“You’re looking a little green over there, Farshot,” H.M. says.
I lean out of my jump seat far enough that I can punch him right in his beefy delt. “I swear, if you don’t stop giving me those looks, I’m gonna snatch out your eyeballs and throw them out an airlock.”
“Then I could get bionic eyeballs. Cool.”
Unbelievable.
Charlie is still talking. “Every crownchaser has been given an equivalently outfitted worldcruiser and randomly selected coordinates in the quadrant as their start point. Twenty-four hours from now, all competitors will check in at their start point, and Enkindler Wythe will give the signal for the crownchase to begin.”
On the viewscreen, Wythe clears his throat. “As the Church of Solarus’s Everlasting Light has no prime family affiliation, it is my honor and privilege to hold the throne in stewardship and announce now those esteemed competitors who will be vying for the royal seal. May they be blessed with the light of Solarus.
“For the Faroshti family, Alyssa Faroshti, niece of Emperor Atar Faroshti, may he rest in the light of the sun.”
My face fills the viewscreen—looks like they used my official portrait from the Explorers’ Society, which is a damn good one, I gotta say. Much better than how I’m looking right now, which is distinctly pale and sweaty. On the right, there’s a column of text that basically lists all the need-to-knows about me and my qualifications.
Almost immediately, the comms on my wristband start flashing, and then the comms on the Vagabond do too. I shut them all off. Every line, every channel—I don’t need anyone’s Congratulations, I can’t believe it! (neither can I) or I’m praying for your victory! (thanks, I guess) or I hope you die in a gravity well, bitch. Voles forever! (you seem nice, bud).
Hell Monkey nudges my arm. “Here comes your competition.”
“For the Roy family, Setter Roy, son of Radha and Jaya Roy.”
Setter’s photo pops up on-screen. Gotta be a commissioned family portrait because he’s draped in all the official gear, going for that serious, regal look. There’s a lot of axeeli blood on the Roys’ home planet of Lenos, and you can see it in Setter too. Got the axeeli mood-ring eyes and a dose of their telepathy, but he missed out on some of the more extreme mental abilities, and his skin is a deep brown instead of the usual color-changing. He and I butted heads a lot when we were kids. Not because he’s a bad person or anything—he’s just so . . . serious. And boring.
I raise an imaginary glass to his image on the viewscreen. “You shall be code-named: Humorless Killjoy.”
“For the Mega family, Owyn Mega, son of Jenna Mega and Lorcan Mega.”
Owyn’s headshot is full-out military glorification. Otari scars on display, dark bronze against his light tan skin; full strategic armor; traditional blades strapped across his back. Typical Megas. Except for the part where if you look close enough at Owyn’s eyes, you can see he’s straight-up miserable in all his war gear.
Hell Monkey already has this one covered. “Your code name will be: Pretty Sure Your Parents Took All Your Tests for You.”
I snort with laughter and immediately regret it when my head gives a painful throb. It feels good, though. To laugh. It’s been a bit.
“For the Voles family, Edgar Voles, son of William Voles and Sylva Voles, may she rest in the light of the sun.”
Hell Monkey boos loudly and throws a stray stylus as Edgar’s pale face pops up on-screen. He’s got a big hate for the Voles family, though he’s never told me why. He doesn’t like to talk about his past, and I don’t like to push people to get chatty.
I gotta agree with him on this one. My heart sinks into my stomach. Edgar is kinda worrisome, but his dad is even worse. And the thought of those two taking my uncle’s place, after everything he accomplished, everything he sacrificed . . . Shit and hell and damn it to all the stars and gods. “His code name is: Most Definitely Gonna Get Punched in the Dick.”
“For the Orso family, Faye Orso, daughter of Sara Orso and Ivar Orso.”
I can’t help the grin that creeps onto my face as Faye’s image fills the viewscreen: tawny skin threaded with bioluminescent lines, gold eyes sharp and shiny as blades, a little curve to her mouth that’s more a threat than a smile. It’s been a couple years. She looks good. I’m not totally sure what I think of Faye as a prospective empress, but I can say this: whenever she’s in the picture, you’re ten times more likely to end up in jail, but also twelve times more likely to enjoy the ride.
Hell Monkey snorts. “Code name: Better Keep One Hand on Your Wallet.”
“And finally, for the Coyenne family, Nathalia Coyenne, daughter of Cheery Coyenne and Reginald Coyenne.”
“Coy!” I shoot forward and just about clothesline myself on my own jump seat harness. Right. Safety first. Oops. I wrench at the buckles, a wave of relief uncoiling the knot of anxiety that’s been squirming in my stomach for almost a week now. If I’d taken a sober second to think this through earlier, I would’ve realized that Coy was the natural choice to be crownchaser for her family. Savvy, charismatic, good with a ship. I’m kicking myself for not seeing this coming days ago. I could’ve saved myself a ton of existential worry.
And a lot of booze money.
Hell Monkey drums his fingers against the arms of his jump seat as he stares at the viewscreen. He looks over at me, a grin on his face, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking. “Obviously, we’ll call her: Your Official Ticket Out of This Mess.”
Six
“ALYSSA FARSHOT! AS I LIVE AND BREATHE. YOU’RE looking ravishing this morning.”
I can practically feel Hell Monkey rolling his eyes behind my back, but I keep my eyes on the viewscreen, which is currently showing me Nathalia Coyenne’s grinning face.
“Save it, Coy. This isn’t a social call. It’s business.”
“I like business. Dirty business, risky business—”
“Coy.”
She laughs, and it’s like a bell calling people to worship. Nathalia’s always had this way about her. It’s not even a beauty thing, really. It’s just like she walks around in a cloud of pheromones. People are drawn to her, and it would be dangerous as hell if she didn’t have such a good heart.
And she does. Have a good heart. She’s smart too—smarter than me in a lot of ways. Especially political ways. She loves that say-one-thing-mean-another stuff, and she’s good at it. Maybe she hasn’t ridden a flame tsunami, but she’s definitely coasted a comet’s tail or two for the Society in her time. She knows the quadrant, she understands people, and best of all—she isn’t me.
Everything I could possibly want in the next ruler.
“It’s been a few months. I think we need to catch up in person, Coy.”
She raises her eyebrows so high they almost hit her silvery spiraled horns. “Now?”
“No time like the present.” I give her a look through the viewscreen. A significant look. Hopefully it translates. “What’s your current proximity to Gloo?”
There’s a long pause. I can feel her weighing my offer against the timing—the flag goes up in just twenty-three hours. It’s a little suspicious that I’m on her doorstep now, trying to get a face-to-face. Or, at least, it would be if she were any other crownchaser. But we have a long history, one I don’t think even something as cutthroat as a crownchase can screw up.
Nathalia’s eyes flick to the side, checking her nav readout. “Close, actually. Really close. I can be there this afternoon. You want to meet up at the club in Parm?”
I glance back at Hell Monkey, who gives me a little nod, and then I turn to Coy again. “Yeah, let’s do it. Bring cred-chips. You’re buying.”
“What came first here—the name Parm or the cheese smell?”
I stick a foot out, catching Hell Monkey on the ankle as we move through the narrow, claustrophobic streets of one of the biggest cities on Gloo. He trips and almost takes a nosedive. I barely break stride.
“Pretend to be a nice guy. Or nice-i
sh.”
He’s not wrong, though. Parm smells about as nice as Gloo looks from orbit. It’s squat and a little shabby and not all that much to look at. But you can get a decent lager in a few places, and there’s some really great street food if you’ve got an adventurous stomach.
But that’s not why we’re here.
The alley dead-ends in a heavy metal door. No handle, no knob, just a touch pad embedded in the center that I slap my palm against. After a second, the lock thuds and the door swings open.
There’s a short, dark hallway on the other side, and I tap the big symbol emblazoned in gold on the wall as I walk past. Official sigil of the Explorers’ Society. They’ve got clubs like this all over the quadrant. Exclusive stuff. Dim lounges with big-ass chairs and a well-stocked bar. The bar is key. I haven’t met an explorer yet who doesn’t need a drink after the stuff we pull.
Coy waves us over. She’s already kicked back in a chair, long legs propped up on the short table in front of her. She’s foarian, like a lot of the Coyenne prime family, which means horns and sharp nails and big eyes that take up about a third of their faces. For Nathalia, those horns are long, silvery spirals that angle from the top of her head, and those eyes are bright green and set against metal-gray skin and long hair whiter than the caps on the Eastern Sea’s waves. Her hands cradle a tumbler of what looks like Solari whiskey. That’s nice stuff, allegedly distilled with the essence of the sun. For religious types, the Solari know how to make some good booze.
She gestures to two other chairs close by, which already have drinks waiting at them. “I took the liberty of ordering, since I’m buying and all.”
Hell Monkey picks up the glass, his nose wrinkling as he sniffs the iridescent-green concoction inside. “What is this? It smells like piss.”
I answer before Coy. “Andujian martini. Widely considered to be one of the worst drinks in the galaxy.” I pick up mine, raise it to Coy’s grinning face, and down it in one go.
Damn. That is truly terrible.
Coy shakes her head, her smile growing even bigger. “Never underestimate a Farshot.”
“Yes, all one of us.” I dump myself into the chair, slinging my legs over the arm, and signal to the barkeep for two more of what Nathalia is drinking. Hell Monkey sits as well, setting the martini as far away from him as possible.
“I suppose a proper drink is the least I could do,” says Coy, waving a hand benevolently. “After all, very soon I will have a crown and a throne and you’ll still be stuck on your rust bucket of a cruiser.”
I shoot her a glare. “Hey, hey, easy with the name-calling. That’s my baby you’re talking about.”
The barkeep delivers the Solari whiskey, and this time I raise my glass sincerely, looking Coy right in her bright eyes. “To the new empress of the quadrant. May your reign be long and peaceful.”
Coy goes still, assessing my expression, my body language. Realization breaks over her face like a brand-new star. “You’re utterly serious.”
“Yes,” I say, adding in my poshest, most royal accent, “utterly.”
“You really have no intention of winning?”
“None whatsoever. I’m not even gonna try.” I take a long sip of the whiskey—distilled with the sun, those clever bastards—and set it down on the table.
This makes Nathalia sit up straight, her own drink forgotten. “Alyssa, you can’t be serious. A crownchase is right up your alley. I just bet money on you.”
Swinging my feet to the ground, I lean forward, elbows propped on my knees. “I’m not gonna try, Coyenne, because I’m gonna help you.”
There’s total silence. Coy is completely still, staring at me. Hell Monkey’s eyes flick from me to her and back again. I swear I can even hear the sound of cloth on glass as the barkeep dries dishes.
Then she throws her head back and laughs, loud enough that the few other patrons actually pause to look over at us. Hell Monkey shoots them some hard-core glares until they turn away again.
Coy finally stops laughing and stretches her long arms across the table, seizing my hands. “Alyssa Farshot, you’ve officially made me the luckiest idiot in this quadrant.”
My shoulders drop, and I return her grin. “Oh, I know it, Coy. You’re lucky I don’t want anything to do with ruling a thousand and one planets. And you’re mostly lucky that you’re the only crownchaser I could stand to see take my uncle’s place.”
At that, she snorts and sits back. “Yes, quite a crew we’re going up against. Owyn? Can you imagine? His family would probably start a war just to try out whatever violent new toy their company developed. And Voles . . .” She shudders. “Emperor Edgar Voles. That would be a nightmare.”
I stare down into my glass, picturing Edgar—both the small, round-faced boy he was and the stone-faced guy he grew into. “To be fair, we all bring family baggage with us. The Coyennes like to scheme, the Faroshtis are self-righteous, and the Voles . . . see bottom lines and not people. Personally, it’s not exactly an outlook I’d want to see applied at the quadrant level.”
H.M. downs most of his drink in one go, a strange edge to his voice as he says, “No . . . no, you really don’t.”
Coy rolls her half-empty glass between her hands. “Setter would be a bit like putting a crown on the color beige. Empress Faye would be a dangerous ride. It certainly wouldn’t be boring with her in charge. But . . .” She flashes a grin at me that’s gotten her through more doors and into more beds than I can even count. “I think the crown would look much better on me.”
Hell Monkey snorts into his glass. “Your head is certainly big enough.”
If that comment bothers Coy, she doesn’t show it. She just turns that supernova smile on him and says, “Indeed, sir. Let’s go find me a royal seal, shall we?”
A royal seal for her and a wide-open starscape for me. Nothing between me and the rest of the galaxy but time and cruiser fuel. I raise my glass high and drink it all down. That’s a toast I can get behind.
Seven
Stardate: 0.05.16 in the Year 4031, under the stewardship of Enkindler Ilysium Wythe, may he get bit in the ass by a needleworm
Location: Still orbiting boring-ass Gloo
THE START OF THE CROWNCHASE IS SUPER UNDERWHELMING.
I mean, not that I expected fireworks coming out of my ass or anything, but something more than a stupid prerecorded message from Wythe blessing our journeys. Who asked for your blessings, man?
For a minute, it seems like that’s that—have fun hand-searching a thousand planets, kiddos!—but then I have the Vagabond Quick’s AI run a multifractal scan of the message.
Bingo.
An encrypted data package.
Let the games begin.
“What’s the play, Captain?” Hell Monkey stands just behind me, and his voice rumbles right down my spine.
“Looks like it’s a follow-the-bread-crumbs type of deal. Like when we hunted for that ancient tomb on Ysev.” I tilt my head over my shoulder so I can see him out of the corner of my eye. “Last chance, H.M. You don’t have to come with me on this. I can drop you off at a spaceport. You’re a great engineer—you’d get a job on another ship in no time.”
He goes very still. There’s a beat. And then: “Fuck you, Farshot.”
Never been so happy to hear those words.
I could do this on my own—just me and Rose and the Vagabond against the universe—but I really don’t want to. I want Hell Monkey at my side. I need him at my side.
But don’t tell him I said that.
Instead, I say, “Your funeral,” and he elbows me in the back.
I tap the nav computer and bring up a three-dimensional projection of the surrounding systems. The level of encryption on Wythe’s little package (innuendo bonus point) is pretty intense. Not that the Vagabond Quick can’t break it—my baby can do anything—but it would take a while. Too long. If I’m going to get Coy that seal and secure a throne-free future for myself, I need to be twelve steps ahead of everyone else.
>
And to do that, I need a massive computer with much higher processing power. A workhorse. Like a metropolitan database or a central spaceport.
“There.” I point to a spot on the outskirts of the Coltigh system. “We’re going ghosting. Send—”
I stop and glance toward the back of the bridge at the Vagabond’s brand-new passenger. A mediabot. A spindly frame of metal with a camera for a head and two more swiveling lenses on its shoulders. So it can catch all that sweet footage from multiple angles. It had apparently been put in our cargo bay, and about four hours ago, it woke up and started following me around, trying to get me to talk about my feelings and fears and expectations.
It’s watching me right now, cameras rolling, so I just give Hell Monkey a significant look and tell him, “Check the comms. Make sure we’re all on the same page.”
I don’t want to mention Coy’s name. Or anything about us teaming up. Alliances between crownchasers aren’t forbidden, but I don’t want to tip my hand until I have to.
Hell Monkey grins and gives me a wink. “Aye, aye, sir.”
And suddenly I remember why I hook up with a guy named Hell Monkey. I know. I KNOW. But it’s sexy as hell when he follows my orders.
A short hyperlight trip later, we’re skirting around the sensor net surrounding Coltigh IV, moving carefully so our signature doesn’t ping off any of their orbital probes. Not to treat them like that one person you’re desperate to avoid at a party or anything, but we’re not here to visit right now. We just need something they left behind, floating at the very edge of their system.
Crownchasers Page 4