Io kicked off the bamboo altar and floated listlessly through the docking spike towards the Silver Needle. Scenes from the Zeb's history scrolled past on the walls, the image of the Serpent seeming to coil around her as her body drifted.
It wasn't fair. She'd just done it the quickest way. With most of the squadron chasing after drones, they'd managed to bring the Needle in with hardly a scratch on the hull. Why'd she have to take the fall for the kid?
Her seventh and final father was already waiting for her at the end of the arm, albeit relatively upside down.
Marat Foresight Zebulon looked too sharp to be a drifter, more alike a wealthy merchant plying the Huang—fitting, given that he spent 10 months out of the cycle away from the Zeb, trading for spices and provisions. His jacket was made of red leather: the skin of an animal. His hair reeked of tobacco.
They spoke without standing eye-to-eye. But Marat sounded as close as he ever got to comforting his daughter.
"It's just politics, Io. The Navigation Tribe used to pride themselves on their piloting, so electing a new guard captain was in the cards for a while. Not that they'd have told you."
She bit her lip. Not that they'd have told her.
"Come on." He motioned to punch her shoulder but quickly grabbed her with his other hand when he noticed he'd launched the girl. "You can get angry over tea."
----------------------------------------
In the foyer of the Silver Needle, purple carpets unrolled for miles beneath a trompe l'oeil of a planetary sky. They found a tall woman pirouetting from stair to stair wearing no clothes at all. A pet tarsier was perched on her shoulder, looking nauseous.
The owner of the freighter was an old friend of Marat's, one Duchess Patricia Brennan. Her skin was smooth and plastic with obvious joints, whorls of gold filigree hugging her hips. When she noticed Io watching, her eyes drooped in such a smitten way that Io felt her face burn.
"Io, dear," she crooned in a sweet voice. "I have something for youuu ♡"
The woman raised a sheet that looked like a short white dress.
"No!" Io stumbled back, and tried to scramble back to the airlock on all fours, her fingers grabbing fistfuls of purple runner. But Marat headed her off with his shoe and the Duchess was soon shoving her through a hem.
"Get! Off of me!" She growled, struggling like a caught animal. "Father, help!"
Her father had already picked up the Duchess's clay tea set and settled at the table a few feet away. The way he used a bamboo scoop to tip black leaves into the vessel showed more than anything his admiration for the Imperial way of life.
"Excellent vintage today," he remarked. "The raisined sweetness of the New Calcuttan sun... You spoil us, Duchess."
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
"Oh, no," Patricia deflected as she tugged his daughter's arms through the sleeves. The monkey had taken refuge from the violence by dangling on the hair behind her head. "I hope it will tide the both of you over until next cycle."
"Oh my." Marat smacked his lips as the Duchess worked. "That is rather rugged looking, although perhaps too warm for the Zeb. Say 'thank you' now, Io."
"No." Io blushed and looked away from the two, because she wanted nothing less than to admit that it suited her.
The 'dress' had turned out to have a couple of layers to it: first, a brick-colored hoodie with a flared hem that resembled a tent dress. Then a white, quilted flight jacket with the Torch of House Vesta embroidered on the shoulder in gold thread. Half the belts and pockets on it didn't seem to go anywhere, but perhaps the appearance of praxis was the most important thing.
"It was my House uniform at the old Academy," Patricia reminisced. "It would be a little tight now, particularly this part." She clutched the girl to her plastic bosom, where the smell of her perfume mixed with the scent of black tea, her polymer skin strangely warm. "It's only appropriate that you have it, dear. You've been such a good escort to my ship, not to mention a lovely teamaid."
Io felt butterflies in her stomach and buried her face deeper against the Duchess's ribs. Along with the libertine parties, it was one of her most humiliating memories with the Duchess. Patricia, for her part, would eat anything endangered and screw anything with a pulse.
"You mentioned a letter," Marat pointed his empty teacup at her, oblivious. "Did you say it was a recommendation?"
"Well, the Tian Lung girl agreed, but it was only for a lark," Patricia shrugged, reaching behind her head to hold the frightened tarsier against her chest before melting into a seat at the table. "You could say the letter is a... thematically appropriate souvenir to go with the jacket. My Io wouldn't lower herself, I know. Too many prissy Houser kids. Not to mention—"
She paused, her face suddenly serious. "Based on the in-flight entertainment earlier, I see the pod rustler situation isn't improving—to say nothing of the Federalists..."
Marat nodded, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Indeed, it's gotten to the point where we time our harvests around the raids. That's where my tiger comes in." He patted his daughter's shoulder.
Io hunched forward in her warming jacket and picked up the letter between sips of hot, unsweetened tea. A smear of red wax sealed a sheet of embossed paper that felt cool to the touch.
> Dear Io Temperance Harmony Zebulon,
>
> On the recommendation of the esteemed Duchess, we would welcome you gladly into our coming cohort.
>
> You may ask if it would ill suit one such as yourself to study among Nobles. Rest assured that for its first tour since its reopening, the Academy would like to extend its intake to include Houses not in good standing, and of course those of popular breeding.
>
> Accordingly, please find enclosed your very own Athame. All students must wear it at all times when aboard the ship.
>
> We hope for you to join us under one Emperor and graduate beneath the next.
>
> Manu propria,
> Lin Carrageenan
> Student Council President
> St Light Academy for Girls
When she shook the envelope, a small folding knife with scales of amber polyimide slid onto the doily. Its ring-shaped hinge had a hole for a carabiner, through which a lanyard had already been threaded.
The paper shook like a leaf in Io's hands as a black pit opened in her stomach. All she could think about was how Tallulah and the others treated her from day to day. How they didn't tell her anything and expected her to read between the lines. It wasn't for nothing that she stayed on the Guard. None of them recognized what they'd miss if she was gone.
"I'll do it." Io gripped the letter, her shoulders trembling.
The two of them laughed, Patricia so vacantly that she spilled her tea on herself, some even in the joints. "Oh you," she wheezed. "You're such a comedian. You're joking."
Io had already looped the Athame around her neck. She shook her head.