Crownchasers

by Rebecca Coffindaffer

  So much pressure in the Mega family. So much resting on the shoulders of this one beloved heir to finally capture the throne. A throne that none of them have ever sat upon.

  “Always the bridesmaid.”

  He glances over his shoulder as NL7 steps up behind him. “I’m sorry?”

  The android gestures at Owyn Mega on-screen. “An antiquated saying to describe individuals who never quite hit the pinnacle of their achievement. It seemed appropriate.”

  Edgar raises his eyebrows and turns back to the camera feeds. “Very strange to hear you using metaphors.”

  “Mediabots are programmed to be grossly colloquial. It’s very possible the remnants of it have affected our programming.”

  He shrinks the Mega feed and spins in his seat to face NL7. “Is it done, then?”

  “It is, Edgar Voles. All trackers on board have been appropriated and reprogrammed. They will no longer give out our accurate position. Instead they have been set to transmit incorrect coordinates and move in reasonable pattern trajectories.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, NL7.” Let the media and the crownchase officials chase after his ghost. Let them think he isn’t in the running.

  He will enter the game when he’s good and ready.

  ONE YEAR AGO . . .

  A NIGHTCLUB ON THE PLANET YASHA

  I’M NOT SURE WHY I AGREED TO COME TO THIS.

  I mean, the quick-and-easy answer is Coy. I haven’t seen her in close to six months, and she’d begged me to show. And Hell Monkey needed to put the Vagabond through some intensive engine work at the Yasha shipyards anyway, so . . . Here I am, in a nightclub covered in glittering lights and even more actual glitter, crowded with a few hundred of Nathalia Coyenne’s closest friends.

  Including some of my former best friends.

  Not Faye, of course. By all accounts, she’s thrown herself fully into being the captivating criminal element that imperial media love to see from an Orso. I hear she’s been dating her right-hand lady, Honor, for a while now, and it’s nice to discover that that info doesn’t hurt like it might’ve a few years ago.

  Owyn Mega is in a back corner, talking to an Artacian with soft gold wings folded down her back. Their heads are super close together, and the guy looks the happiest I think I’ve ever seen him lately. He spots me through the masses and grins, a little sheepish. He raises his drink in salute, and I realize I can’t really return the gesture so I just wave awkwardly and edge toward the bar to remedy my drink-less existence.

  I almost plow into Setter Roy, standing against the bar, holding a painfully appropriate glass of water. It’s too loud in here to hear him sigh when he sees me, but I see it on his face. Gods, he reminds me of Uncle Charlie.

  “How’s it going, Straight-Laced?” I clap him hard on the back and flag down the bartender. “Still killing it on the party circuit, huh?”

  He grimaces. “Not all of us can afford to go gadding about the galaxy.”

  Now it’s my turn to sigh. “I literally just walked in the door, Setter.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “No, it’s fine. Let’s just get this out of the way.” I swipe over some cred-chips to pay for my drink and then turn to face him, doing my best impression of his deep voice and Lenosi accent. “‘Alyssa, you owe it to your family to be more responsible!’”

  “I don’t sound like that.”

  “‘Alyssa, your uncle is the emperor! You shouldn’t be embarrassing him!’”

  “I never said anything of the sort.”

  “‘Alyssa, you really ought to try shoving a steel rod right up your ass! It’s so great for the posture!’”

  “I’m not—” He slams his water glass on the bar top, slopping liquid all over. “I just don’t understand . . . how you can be so careless with your legacy.”

  “Because I don’t want to think about my legacy, Setter.” I reach over the bar, grab a mostly dry towel, and toss it at him. “I have nothing to prove to anybody. And neither do you. Your mothers love you as is. They think you’re perfection. And as for everyone else, well . . . I think Owyn kinda likes you sometimes.”

  I smile a little, so he knows I’m kidding, and he almost smiles back. Bonus points for effort. I hand him my drink and pat him on the arm.

  “Loosen up, Setter. It’s a Nathalia Coyenne party. It’ll be good for a show if nothing else.”

  He looks around, at the chaos of bodies and music, at Coy herself holding court on the far side of the room with a dozen rapt admirers.

  “We’ll have to let go of all of this someday, you know,” he says. “Step into our real roles, our real responsibilities.”

  “I mean, you will probably.” I pay for another drink and clink it against his. “But not tonight, Setter Roy.”

  I leave him at the bar and lose myself in the crowd.

  Seventeen

  Stardate: 0.05.19 in the Year 4031

  Location: A spinning intellectual puzzle box. I mean, I’m not inside it. But I feel like it.

  IT’S BEEN SIX STRAIGHT HOURS. HELL MONKEY comes in after about an hour to bring me food and make sure I’m still alive. Whatever words I put together for him must not be very coherent because he comes right back with a cup of coffee the size of my face.

  Gods bless him. I could almost kiss him for that.

  Coffee’s not a long-term fix, but it helps keep my brain from dissolving into a total pile of mush while we sort out the rest of the Tearian puzzle cube.

  Drinn’s past-life knowledge and the combination of our ships’ AIs gave us an edge, and we’ve got all the symbols translated. It’s just been trying to slot everything into the place we think it goes. Every time you place a tile, it has a cascading effect on the rest of the puzzle because it has to go with what’s above it, what’s below it, and what’s on either side. We “solved” it once but nothing happened, so we tore half of it up and started again. But we’re almost done, and I’ve got a good gut feeling. Good enough that I wave Holographic Coy away.

  “Get back on your ship. I mean, all the way on your ship. Make sure Drinn has this solution copied in.”

  Coy leans back, hands on her hips. “You think this is it?”

  I swipe the last tile toward me. “If it’s not, I’ll be right back on your comms.”

  She nods and reaches for her face to take the VR off, but then she pauses and angles a sharp look over at me. “Try to rest or something, Farshot. You look like hell, and that isn’t good for either of my two hearts.”

  She’s gone before I can respond, so I’m left squatting there on the floor of my quarters, mouth half-open.

  What a dick move.

  I pull the last holographic tile down and slot it into place in the bottom corner of the cube.

  A voice comes on over the comms. Not the Vagabond’s voice—not Rose.

  “Course entered, crownchaser. Preparing to move to hyperlight.”

  Well. I guess we’re off. Hopefully Coy is right behind us.

  I should do what Coy said and try to sleep, but I’m in a weird state of exhausted-awake. Not quite coherent, but too artificially stimulated to relax. I step out of my quarters, blinking a little in the comparatively bright light of the corridor. It feels like I’ve been holed up in there for weeks. I’m rubbing the spots from my eyes when a shadow looms over me, and I look up into Hell Monkey’s irate expression.

  “We just jumped to hyperlight.”

  “Yeah . . . Sounds about right.” I slip past him, heading for the galley. Maybe sleep isn’t the answer. Maybe I just need more coffee. That sounds like a solid plan.

  He follows on my heels. “You couldn’t have given a guy a heads-up? What happened in there?”

  “We completed it—the puzzle cube thing.” I turn a corner and flinch as light floods the galley. “How the hell is it even brighter in here? Rose! Dim the lights or I’m gonna smash them!”

  The illumination drops at least twenty-five percent, and I sag with relief. Hell Monkey hovers near my right shoulder,
one eyebrow raised. “What’s the matter with you? You’re acting like you’re hungover.”

  “Not true. I have no desire for cheese or fried bread.” He’s still kinda right, though. Everything seems too bright and too loud and I’m cold and I just want to go to bed.

  “Maybe you’re getting sick.”

  I fumble my way around until I’ve managed to heat up the premixed coffee equivalent we have on board. It’s not as good as you can get even at most spaceports, but it’ll do the job. I curl half my body around the mug, leaning back against the counter. Hell Monkey watches me with those ridiculous, steady hazel eyes.

  “I’m gonna need you to put those away,” I say, waving at his face. “I’m fine. You don’t have to . . .”

  “I don’t have to what?”

  “Look at me.”

  He snorts and then tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Sure, Captain. This is a totally normal way of holding a discussion.”

  “I’m not sick or anything. I’m just . . .” I cast around in my brain, trying to find the right words, but it’s basically turned to jelly after the marathon puzzle from hell. I finally give up and settle for “. . . tired.”

  And I am. That’s true. But it’s more than that. We’ve only just started this chase, and I already miss my ship being my ship and my choices being my choices. I miss getting up in the morning and getting to decide—just me—how far and how fast I want to push myself up to the raggedy edge of danger.

  And I miss Uncle Atar.

  I keep feeling the urge to talk to him. Or thinking “Next time I see Uncle Atar” and then remembering with a horrible sickening drop to my stomach that there’s no one to see anymore. The empty echo of him keeps lapping at my heels, and if I stand still too long, it’ll swamp me.

  Hell Monkey comes over and pours himself some of the terrible coffee mix, drinking it cold because he’s a total heathen. I make a disgusted face, and he waggles his eyebrows and makes a big show of taking a long, loud slurp.

  “You’re a monster.”

  He hops up onto the counter, dangling his big booted feet next to me. “Maybe. But you knew that when you hired me. So that’s on you.”

  He’s got me there. I elbow him in the leg for it, though. He kicks back at me, but I dodge out of the way, laughing. Knowing us, it probably would’ve devolved from there into a full-out food fight or something equally mature, but then—

  Click, click, click. Metal feet mincing over the floor as that ridiculous mediabot comes into the galley, lenses all lit up and recording.

  “Captain Farshot! I couldn’t help but notice your worldcruiser moved to hyperlight. Is it safe to say you made progress on the latest crownchase development? Can you speak as to where we’re headed next?”

  I sigh as the mediabot comes right up to me. Don’t be a dick, Farshot. It’s just doing its job. Don’t be a dick. My eyes find its designation number stenciled onto a plate on its shoulder: JR426.

  “JR—can I call you JR?—I’m gonna be straight and up-front with you here: Do you think there’s even the slightest chance at this point that I’m going to answer your questions? Can you calculate the probability on that one?”

  It pauses. “Very low, Captain Farshot.”

  “Correct.” I pat its pokey metal arm. “Come on, JR. We’re going to go to the bridge and stare at stars and stuff until we get where we’re going.”

  Eighteen

  Stardate: 0.05.20 in the Year 4031

  Location: I mean, it’s a Tearian puzzle. You do the math on this one.

  IT’S NOT EXACTLY A SURPRISE WHEN WE DROP OUT of hyperlight in the Fyre system, within viewing distance of the planet Tear. I mean, I don’t wanna be cocky or anything, but it was kind of obvious, right? Okay, that might’ve sounded a little cocky. . . . (But c’mon, that’s not new. Humility = not my strong point.)

  Hell Monkey keeps steady hands on the controls but angles his head back toward me. “You always said you wanted to come here. Today’s your lucky day, Farshot.”

  “That’s me. Luckiest girl in the universe.” I lean against the back of Hell Monkey’s jump seat as he puts in a trajectory to enter planetary orbit. “Anyone else here yet?”

  “Nothing in the preliminary scan. Doing a secondary run at it, though. Just in case.”

  Rose’s voice comes on over the comms. “Proximity alert. Worldcruiser dropping out of hyperlight. Identification: the Gilded Gun.”

  Good. Coyenne right on our tail, as promised, and it looks like we beat everyone else here. That’s a break, and I’m damn well ready for it. If we could get through this next challenge without blaster fire or near-death experiences, it’d make for a nice change of pace.

  “No other worldcruisers detected, Captain,” Hell Monkey says. “But I got something else: a beacon.”

  “Just like the one on AW421979?”

  “The very same. Located on the sun side. We can do a quick burn and then drop through atmo. Should take us under ten minutes.”

  “I like the sound of that. Get us down there so we can jump through whatever hoops they’ve set up for us and get on our way.”

  I tap a quick message to Coy in my wristband but don’t wait for her response before I give the go-ahead. Hell Monkey burns us hot for a few seconds to slingshot around to the half of the planet currently lit up gold by the Fyre system’s central star. I buckle myself into my jump seat for safety during our atmo drop, but as soon as we’re clear of the turbulence and entering the skies above Tear, I snap the buckles off and lean over the conn, trying to get my face closer to the windows along the prow. Like that will somehow give me a better look at the surface below or something. But I’m just so damn curious to see it with my own eyes.

  In my (very experienced) opinion, none of the pictures I’ve seen of Tear do it justice.

  It’s called the Cobalt Desert, partly for the massive mineral deposits that fuel much of its economy but also because of its color. The planet is a swath of flat ground and outcroppings of jagged rocks, all in various shades of rich, impossible blue, cut through with veins of metallic gray and white. Clumps of plants that look somewhere between a scrub tree and a cactus sprout up out of the ground, and as we speed by, we spot an iridescent river spilling over a cliff. We pass low over expansive cities with some impressive-looking buildings and looping transportation systems weaving around them like snakes. But you can see the strain of conflict if you look closer: smoke rising from streets outside the shiny city center, a neighborhood cordoned off with makeshift fencing, a stream of people gathering in front of a massive building—

  —and that’s all I can catch before we’re past. Still flying. Because that’s not where the beacon is leading us.

  It’s leading us far from Tear’s sprawling cityplexes to a small town on the edge of a yawning quarry. Like, a really small town. I don’t think it’s even half a square kilometer. I shoot Hell Monkey a look as he slows the Vagabond down and repositions the engine draft to give us a smooth landing.

  “Here?”

  He manages a barely there shrug without affecting his concentration on what he’s doing. “This is definitely where the beacon is coming from. On the far side by the looks of it. By the edge of the quarry.”

  Yeah. That’s where it would be, wouldn’t it. So these people have to watch us stampede like assholes through their whole town to find our next toy. Real nice.

  I tell Hell Monkey to hold down the fort, and then I head for the aft bay doors, slamming the button to deploy the loading ramp. He follows me and presses something into my hands.

  A blaster.

  “Can’t be too careful,” he says, catching my eye.

  He’s right. Smart money is on “don’t go into the situation unarmed.” But we just parked our big-ass worldcruiser next to this place and more ships are on the way. The idea of storming in with a blaster on my hip seems . . . just kind of douchey.

  I push it back into his chest and cock a half smile. “Cover me from here, all right? I tru
st you more than I even trust me.” As I clomp down the ramp, I call back, “And enjoy that view as I walk away, buddy!”

  His response follows me as I round the corner: “You’re the worst, Farshot.”

  My boots hit cobalt dirt and grit, and damn, I wanna get in on this stuff—pick it up, study it, figure out how it’s different from other planets I’ve been on. But the Gilded Gun has already landed and Coy is bounding over to me, her face all lit up with excitement. I’m extra aware of the camera drones hovering above us, recording the first public team outing of Coyenne and Farshot.

  “Ahead of the pack and everything!” she crows, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Did you see where the beacon is?”

  I fall into step next to her. “Yup. Far side, near the quarry. What do you bet we have to rappel for it or something ridiculous?”

  I scan the town as we approach the outskirts. Little houses and shops, several of them looking in need of repair, and all of them painted in the distinctive fluid style of north Tearian art. I’ve seen a few isolated examples of this work before, but it was nothing like this—each brightly colored building unique and yet in conversation with the structures around it. They all flow with each other, like a story.

  Coy swings onto the main through street, her steps quickening. I follow, but my feet are dragging. It doesn’t feel right—us being here. It feels like trespassing. Even the air is saturated with it: You’re not welcome. Get the hell out.

  My eyes catch on three tall, broad-shouldered Tearian women standing near a building, watching me. Their skin is streaked with blue, their arm muscles standing out underneath their clothes. Their hands look rough and worn. And their eyes are angry. And wary.