The Queen of Virgo, whose real name was Elemin Marchpane, was sitting on a high silver throne. She exuded an air of cold regality. Draconi guards stood to the side along with her personal dragons—a nervous one in front and a vicious one in back who liked to bite off hands but never swallowed them. The front one was her favorite dragon, Simmah. He paced to and fro like a vigilant guard, even if the Queen herself knew better—he was nervous with so many people in the room, anxious to get away from the crowd and fly off on his own. To the royal soldiers, Simmah looked like the fiercest guard in the room. They admired him, stepping back only when he belched a wisp of flame, hoping not to scorch their bright-red uniforms or shiny white tuskets, each festooned with an ear of wheat.

Around the Queen, spreading out like a river delta, were the many guests she had invited to the Royal Hall. Every system that paid fealty had turned out for the event. It brought her pleasure to notice that, despite the great mixing of every sort of creature, the representatives from various systems tended to congregate in sensible groups. She saw the warriors from Ras Algethi, tall, meaty men in fur capes and jagged-tooth crowns. She saw the ministers from Regulus on Leo, their lions circling them watchfully, and nearby the heavy-framed shipbuilders from Canopus on Argo mingled comfortably. The head of the Hercules delegation was wearing a dead brown bear on his back, and when the great bears from Ursa noticed the man’s garb, there was a roar and a scuffle, and a group of Draconi guards intervened, dispatching the bears to the other side of the hall.

Beyond that group, she caught sight of the bright-purple cloaks of the judiciaries from Libra, and beside them, three magnificent sprays of feathers announced the triumvir from Pavo. There were scientists, undoubtedly from Gemini, as well as the doctors from Ophiuchus, with their colorful snakes coiling around their bare arms. And there too were the royal hares of Lepus, who, although short in this crowd, stood out because of their great jeweled ears, and their minister, a red rabbit whose name she always forgot. A few more merchants from Argo and an artisan or two from Sculptor stood at the edge of the crowd.

The central part of the room was given over to the water systems: people from Cetus, Pisces, Aquarius, and Delphinus. Their clothing was colored in bright indigos and jades, some shimmering with phosphorescence. The only things to tell them apart were the unique patterns of their constellation sewn onto their vests, sleeves, and hats. That, and the Cetans were taller than the others, thicker, and less inclined to mingle.

And finally, to her right the clan systems had gathered: the tall warriors from Corvus, their birds jessed and perched proudly on their shoulders; King Razliman’s son, Lusit, and his Draconi ministers, who had brought their own contingent of dragons; and the queen of Antares and her carapaced Scorpio, who trolled through the crowd like a lost dog. There was a minister from Pegasus with a white stallion at his side. (He was not a handsome man, she noted, and she wondered again why the women from Pegasus were so beautiful when their men were so boorish.) In any event, from this side of the room came the greatest noise, a veritable swell. It was the rising cacophony of human voices and animals braying, snorting, and squawking, their energy doubling upon itself to create an even greater excitement. Birds from Cygnus were shrieking, birds from Tucana were yawking, and birds from Columba were cooing. The rams of Aries were bleating, the crabs of Cancer tick-tick-ticking on the colored tiles. She noted with consternation that the bears from Ursa didn’t mix with this crowd either; they kept their distance, as if expecting an ambush.

She contemplated the systems that had not arrived for the event. Eridanus. Monkey and Lynx. Aquila, Canis Major—and Andromeda, of course. And there was no one from Hydra. She hadn’t expected their presence, but their absence was loud, for even if they were not on good terms with Virgo, the crowd that gathered had come to discuss an issue of importance to everyone, in every system. No system was isolated; none could pretend not to be affected. No, it was time to put all disputes aside.

The Queen, summoning her strongest presence of mind, rose from her throne and waited until the last of the chatter had died down, until every last fox from Vulpecula had finally stopped its yipping and yapping and sat obediently at its master’s feet. Cats, she thought, we are only missing small cats. Once she had the attention of every last soul, she sat back in her throne and exchanged greetings with the crowd before realizing quite suddenly that members of the Chamaeleon delegation were missing. She believed they too had failed to arrive until after a general search, a bear from Ursa spotted them at the back of the room, blending nicely with the tapestries.

When she had finally dispensed with the formal nonsense, she turned to the most pressing topic, her voice rising darkly over the room.

“As you all know,” she intoned, “we are gathered here for one purpose today, and that is to discuss the depletion of our galaxy’s most valuable resource—our memory water.”

There was a cold, stifled applause and murmur of consent. She went on: “As you also know, we are down to our last strategic reserves. Without this water, our galaxy will have no medical cures, no energy systems, no hubbles or scuppers, and, crucially, no mesmers, and thus a failing communication system all across the galaxy. Our systems are becoming desperate, paying ever more dearly for a diminishing supply. Very soon, we will have no more memory water left.”

The Queen paused to take in her crowd. They were listening attentively. Some looked desperate, others skeptical. The only movement was Simmah’s tail, swishing nervously at her feet.

“Many of you have already begged my generosity in sharing more than I am able to. I have heard a great number of pleas, and I have had to reject them all. Nothing so far has been able to abate the great disaster we all fear is looming ahead of us.”

Another murmur from the crowd, and some nervous squawking of wildlife.

“As you all remember, the dread pirate and traitor Cascabel was responsible for ruining the memory seas of Eridanus—” At this there was a great hissing of contempt from the back of the room. “He stole the water from an honest system and smuggled it into the great portals of the Shroud, leaving behind a single way to open those doorways. And that is the Pyxis.”

She let this word hang in the air while she studied each of her guests with a stern gaze.

“We have been unable to open those doorways and access the resources we so desperately need, for the Pyxis has been lost to us.” A quiet thrill was stirring the crowd. “But just two weeks ago, a Pyxis transmission signaled throughout the galaxy for the first time in over twelve years. And we have determined that the signal was authentic.”

A triumphant roar rose up from the crowd, followed by waves of raucous cheering.

“For many years,” she said in a darker voice, “we have strained to preserve our resources. For many years, we have worried desperately about our futures. But it is only memory water that will save the galaxy. And now, finally, a solution is within reach. Therefore, I would call on each of you here to commit a part of your fleets to the hunt for the Pyxis, and to guarantee its safe return to my palace on Spica.”

More applause broke out, followed by cheering.

The Queen raised her hand, and the room fell silent again. “The Pyxis is a dangerous, mysterious object. Very few understand how to operate it successfully. However, we are fortunate to have the guidance of the finest philosophers, the counsel of the finest judges”—she motioned to Libra—“and the strength of the greatest armies in the galaxy.” Here, with a royal sweep of the arm, she included the warriors from every system, to general applause. “We feel, with all these strengths on our side, that Virgo’s actions are the best possible decisions to be made for the betterment and safety of all your systems, as well as ours.”

This was greeted by more thunderous clapping.

The Queen stepped aside and the ministers from Pegasus began making announcements. She remained by her throne, listening. Whispers became clear, directed by the memory water in her blood. And what she heard translated from mouth to ear, from one species to another all across the great hall, was that the notorious pirate and former Virgo princess Halifax Brightstoke had been captured and taken into the Queen’s custody. (Think of it! After all this time! How did she survive? Where was she hiding?) Like the expansion of the galaxy itself, rumors began to drift outward, pulling every idea farther and farther apart. Rumors that Halifax had escaped her execution with Cascabel’s help. Rumors that she had died, and that someone else was posing as Halifax. Rumors that the Pyxis had given her the power to stay alive. There were rumors that the old rumor was true—that good pirates never die—which sparked a minor series of debates: What was a good pirate? Weren’t pirates by definition very bad? The scoundrels of the Strands? Thieves and whatnot? The rumors continued: rumors that Halifax had a baby boy. A baby girl. A baby monkey. Rumors that she’d been living on Draco. On Eridanus, imprisoned in the dark, occult waters. There was no one to dispel the many myths and lies, and so they expanded outward, unfettered by the gravity of truth.

Suddenly, the Queen caught sight of a woman at the back of the crowd—shabbily dressed, bright-red hair, someone she hadn’t seen in years. Captain Artemisia Gent. It disturbed her very much.

Queen Virgo stood up then. Her work in the Royal Hall was complete, and Gent’s presence was annoying and unexpected. The entire room bowed as she strode off the dais, dragons in tow.