His use of my real name snaps me out of it.
“I waited as long as I could. Until we were sure all hope of recovery was lost. But it’s time now to start thinking about the future—”
I jerk my hand free. I don’t mean to, but there’s too much dread in me for what he’s about to say next.
“No, Uncle. Please. You can’t. You can’t name me empress.”
I’m surprised to hear him laugh. “No, Birdie. I can’t name you empress. I wish I could, but I swore—”
“Atar.” Charlie sits down on the edge of the bed, pressing a hand to Atar’s chest. He flicks his eyes around the room and shakes his head, barely perceptible. I watch my uncles have this whole silent conversation, and then Atar finally nods and looks back at me.
“We must maintain the peace, Alyssa. We need the prime families to accept the next heir to the throne unequivocally. We need the support of the quadrant.”
I sit frozen in my chair. I’m amazed I can hear anything over my own pulse pounding in my ears. “So, if not empress, what do you—?”
“Alyssa Faroshti, I name you crownchaser.”
And I stop breathing.
A crownchaser. Everyone in the empire knows what that is. Even though there hasn’t been a crownchase in—what? Almost seven hundred years? It’s got to be the only thing in the quadrant that’s got as many musty historical tomes dedicated to it as it does action figures.
It goes like this:
1) A ruler dies without naming an heir.
2) The royal seal—this piece of metal smaller than my hand—is hidden somewhere on the thousand and one planets that make up the empire.
3) The prime families each select their own crownchaser to hunt down the seal.
4) Whichever crownchaser finds the royal seal and returns with it to the kingship gets crowned.
Yeah. This shit really happened. But no one’s resorted to this tactic for centuries. And now . . .
Oh hell.
A crownchase would be dangerous and diabolically effective—the victor gains not only the support of the quadrant but the loyalty of the prime families. No one can contest the winner of a crownchase.
To win, you’d need to be cagey, fearless, a brilliant pilot. Speaking two dozen languages wouldn’t hurt. Neither would knowing the quadrant like the back of your hand or having friends in every dive, stall, and spaceport from here to the Outer Wastes.
To win the crownchase, basically, you’d have to be someone like me.
Uncle Atar takes my hand again. His bones feel so brittle underneath his skin. “Our family sacrificed everything to bring peace to the empire. But not everyone was glad for it. If a new family were to take the throne, one that thirsted for war . . .” I start to say something, to protest, but my uncle raises his scratchy voice. He can still sound pretty kingly, even on his deathbed. “I know this isn’t what you want, Birdie. I always knew it might come to this, but I thought . . . I thought we would both have more time. All I can do now is give you this—the crownchase—one last adventure before you must do your duty.”
Uncle Atar’s words crash over me. I bring my fist to my mouth and try to hold it back, but I can’t. The party, the hangover, the look in Charlie’s eyes, my dying uncle, and now this.
I turn my head. Pokey the medbot extends a small receptacle, but not fast enough.
I vomit all over the imperial furniture.
“Birdie, are you all right?” Atar asks.
A crownchaser. A godsdamned crownchaser.
EMPEROR ATAR FAROSHTI DEAD
The monarch lost his battle with a mysterious illness late last night, leaving his throne without an heir
KINGSHIP ANNOUNCES FIRST CROWNCHASE IN SEVEN CENTURIES
Imperial envoy Charles Viqtorial releases statement declaring the contest was Emperor Atar’s dying wish
ENKINDLER WYTHE TO ACT AS STEWARD OF THE EMPIRE
With the crownchase announced, Imperial Council elects a neutral party to hold the throne until a winner emerges
GAMBLING SURGES ACROSS THE QUADRANT
Bookie networks report overwhelming traffic as imperial citizens seek to place bets on historical race for the throne
THE VOLES FAMILY HOLDINGS ON THE PLANET HELIX
EDGAR VOLES CAN’T BRING HIMSELF TO GO TO BED.
He knows there isn’t really a point to double-checking the numbers on this presentation. He’s analyzed them again and again over the past several months, studied the materials he’s put together until they haunted his dreams, done everything he could possibly do to prepare. He should go to bed so he can be well rested in the morning.
But he’s still awake.
All three large touch screens on the wall of his quarters are filled with design schematics and material lists, efficiency simulations and timetables. His eyes are dry and a little blurry. He knows he’s rereading things he’s read a thousand times.
But if he misses anything . . . If someone asks a question he’s not thoroughly prepared to answer . . .
The door to his room slides open—no knock—and he turns on his heel, thinking for one heart-freezing moment that it might be his father. But instead he sees the efficient movements and sleek alloy lines of NL7, and his shoulders relax.
“Edgar Voles, we expected to find you sleeping,” it says. There isn’t what one might call “emotion” in the android’s voice, but Edgar has known NL7 all his life, was essentially raised by it. He can hear modulations in its voice mechanics that others can’t.
“Are you scolding me, NL7?”
“We are certainly programmed to be capable of scolding, if it is so required.”
Edgar doesn’t smile. He isn’t much of a smiler—he finds it makes his face look more boyish, less likely to command the fear and respect owed to a Voles. But his expression softens as he turns back to the data-filled screens. “I just wanted to go over things one last time. Before I meet with Father in the morning.” He waves a hand at the schematics. “What do you think, NL7? I value your thoughts.”
The android steps up beside him, making hardly a sound. Edgar doesn’t know of any other android that can move so silently. In his opinion, it is a true testament to the superiority of NL7’s creation. And the woman who created it. “It is a very effective and efficient design, Edgar Voles.”
“Would . . .” He hesitates to ask, but he can’t help himself. “Would my mother approve of it, do you think?”
“It is impossible to speak for those who no longer exist.” Edgar’s face falls, but he nods. He feels NL7 analyzing his expression, his body language. And then it adds, “But we can estimate, based on her known skills and characteristics, and we believe she would approve.”
Edgar straightens, a warm feeling filling his chest. That means more than almost anything to him. Almost more than the outcome of the meeting tomorrow.
Only a fool would not see all the benefits in what Edgar plans to present, and William Voles is no fool. Edgar has created the most effective, efficient farming android that has ever been designed, relatively cheap to produce and replace, capable of harvesting and processing an assigned crop in half the time a humanoid could. This will be the answer to all the wage riots and labor protests and welfare lawsuits by the workers on Homestead. So often, his father complains about how the biological farmhands on that planet cost them money, cost the Helix government time and energy and resources.
And now Edgar will hand him the solution. And his father will finally see just how much value Edgar brings to their family.
A corner of the main touch screen flashes red, drawing his eye. An urgent communication.
“Are you expecting news, Edgar Voles?” asks NL7.
He frowns. No, he isn’t. Reaching up, he swipes down on the message, expanding it to fill the screen.
It redirects him to a breaking news alert on the Daily Worlds. One of their correspondents stands beside a liftship in a hanger bay that Edgar recognizes as belonging to the kingship on Apex. Edgar has been in that
hangar many times over the course of his life, but never for very long. His father always hustled him quickly to the guest quarters and left him to stare out at the Eastern Sea until it was time to leave again.
Now the hanger bay appears to be packed with liftships and journalists, all talking urgently into camera drones. Edgar turns the volume up on the screen.
“. . . reporting that Emperor Atar Faroshti has passed away at the age of seventy-four, an extremely young age for a hallüdraen. Immediately on the heels of this, Charles Viqtorial, imperial envoy and the emperor’s husband of twenty-seven years, announced that a crownchase will now be initiated to determine the emperor’s successor . . .”
The screen flashes again, and this time Edgar doesn’t hesitate to open it. He knows who the message is from.
William Voles’s severe face fills the screen, not a live communication but a video he must’ve just recorded. “Edgar, it is time to prove your worth. Don’t fail us.”
Edgar closes the message and swipes the screens clear, dismissing every file, every schematic, every simulation.
None of it matters now.
He has new plans to make.
SIX YEARS AGO . . .
IMPERIAL SCHOOLROOM, THE KINGSHIP, APEX
“. . . MISS FAROSHTI?”
I drag my eyes away from the big window that overlooks the restless Eastern Sea. My tutor stands over me, arms crossed, frowning. I wonder what his face looks like without that frown. I’ve never really seen him without it. Mostly because I don’t ever give him much reason to smile.
“Have you been paying attention at all, Miss Faroshti?”
I fold my hands on the desk in front of me and sit up straight. “Nope. Sorry, Mr. Odo. Haven’t heard a thing.”
He rolls his eyes skyward. Like the ceiling might know what to do with me. “I don’t know why I even bother to try to teach you on weeks like this.”
He means on quarter-council weeks. Once every few months, all the heads of the imperial prime families convene on the kingship to deal with whatever super-important stuff they need to argue about and make decisions on. That’s the general gist I’ve gotten from Uncle Atar, anyway. Dead honest? I don’t really care about what the grown-ups do. I care about quarter-council weeks because the prime family heirs get to come on the kingship too.
Which means for one whole week, I’m gonna get to run around with other kids my own age without getting dragged away all the time for lessons or family dinners or serious talks about “the state of the empire” and “my role in society.”
Uncle Atar says it’s important for all of us to hang out, that it promotes bonding.
Uncle Charlie calls it “sanctioned hooliganism” and walks around angry-sighing more than usual.
He sounds a lot like Mr. Odo does right now.
“I understand that your head isn’t really in it at the moment, Miss Faroshti,” he says, turning back toward the display screen at the front of the room. “But this is a vital part of imperial history that directly affects—”
There’s a beep, and the door to the room whooshes open. Uncle Atar fills the doorway, and a rush of excitement hits me. Because there’s only one reason I can think of why he’d be busting up lesson time right now. I jump out of my seat.
“Are they here?”
A wide smile breaks across his face. “Yes, Alyssa. They’re here.”
Five
Stardate: 0.05.15 in the Year 4031, under the stewardship of Enkindler Ilysium Wythe, that prick
Location: A godsdamned hyperlight lane with a side of hangover
I’VE BEEN THIS SIDE OF DRUNK FOR ALMOST A week.
I’m not saying it’s bad or anything, but . . . it’s definitely not great. Like I’m-getting-looks-from–Hell Monkey kind of not-great, and that guy’s never met a shot glass he wasn’t interested in seeing the bottom of.
His side-eyes might not be about the booze, though.
Might be about everything else.
Almost definitely about everything else.
Holy sunballs, I should’ve sobered up before we jumped into hyperlight. What the hell was I thinking? This is some rookie-level bullshit. I should know better.
Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up.
A headache hammers against my skull like a barrage of asteroids, but we’re almost at Gloo so I’m trying to hold it together. If I try to make a run for the bathroom or some painkillers, I’m almost positive I’ll hork it all over the Vagabond’s deck. Better to stay still. Very, very still.
“How you doin’ over there, Cap?” Hell Monkey calls from the jump seat to my left.
I shut my eyes. Against the headache. Against the question. Against the question underneath the question.
“Fan-flipping-tastic. Never better. Now shut up.”
This is the longest I’ve had to sit still in days, and I hate it. Haaaaate it. Uncle Atar passed away hours after I got to the kingship, and the sonofabitch left this enormous, invisible bruise all over me. Asshole.
Gods, I miss him.
Charlie and I were with him. When he died. Had maybe ten whole minutes with our grief, and then reality came pouring in. Officials and assistants with worthless condolences and a bunch of pricks who started yapping about “next steps” and “the good of the empire.” I just ran. Nabbed an unattended waveskimmer in one of the hangar bays and took off over the Eastern Sea. Flew around for hours seeing just. how. close. I could get to those massive breakers before I had to pull up.
The next few days were horseshit. Funeral plans, event coordination, fake sympathy . . . And then they took my ship away from me. I couldn’t even put hyperdrive lights to that place and blow. Nope, they had to outfit the Vagabond Quick for the crownchase. All of us are supposed to start with the same tech in our worldcruisers. AIs, engine upgrades, weapons—it all has to be equal. Evens the playing field or whatever. I thought Hell Monkey was gonna haul off and deck the officials when they started putting their ugly mitts all over everything.
At least they didn’t touch Rose. She’s apparently already running off the system they’re installing in all the other ships, so they let her be.
Me, I just hid at the bottom of a bottle until Charlie found me, peeled me off the floor, and put me back on my ship. As soon as I boarded, they injected a biometric monitor into the back of my neck. (Gotta make sure all of us stay breathing and no one shoves us into a solar flare, right?) Then they put trackers all over the ship, uploaded crownchase rules into our computer, and sent us off to Gloo.
I’m out of booze now. And I’m out of time.
My eyes burn, and I squeeze them tight. Get it together, Farshot. Don’t show up at Gloo in tears or with vomit on your face.
The Vagabond Quick drops out of the hyperlight lane, and my whole body goes soft with relief. Even my headache feels a little better. Hyperlight is a quick way to get around, but damn, it’s hell on a hungover person.
Gloo fills the windows, squat and kinda brownish all over. Exactly what the word Gloo sounds like? That’s how the planet looks. Good people down there, but they got the rough end on planetary aesthetics.
A yellow light flashes on the dash. A broadcast signal from the media feeds. And a text comm from Charlie to go with it.
It is time, Alyssa. I will not be able to communicate with you again until this is all over, but know that I wish you all my best.
Charles Viqtorial
I stare at that last line. I wish you all my best. For buttoned-up, tamped-down Charlie, that line is . . . a hug, really. And it’s the same thing he said to me three years ago, right before I took off for good on the Vagabond.
My eyes burn again. This ship must have a bad air filter somewhere. Or something.
Hell Monkey’s hand hovers over a button on the dash, but his eyes are on me. Steady. Loyal. That’s Hell Monkey.
“You ready for this?”
No. But not watching the broadcast won’t help. “Hit it.”
Gloo is replaced on the view
screen by a live feed of the official throne room on the kingship. One whole wall of the room is windows overlooking the Eastern Sea, and the ship itself rotates so you can see both the sunrise and sunset from there, so it’s a pretty killer space if you like a great view—which I do. It’s also decked out in the official royal Faroshti colors of ice blue and gold—which I look terrible in and hate.
Standing in front of the dais where Uncle Atar should’ve been are Charlie and two others I’m far less excited to see: Enkindler Wythe, who’s somehow managed to go from ambassador to councilmember to imperial steward in a few short years, and Cheery Coyenne, prime family matriarch and executive in charge of the Daily Worlds, which means she controls just about everything that hits the media feeds. Cheery is nice enough, as long as what you want and what she wants line up, but Wythe’s smug face up there makes me want to punch something.
Preferably him.
“. . . the long and storied history of this contest,” Charlie is saying. He’s speaking Imperial, the empire’s only recognized common tongue, but it looks like they’re live translating it into at least a hundred different languages so no one misses anything. “Anyone who attempts to kill or capture a crownchaser will be subjected to immediate execution. Any crownchaser who kills a fellow crownchaser before the seal has been found will be sentenced accordingly, and their entire family line will be disqualified from the contest.”
Sounds like we’re a few minutes late to the party—Charlie’s already done the formal recitations of crownchase history and the rules of the contest. Not that there are that many, besides “don’t kill each other” and “first back with the seal wins.” If history is anything to go by, it’s kind of a free-for-all once the flag goes up, and all the extra stuff they’re foisting on us—the cameras, the bots, the drones—is just to help them broadcast the spectacle to trillions of media feeds around the galaxy.
The first crownchase in seven hundred years!
I gotta hand it to Atar—it was pretty smart, really. Not the part where I’m trapped in a contest to win a crown I don’t want—that sucks. But the part where the crownchase has given everyone a focus. The netstreams are flooded with people scouring for any rumor or leaked detail about what the chase might entail, and every bookie in the quadrant is living their best life, running odds on everything from who will win to where the seal is gonna be found to how long it’ll take. And the Daily Worlds and other media sources are fueling it all—every page, every article, every vid dedicated to profiling potential competitors and spinning out rumors. Basically, instead of a grieving populace and a power vacuum, we’ve got an empire anchored by this—a historic show for the ages. There’s even talk of a contest-long cease-fire on Chu’ra. I mean, can you even believe it?
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