Princess of the Void
3.16. Bombardment

Ynaqi floats to the Rivenland’s cramped bridge deck and grips a handhold by the nav computer. No navigator today. War crew only. That’s her and Tennek and Suqen, who’s already at her missile banks, checking and re-checking and re-checking again.

Everyone has their rituals, Ynaqi guesses. She looks out at the huge splinter of dark metal that has lodged itself in her world’s orbit and wishes she had more of one.

Tennek is strapped into his captain’s chair. She nudges a caffeine bar into his hand. “You good, cap?”

He nods mutely as he unwraps the ration. He never remembers to eat, her captain.

“All vessels. This is Admiral Rkon of the Flagship Lacrimal." The vox crackles and comes alive. Behind it are the low war-calling drums. Ynaqi’s heart syncs to them. "The Council has concluded that the alien spacecraft is unwelcome in Eqtoran orbit and must depart or be destroyed. I have the utmost confidence in this battlegroup’s ability to execute their order. Captains, to your bridges. Warriors, to your stations. Prepare to open fire.”

Tennek chews, never turning from his place, staring out at the monstrous shape in the sky, surrounded by their siblings-in-war. But Ynaqi sees the knuckles go white on his armrest.

He releases the wrapper and lets it float by his ear. “Get to the main battery, gunner.”

“Can you keep that music going?” she asks. “The stuff the Admiral was playing?”

Tennek shakes his head. “Not how I want to be right now.”

“Cap. Are we—” She slows to silence as Tennek’s solemn eyes turn to her. She sees in his face the answer he’ll never say aloud to the question she’s too afraid to ask.

“Gods protect you, captain,” she says.

Tennek clasps her palm and presses elbows. He tips his forehead against hers. They take a silent moment. “Go, Naq,” he says. “Go with Apqar.”

Ynaqi goes.

Hand-over-hand, she clambers to her hatch and tucks herself inside. She cinches the straps across her midsection and latches herself to her turret seat. She flicks the war-god figurine glued atop her left zoomscope and lets its gun twirl in the zero-G. She watches it turn as she pivots her gauss repeater to the floating ship. “Whatcha think, lord? They’re just sitting there cause we’re just about fucked, huh?”

It’s so huge in her crosshairs. So impossibly massive. There're hundreds of ships arrayed before it and it’s still as a sledgepole. They’re not afraid. It’s not going to work. She’s going to die. She tries to keep that disaffected oo-rah armada cool. She tries to ignore the pulse in her throat. Just another target, that’s all. Just another piece of space junk.

Ah, fuck it. Why pretend? Nobody’s here.

Nobody’s here with her at the end.

The first tear cuts through her face. “Fucking come on,” she scoffs, and wipes it away. But here’s another, and the alien ship is blurring now, and she isn’t sure whether to be glad that no one is here to see her cry, or torn up even more that she’s about to die alone, unseen and en masse, and it’ll be like she was never there. Like she just disappeared. She’ll be one ant-size name on a massive memorial.

Her shaking hands dig her music player from her pocket and her prayer knot from beneath her uniform scarf. Don’t be greedy for mortal praise. The gods are with you. They’re witnessing you.

“Eqt, queen of creation. Watch over your children. Apqar, lord of war. Don’t take me yet. Taneq, guardian of my family. Bring me home.” She holds onto her prayer knot hard enough to dig its familiar tangle into her palm. She tries to sing it along with the wordless chantry song in her ears, tries to let it calm her, but her voice is shaking too badly to stay on tune. “Eqt, queen of creation. Watch over your children. Apqar, lord of war…”

***

The Eqtoran pronouncement echoes through the Black Pike and settles in Grant’s gut. He never expected the Eqtorans to just roll over. None of them did. But hearing the confirmation fills him with a dizzy vertigo feeling.

Hyax shakes her head. “Here we go.”

Waian ahems. “Permission to lower the platform, Majesty? Looking like we’re about to see action.”

Sykora’s eyes are glued to the window. “Granted, Chief Engineer. Let’s prepare the vessel for zero G, majordomo. All decks.”

Vora bows and scurries to her intercom. Waian plugs into her console; her eyes glaze over. Hyax squares her shoulders and steps to Sykora and Grant’s side at the window. The three of them watch the Eqtoran armada’s positional thrusters ignite. “This will come as no surprise, Majesty,” Hyax says. “But that’s fusillade formation. They’re about to open fire.”

“All decks, prepare for zero-G.” Vora’s voice doubles over the echoing PA. “All decks, zero-G in sixty seconds.” She leans away. “It’s rare we go full-vessel. Zero-G in the daycare level.”

"Are they gonna be okay down there?" Grant asks.

“Oh, sure," Vora says. "The kids love it. The caregivers, less so.”

Sykora's tail taps him. “Boots, dove.”

“Right. Right.” He clicks his heels.

“Oh, shit.” Sykora slaps herself in the forehead. Behind her, a lance of blazing energy is curving up from the orbital emplacements of the distant city. “I owe you zero gravity maneuvering lessons.”

The first shot of the Eqtoran invasion slashes into the Black Pike’s membrane and cascades mad whirls of pale light across its membrane.

“Totally slipped my mind,” Sykora says.

The panoply around them flares into a constellation of violence as the Eqtoran armada opens fire. The main monitor goes blizzard-white with the sheer force it’s absorbing. At the edges of the absorbing galaxies are fuzzy granular rainbow eddies that cascade like mandala sand across the ZKZ’s envelope, meeting and twirling in refractive galaxies.

The command deck rumbles downward, beginning its slow descent to the bridge level. Sykora’s cloak and hair flow upward as her boots keep her stuck to the platform. Beside her, Grant surreptitiously tucks his tunic hem further into his belt to keep his stomach from showing.

A rustle of uniforms in motion as the entire bridge pivots to salute Sykora, several of its zero-G maneuvering members anchoring themselves by their tails to complete the motion.

Sykora returns it, and glances at Grant. He does the same. Hyax kicks from the balustrade and floats on a diagonal down into the bridge’s pit, catching a handhold erected by the gunnery deck and entering low-voiced conversation with her ensigns about the bombardment they’re weathering.

“Good afternoon, crew of the Black Pike,” Sykora calls, and the monitor view switches to a visual of her. Grant sees himself beside her and straightens his shoulders. “As the lower decks may have guessed by the call for zero-G, the Eqtoran Republic has begun its armed resistance against this voidship. The next cycle will be a crucial one for the fate of this system. Remember that the same aliens who now bombard us will soon be our fellow Imperial servants; until our doctrine demands we raise our hands against them, we’ll treat them like the friends they will one day be. Stand firm, stand proud, and stand by for the command group’s orders, and we’ll deliver this civilization intact to our Empress, warriors and all. I have every confidence in you. Gravity will be restored once we begin the sweep to Taiqan. Glory to the Black Pike.”

“Glory to the Black Pike,” comes the chorus.

“Glory to the Empress,” Sykora says.

“Glory to the Empress.” Grant repeats it, too.

The bridge crew returns to its duties. Sykora strides to her throne and eases herself into it, buckling a belt across her waist to keep her steady. Grant tromps across the deck to stand next to her.

“Maybe we can try some easy little launches,” Sykora muses. “Just to get you used to the flow.”

“I’d rather stay stuck to the ground,” Grant says. “I have a feeling my lack of tail is going to mean hard mode."

“Oh, shoot.” Sykora glances at the empty sheath on his topcoat where his tail would be. “Very true, dove.”

“We need to move further out of orbit, boss.” Waian’s voice crackles over the comm by Sykora’s head. "Our asses are getting tickled by atmospheric interference.”

Sykora looks to her inert chief engineer. “We’re well within tolerances, aren’t we?”

“It’s just a few points off the dial, boss. But if we’re soaking up orbital defenses, I’d like peace of mind.”

“We want no impression of our retreat.” Hyax has curved back onto the command deck. “The bulwark is holding firm. Eyes on morale, not membrane.”

Sykora checks the readout over Waian’s shoulder. “Five more minutes of ineffectual fire. Can you give me that?”

An uncomfortable hum from Waian’s digitized voice. “We’re gonna drop below ninety-five if we’re not careful. I want to make that clear.”

“I hear you, Chief Engineer. We’ll reposition soon. Majordomo, can you fetch the navigatrix for me?”

Vora bows and kicks off from the command deck.

“Ninety-five percent?” Grant glances at Sykora. “Is that some kind of tipping point?”

Sykora exhales. “It’s the point Waian tips over into getting mad at me.”

He chuckles.

The bombardment abates after a couple of minutes, and then intensifies once more as the disbelieving Eqtorans relay commands and, presumably, panic. Sykora unbuckles herself to speak with the navigatrix on duty, a somber-faced male Taiikari with his horns decorated by minuscule brass studs.

“Half burn on the sweep, I think,” Sykora says. “Gives us time to replenish our membrane before we re-emerge. Thank you, Ensign.”

“Majesty.” The navigatrix clicks his heels and disengages his magnetic boots.

“Navigatrix is the feminine term, right?” Grant asks Sykora, as the man floats back to his station.

“Mmhmm,” Sykora says. “But it’s the official title, and their guild declined to masculinize it when they began accepting gentlemen. Too matronizing, I suppose.”

“Patronizing?”

“Patronizing.” Sykora chuckles. “I suppose on Maekyon that would be the word.”

“Majesty, we’re at ninety seven to ninety eight holding. Decline is point oh-three per second.” Waian’s voice is more strident now. “I want us out of low orbit. There’s atmospheric interference. Atmospheric interference under fire.”

“Steady on, Chief Engineer.” Hyax holds her hand up. “Trust the Pike. Let it do its job.”

“Let me do mine, Hyax.”

“Easy, command group.” Sykora’s magnetic boots plant themselves between her quarreling officers.

“Point oh-three what?” Grant asks.

“Percent,” Sykora says. “We’re close enough to the atmospheric interference that we’re losing one percent of our membrane integrity a minute. As soon as we’re back out on high orbit we’ll recalibrate and regain it all.”

Waian’s tail is lashing the air as the minutes tick down. Grant’s never seen the woman look this agitated, especially when plugged in.

Sykora calls Hyax over and enters murmured conference. Grant leans in—the Brigadier glances at him askance.

“He’s a Prince, Brigadier,” Sykora says. “Go on.”

“The more they shell us, the quicker they’ll understand its uselessness, Majesty. We can’t seem to retreat.”

“I know, Brigadier, but we’re giving Waian conniptions. Let’s go slow on the maneuvers and make sure the cannons are superheated once we’re out of sweep. If we carve immediately, we’ll clarify that we’re still in control.”

Hyax folds her arms. “As you command. But Waian needs to adjust those risk parameters some day. Makes us look weak.”

Sykora moves to the balustrade edge. “Reposition, helm. Lift us out.”

“Aye, Majesty,” comes the reply, and the voidship vibrates as its thrusters carry it out of low orbit.

“Ninety-three percent.” Waian’s fist yanks out of the console. “We’ve dropped below ninety-five on our membrane integrity. That’s the atmospheric interference I warned you about, Brigadier. Gonna take the whole fucking sweep to recalibrate it. God dammit.”

“I take responsibility for it, Chief Engineer,” Sykora says. “Hyax’s orders were at my discretion. It was a twentieth of our protection for an important psychological impact. I take that trade.”

“A twentieth of the way toward death in vacuum, Sykora,” Waian hisses. “A twentieth of the way toward every single one of your subjects dying in the worst way you can die. Soldiers, civvies, kids.”

“Do not call me Sykora in public, Chief Engineer.” Sykora’s frown is deepcut. “I hear you, but mind yourself.”

“You have my objection to the way we handled the membrane, Majesty.” Waian gives a terse bow. “We’re invincible on here because we’re smart. This wasn’t smart.”

Sykora exhales. “I acknowledge it, Waian. We’ll be more careful from now on, I promise.”

“Good.” Waian stretches her back. “I’m taking a fucking walk. Be back once we sweep.”

The chief engineer stomps away, muttering under her breath. Outside the main window, the barrage continues.

Seven minutes since it began. Seven minutes, and the Pike’s membrane integrity has dropped seven percent, and only because of the atmospheric interference. Grant stares at the storm being hurled their way and tries to see past it to the ships that uselessly attack them. He wonders how many of them understand what’s happening, and what they’re witnessing.

How many of them realize they’ve already lost?

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