bemusedly if the big bad Brigadier has chickened out. But no, there’s the door tone. 

Hyax’s bare concession to Waian’s comfiness command is that she’s in her fatigues and not her entire HAK suit. Waian smirks. “You’re last in, Brigadier.”

“Some of us have rather packed schedules, Chief Engineer.” Hyax holds up a clattering six-pack of stouts. “I brought these as recompense.”

Waian leans in. “They’re both here, y’know. Told you they would be.”

Hyax’s face gains the same braced seriousness it does when the Brigadier’s about to breach-and-clear a corsair. She marches into the cabin.

“Heya, Brigadier.” Ipqen delivers an amateurish but well-intentioned salute.

Hyax nods stiffly. “Milady. Majesties.” She makes a beeline for a simple wooden chair set up next to the couch.

“Actually, Hyax.” Grant holds a hand out. “I was gonna put the pizza boxes on that.”

Hyax’s bushy brows lower. “Really.”

“Uh huh.” Grant exchanges a grin with Waian. “Eating right out of the box, that’s a crucial cultural aspect.”

“Room at the foot of the couch with the Eqtorans, though.” Waian kicks a pillow off the couch onto the floor. “Go on. Get comfy.”

Hyax stares daggers at the Prince and the Chief Engineer, then clears her throat and gives Ipqen a half-bow. “Do you mind, milady?”

Ipqen taps the pillow. “C’mon over, Brigadier.”

The Eqtorans scoot over. Hyax sits cross-legged next to Ipqen with the conscientiously upright posture of a soldier at parade rest.

Waian dims the lights. The stardusted firmament gives everyone a twilit glow. “You wanna introduce the movie, Majesty?”

“And the food,” Oryn adds. “Which smells fascinating.”

“Sure.” Grant stands up and steps before Waian’s darkened TV. “So the food is called pizza. With all thanks to the Quartermaster. He couldn’t resist making this taste extremely nice and fancy for a movie night, so just imagine it’s gluier and greasier.”

Sykora lifts a slice from the relocated box and marvels at the stretch and snap of the cheese. “There is so much cheese, dove.”

“Uh huh. Reason I picked it. So the movie. This is a real classic, almost a kilocycle old. I first saw it when I was way too young for it, and it gave me nightmares. It’s a sci-fi creature feature centering around one of Maekyonite-kind’s most enduring fears.” He rubs his hands together. “Okay. That’s it. Enjoy, folks.”

The assembly applauds and Grant trots back to the couch. “What’s it called, Prince?” Oryn asks.

“Alien

,” Grantyde says.

Sykora slides herself into his lap. Her tail slips up underneath the hem of his shirt and curls up against his chest. A little gremlin grin crosses her face as she burrows her butt further into the dip between his thighs.

He murmurs something in her ear.

She laughs, quiet and scandalized. “I will be riveted, dove. Swear to the Empress.”

“You’ve told me that before.”

“That’s why the command group is here. They’ll keep me honest.”

“Condoms are in the terrarium, boss,” Waian murmurs to Sykora.

“Don’t be insufferable, Waian.”

On screen, a triumphal drumroll fades into a panoramic firmament. 

“Ooh, shit. This music.” Ipqen rubs Ruaq’s fringe as the camera pans across the stars, and loopy white Maekyonite glyphs flash. “It’s so eerie.” She unwraps a packet of those alien drugs Grantyde tripped out on, and pops a leaf into her mouth. Waian makes a mental note to ask her for some later.

“This isn’t what Maekyonite ships look like, is it?” Sykora watches the dirty industrial corridors. “It’s rather—grungy.”

“We didn’t have anything close to this,” Grantyde says.

“Oh, they’re all so attractive,” Vora murmurs, as the camera settles on a pod of half-naked Maekyonites.

Sykora pokes the majordomo with her foot. “Told you. It’s the entire planet.”

“The one with the face fur kinda looks like His Majesty,” Ipqen says.

And Waian laughs, and leans in, and coos at the little kindek-looking thing that Grantyde tells them is called a cat, and chatters at the lower-key parts and bites her tail at the intense parts, and screams full-throatedly with the rest of them as the gory puppet explodes out of the Maekyonite’s chest.

“Fucking shit.” Ruaq yelps with surprise and jerks further up against Ipqen.

“None of you have the cultural backing,” Grantyde realizes. “This is fucking incredible. Nothing’s been spoiled.” He claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh my God. We’re doing Star Wars next time. The whole thing.”

“How many is that?” Sykora asks.

“There’s, uh…” Grant purses his lips. “There’s three. It’s a trilogy.”

Hyax is sitting as still as a garden statue—the jumpscare barely registered with her. But Ipqen shifts with the keeper’s movement, and her knee taps against the Brigadier’s, and Waian’s expression doesn’t change, exactly, but it intensifies, and she does not move her leg away.

Waian feels the smile stretch out across her face. She settles back in her seat. And she’s the only one here without someone she’s brought, without someone either pursued or caught, but her heart is so full that there’s barely any room to spare regardless. 

That’s what she’s given up trying to tell Hyax, or any of the other people who look askance and fail to understand how Waian loves. Waian loves everyone in this room. Even the Eqtorans, who she’s only known for a few cycles, but in whom she’s already found so much to love. She loves them all so much it takes the breath out of her sometimes to think about it, how fucking lucky she is.

She wants to go back to the miserable woman a kilocycle ago who was drowning in booze and self-loathing, and shake her by the flygirl lapels, and tell her stop your weeping and wallowing. You’ve got such a beautiful life to look forward to. You’re gonna meet a sad scared little girl who needs a friend, and she’s gonna save both of you.

The nudge of someone’s tail takes her out of her happy fugue and its counterplay with the freaky flamethrower scene they’re watching. Vora catches her attention and flicks her crimson eyes toward the bathroom hallway.

Waian unfolds her legs and pads to meet the majordomo there. “What’s up?” she whispers. “You spot Grantyde?”

“Hmm? No. No, I assume he’s making his move right now and I just got Oryn’s pocketwatch nabbed through my negligence.” Vora digs her communicator out. “It’s this. Just in from a contact in Cloud Gate.”

Waian takes the communicator and squints at the glyphs on the screen. 

“I ran the ship name we got by them,” Vora murmurs. “The ones who transported our daemon. The Argosy True. And, well…”

Waian clicks her tongue. “Hellfire.”

“Hellfire indeed.” Vora glances back at the crew on the couch. Sykora has drawn her knees up and her husband’s arms across her and is peeking wide-eyed at the carnage through fanned-out fingers.

“Let’s give Kora the night she’s earned,” Waian decides. “We’ll act like we saw this in the morning. I’ll scoot the timestamp a few hours forward on it. If she finds out and wants to throttle someone, she can use my neck.”

“Are you sure?”

Waian nods. “If it were breaking news I’d say otherwise.” She takes a bite of her outrageous Maekyonite cheese bread thing. “But it's been a cycle already. And those people ain’t gonna get any deader overnight.”