“A map. Somewhere on AW421979, the blotinzoid homeworld—AH!” A quick starburst of pain, and then ninety percent of the numbness and throbbing in my arm subsides as the bone settles back into its socket. Thank every god in the empire. Hell Monkey gives me a little wink. “We’re having the Vagabond run a comparison now to see if we can pin down exactly where on the planet it is.”
She swings around, shouting an order at Drinn, her vilkjing engineer. I hear him grunt noncommittally in the background as she looks back at the screen. “We’re headed there now. Should be right behind you.”
I nod—sure, sure, sounds good—and reach for the display to end the comm, but Coy stops me.
“Farshot.” She levels me a look across trillions of kilometers of space. “Let’s not make the next round quite so interesting, all right? We don’t want to give my mother too much footage to work with. She needs the challenge.”
The line goes dark before I can respond with something snarky and winning, and I drop down onto my cot, back against the wall, feet dangling over the edge. Hell Monkey flops down beside me.
I want to sleep. My body feels all hollowed out by the adrenaline and the injury. Exhaustion hits me like one of those three-mile-high tidal waves on Eroth IX, and I sink. Sink against Hell Monkey’s shoulder. Sink inside as my brain just kinda drifts. My eyelids close. Hell Monkey says something—I can feel his voice rumble through his body—but I’m only half-there and still going . . . going . . . gone . . .
My feet move across familiar floors. Dark, gilded, so polished and gleaming they’re as reflective as a still lake.
Kingship floors.
And then I’m in my uncle’s personal quarters. Or, that is, the personal quarters of the emperor. But Uncle Atar isn’t emperor anymore. He’s gone.
No, he’s here. He’s moving along the far wall, tall and stately, his hair like a clear waterfall down his back.
Just like he looked when I was little. When no one seemed more invincible than he did.
I thought nothing could touch him. I thought he would always be there.
I step toward him, reach out a hand.
He rips down a curtain covering a window. Sunlight lances into the dark room. I stop short, throwing an arm up against the brightness. By the time I blink it away, he’s on to the next one.
“Uncle Atar . . .”
He doesn’t respond. He just rips down curtain after curtain until the walls are clear. Until it looks like there’s nothing around us but sunlight and rough, vibrant ocean.
He finally turns to me. Points a hand out at the horizon. “Look, Birdie.”
“I am, Uncle Atar. I’ve been out there. I’ve been looking—”
He’s in front of me between heartbeats. Half a head taller than me. He puts his long hands on either side of my face. “No, child. Really look. Really see.”
He tilts my head back—
—and there are planets falling out of the sky, obliterating the sun, crashing into each other, and raining . . . raining down on us in a storm of rock and fire . . .
I jolt upright, heartbeat pounding in my ears, lungs working overtime.
“Alyssa. Hey, Aly . . .” A big, calloused hand touches my shoulder, then my cheek, pulling me back into my body. My quarters. My ship.
I look over at Hell Monkey. He must’ve stayed even after I fell asleep. Of course he did. His hazel eyes are fixed on my face, and I kinda think I’d rather face down a cluster of charging warogs than try to untangle everything that flutters around in my stomach when he looks at me like that.
I’m suddenly hyperaware that his hand is still cupping my neck, his thumb along my jaw. It’s like every atom of me zeroes in on that one spot.
“Captain Farshot.”
Rose’s voice over the comms makes me jump, breaking eye contact. Hell Monkey pulls his hand away, and I shiver at the cold that seeps into that spot.
“Yes, Rose, what is it?”
“We are drawing near the coordinates for AW421979. We will need to drop from our hyperlight lane in five minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”
“Thanks, Rose.”
I cut a quick glance at Hell Monkey, but he’s staring at his boots. I can’t tell if I’m disappointed right now or relieved or maybe just hungry, but I don’t really have time for any of that. I get to my feet, straightening my jumpsuit collar.
“Let’s go see what new hell these people have planned.”
H.M. rises and moves for the door, a half smile on his lips but not in his eyes. “I’m ready for trouble if you are, Captain.”
Twelve
Stardate: 0.05.18 in the Year 4031
Location: Dropping into orbit around AW421979 . . . and we’re not the only ones, either
“WELL . . . SHIT.”
I glare through the viewscreen at the Wynlari, the worldcruiser of that gigantic buzzkill Setter Roy. We’re still approaching the planet, but he’s already settled into orbit, which means he’s probably processing the exact map location on the surface.
“Rose, I need the—”
She’s way ahead of me: “I am working on it, Captain. Patience, please.”
I roll my eyes. Sometimes this AI is like a damn parent.
In the jump seat next to me, Hell Monkey is deftly angling us into AW421979’s gravity sphere. Even from hundreds of kilometers up, the planet’s unique surface is visible: precise blocks of color, exact angles, and unerringly straight lines. I try to catalog what I might need down there: no survival suit necessary, but a blaster maybe? The blotinzoids are extremely logical but also friendly and open. Almost makes a person think they’re simpleminded (though that would be a big mistake). The other crownchasers are a different story. Blaster, for sure. A grappling gun too, maybe.
Hell Monkey pulls up the specs on Setter’s ship, frowning at the display. “I don’t recognize that name—the Wynlari.”
“It’s Lenosi. It means True Son.”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “That seems kind of . . . pointed.”
“It is, but it isn’t from Setter.” I swipe at the display, dropping the ship stats for a standard press photo of Setter with his mothers. “Setter’s adopted, and I’d bet good money that Radha and Jaya Roy named that ship as a big middle finger to those in the family who question Setter’s position as heir.”
Rose’s voice cuts in. “Proximity alert. Worldcruiser dropping out of hyperlight.”
I wipe the display clear. “Identify.”
“The Gilded Gun.”
Coy. Good. She made good time.
“There goes Roy.” Hell Monkey points at the viewscreen just in time for me to see the Wynlari’s sublight engines flare as she shoots down toward the planet surface. I grab the controls without even thinking and aim the Vagabond at her tail, trusting that Coy is sharp enough to follow me.
Setter might be one step ahead right now, but I can make up distance like a champ.
We drop down into the planet’s atmosphere, and the whole surface spreads below us like the most precise and orderly quilt ever. No clouds to obscure the vision. Blotinzoids design everything on a schedule, even their weather. We must’ve hit on a predetermined clear day. Below us, everything from the cities to the landscapes rise and fall in precise shapes. Square skyscrapers. Rectangular mountain ridges. And—this is the part that tends to freak out newcomers—they rearrange sometimes. Nothing on AW421979 is totally static, and the blotinzoids often shift the world around them to optimize efficiency.
It’s a trip the first few times you see it. Like, hey, that hill over there just tumbled down into semi-organic blocks that are rebuilding themselves into trees now. No big.
“Captain Farshot, I’m detecting a beacon ahead.”
Hell Monkey and I exchange a look. “What kind of beacon, Rose?”
“Unknown. Its signature is quite unique.”
“Full manual, Rose. Just give me a visual of the beacon’s direction.” She puts a bright red point on the viewscreen, and then I feel the Vagabo
nd drop fully into my control. It sends a thrill across my chest.
My ship. My hands. Strip away everything else, and I’ve still got this. I’ll always have this.
Hell Monkey tightens the buckles on his jump seat and grins. Obviously not his first time at this show.
I drop us down until we’re skimming the planet’s surface and jam on the speed, feeling the sublight engines hum underneath my feet. It’s the same frequency as my pulse.
“Captain Farshot, if I may—”
“It’s quiet time, Rose. Hush.”
I push the Vagabond faster, zigzagging us along precisely designed irrigation beds. Wrenching her up tight inclines. Slicing along cliffsides.
Hell Monkey laughs out loud as the g-force presses down on us.
A tall ridge starts to fall to pieces as we fly toward it, and I floor it, wrenching the Vagabond left, right, up, down. Weaving her body between plummeting blocks, barely avoiding half a dozen collisions that probably would’ve ended our lives. We skid into a landing near the beacon, and H.M. is laughing and I’m laughing and by all the gods in the empire I haven’t felt this fricking good since before . . .
Before Uncle Atar.
We touch down half a second after the Wynlari does, and I can see Setter in the cockpit of his ship. I wave and grin at the disapproving expression on his face.
“Coy is a few kilometers back still.”
“I’m going,” I say as I rip the safety harness off. “Tell her to catch up quick. She’s got the legs for it. Rose?”
“Yes, Captain Farshot.”
“Send the beacon coordinates to my wristband.”
Strapping a blaster to one hip and a grappling gun to another, I make a break for the aft bay doors, skidding down the ramp and onto the planet surface, the whirring sound of one of the crownchase camera drones right in my wake. If you’re not a blotinzoid, the ground here is rough terrain, changing elevation by anything from five to twenty-five centimeters every few steps. Makes it tough to pick up the speed I want as I race around to the front of the ship.
Where I almost slam into Setter Roy.
He shoots me a look over his shoulder. Those axeeli mood-ring eyes of his are currently an intense orange. “Careful, Farshot.”
“Well, warn a girl next time you’re gonna forfeit a race before it even starts.”
Setter snorts and waves in front of him. “Go first. Be my guest.”
I look down and see that the ground ten centimeters from his feet drops away, into a chasm probably a kilometer deep. Hard to tell, really. There’s nothing but darkness at the bottom.
A rush of engines fills the air behind us, and I can hear a feminine voice over Setter’s comms. “We’ve got incoming. Nathalia Coyenne just landed.”
I check my wristband. The beacon is still in front of us, blinking at the top of a tall column of ground. Between us and it is a five-meter gap of nothingness and another fifty meters of terrain so rough that it’s basically an obstacle course.
Wonderful.
A noise off to our left makes Setter and me turn, hands to our holsters. Six piles of organic and semi-organic blocks rearrange and build upon themselves until they’ve achieved the vaguely humanoid shape that blotinzoids assume when they choose to.
I don’t know anywhere near enough about their culture or how they express themselves to get a read on how they’re feeling, but I hope they don’t mind too much that a bunch of ships just scorched through their atmosphere and plopped down on their planet. I’m suddenly feeling awkward about our big entrance. Did they know we were coming? Did we land in someone’s backyard? Shit . . .
I wave. One of the blotinzoids up front mimics the gesture.
There’s a blur of movement out of the corner of my eye, and by the time I whirl around, Setter Roy has dashed back toward the ships and is now sprinting, full throttle, toward the cliff. He times it perfectly (the bastard), toes hitting right at the edge. I freeze, heart hitting the back of my teeth. His body arcs over the empty space, legs and arms pinwheeling . . .
. . . and then he lands on the other side, tucks, rolls, is on his feet again.
“H.M.,” I mutter into my wristband. “Did you see that?”
“The buzzkill’s got hidden depths. Who knew?”
I run back toward the ships, spotting the long, gangly figure of Coy as she steps onto the planet surface. “I’m going, H.M.”
“I figured. I . . .” Something about his pause sounds heavy. I hesitate, dropping my eyes from the chasm edge. “Don’t die out there, Farshot.”
Oh. Well, yeah, definitely that. Solid advice there.
Digging my toes in, I sprint toward the gap, arms pumping, legs pumping, ground disappearing underneath my feet as I go go go—JUMP—
My foot clears the other side just barely, and then my legs crumple hard and I tumble into a graceless stop. Face pressed into the ground. Scrapes on my legs and elbows.
I pump one fist into the air, triumphantly. Ta-da. Nailed it. Over the comms, I can hear Hell Monkey laughing his ass off. Monster.
I peel my body off the ground (nothing broken, thank the stars) and check left to see Setter Roy disappearing over the first rise. I check right to make sure Coy is catching up and see her sprinting toward the chasm edge, hair streaming behind her, silvery horns glinting in the sun. She jumps, windmilling her arms, reaching for the far edge, reaching . . .
Her hands make it across, smacking into the ground, scrambling for a handhold.
But then gravity takes her and she falls . . .
CROWNCHASERS REPORTED ON AW421979
Coyenne, Roy, and others spotted racing for the surface of the blotinzoid homeworld
EXPECTED FAVORITE OWYN MEGA TRAILS THE PACK
Pollsters pegged him as one to beat, but the Mega military heir isn’t showing much of an edge
STEWARD WYTHE MAKES A SURPRISE VISIT TO HELIX
The enkindler is scheduled to meet with the planet’s chairman, as well as multiple provincial boards on the economic powerhouse
ANTI-GOVERNMENT PROTESTS CONTINUE ON TEAR
Despite the ongoing crownchase, protesters march on local and national government buildings, vandalize public property
PLANET AW421979, FIFTEEN METERS FROM THE CROWNCHASERS’ WORLDCRUISERS
EDGAR WAITS UNTIL ALL THE OTHER CROWNCHASERS are there before he lands.
He hates to even look like he’s playing the game, like he’s as desperate as all the rest of them, but he needs to—just this one time—in order for everything else to work.
And now here they all are, assembled so conveniently. Roy and Faroshti. Coyenne behind them. And Mega and Orso just landed.
NL7 tilts its head, scanning the worldcruisers squatting on the planet surface in front of them. “Are they all present, Edgar Voles?”
He nods. “Yes, meet me in the hangar bay, and we’ll proceed.”
The android exits the bridge, and Edgar spends a few more moments at the conn, uploading the last of his handiwork. He and NL7 have spent hours cobbling together the footage they need to feed into the surveillance cameras on board. Looping video of him moving about the bridge and the galley, steering the ship, entering and exiting his quarters, pretending to work on the crownchase. They’ll add more as they go along, just to switch it up and make it less obvious, but for now they have enough to provide the cover they need for their activities.
He joins NL7 at a release hatch near the aft of the ship. The android has already opened the airlock seal and is standing over a collection of five mechanical creations about the size of Edgar’s hand. Each one has a little round body covered in visual sensors and six long articulated legs barely wider than a strand of hair.
His spiders.
He’d designed them a while back to show his father, but his first prototype malfunctioned and William Voles had declared them worthless. Edgar’s perfected them since then, made them more intuitive, more connected, and almost undetectable.
NL7 hands Edgar a clear tablet,
and he traces precise patterns over its surface, bringing the devices to life. One by one, he sends them slipping out of the hatch and down onto the surface below. They skim across the ground to the other worldcruisers, entering each ship and penetrating behind the paneling into the internal systems.
Edgar leaves NL7 to reseal the hatch and walks back to the bridge, setting himself up at the strategic operations station. He sets the tablet down and watches as the display in front of him starts to fill with live images.
Gear Aluma, companion of Owyn Mega, flitting nervously back and forth on the bridge of their ship, the Godsblade, her fuzzy gold wings tucked tight against her back.
Honor Winger, methodically cleaning her gun in the galley on board Faye Orso’s ship, the Deadshot.
Drinn, monitoring his crownchaser’s progress from the feeds on board Nathalia Coyenne’s Gilded Gun.
Sabela Burga, ship’s engineer on Setter Roy’s Wynlari, moving down a corridor in her hoverchair, pausing to inspect the power flow on an energy conduit.
And Hell Monkey.
Edgar wrinkles his nose at just having to think the name. He’s doing whatever someone who calls himself Hell Monkey would do.
NL7 appears at Edgar’s shoulder. “It appears the operation was successful.”
“Very successful.” He looks back at the android. “Prepare to head out of atmo. We’ve done all we need to do here.”
TWO YEARS AGO . . .
THE VAGABOND QUICK, IN ATMO ON THE PLANET DRAKE
I’M SUPER SELF-CONSCIOUS RIGHT NOW.
It’s always like this when I have a new crew member. I have to suddenly pay attention to how I move around the ship, the attitude I give off, whether I’m sounding captainy enough. And this is my very first mission with my new engineer—Hell Monkey—so it’s pretty damn uncomfortable.
Hell Monkey.
Definitely never heard that one before. But he nailed every test I threw at him, including stripping the nodes on the coolant system in under ten seconds, so who cares what he calls himself, right?
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