And why shouldn’t they be? I’m betting absolutely no one asked them if they wanted to be a part of this whole mess. A bunch of kingship bureaucrats probably just assumed everyone in the empire would be excited to see the famous crownchasers land on their planet.
I tap on my wristband comms. “H.M., can you get me the name of this town? And any specs you can turn up?”
“One sec, Captain.”
I can’t see Coy anymore. She’s disappeared somewhere ahead, her excitement sweeping her along. I stay right where I stopped, staring back at the Tearian women. I’m not trying to start shit or anything, but I think it would be worse to look away, to act like I can’t see them. That’s my guess anyway. Fingers crossed.
H.M.’s voice cuts in. “The town is called Beru. Mining settlement for ore. Mainly cobalt, but a few others too. Some big imperial mining corporations pumped a lot of money into the town for a while, got a ton of product out of the quarry, but they all pulled out about a decade ago. There’s a small amount of mining business keeping the place afloat these days.”
Ah. I’m guessing they’re not big empire fans after that. Which means they’re probably not big crownchase fans either.
“Thanks, H.M. One more thing. Can you—”
A shout to my right cuts me off. I turn to look—
—just in time for a dark figure to plow into me, sending me crashing to the ground.
Nineteen
WHATEVER MINERALS ARE IN THE GROUND OF TEAR, they taste bitter as hell, and they’re one hundred percent in my mouth right now.
Gross.
I spit and cough, wiping grit away from my eyes and my lips, jamming my elbows down into the ground to try to lever myself up. Whatever knocked me over is scrambling off me now, and I make sure my gaze is clear before looking up.
It’s a Tearian child. Young. Maybe three or four turns around their sun. Their face is round as a moon, and I swear to the stars their dark eyes take up half of it.
They’re adorable, is what I’m saying, and they look about as alarmed to have run into me as I was to find my face meeting dirt.
“Hey, sorry, kid.” I hold out a hand and slow my movements a little so I’m not so scary. “I didn’t know this was a high-speed area. My bad.”
They blink at me. Tough crowd.
I spot fresh scrapes on their knees, just minor lacerations from hitting the ground too hard probably, but I’m betting they sting a little. I unhook the medkit from my belt and grab two small bandages, holding them out for the kid to see. “Can I help you put these on?”
Heavy footsteps rattle the ground behind me, and I look up as one of the Tearian women sweeps across the street and gathers the child up in her arms. She pinches their chin gently and starts scolding them. I mean, I’m assuming she’s scolding them. She’s speaking a Tearian dialect, but you can still kind of tell when a parent is laying into a kid. That tone crosses the language barrier. The only thing I catch based on the little modern-day Tearian I know is the kid’s name: Thoas.
It’s my turn to scramble to my feet now. I put my hands up in front of me, still holding those bandages. Very “I come in peace.” I’m going for the harmless visitor vibe.
Not that I think she’s worried much about me. I barely hit the top of her shoulder.
“Total accident,” I tell her. “I’m not here for any trouble. I’m just here for the—”
“I know what you’re here for, crownchaser,” she spits in Imperial, slicing a look at me. “The same thing your type is always here for. Take and then go. Take and then go.” She turns back to the child, puts on a reassuring smile, wipes at the kid’s smudgy face.
“My type?” I laugh a little, going for lighthearted. “You see a lot of crownchasers come through Tear?”
The expression she gives me could flatten a Vaxildan moose.
“You’re a prime family. That makes you the highest of imperial shit. And you’re an explorer too, yes?”
I think I nod. I don’t even know at this point.
“Figured. You look like one of them. The imperials come and strip our minerals. The explorers come and steal our relics. You’re the worst of both worlds.”
Damn. That hits me right in the stomach. I think I even stagger a little bit.
Alyssa Farshot: the Worst.
My brain catches up with my ears, and I frown up at her. “Explorers stole your relics? When? Who?”
She snorts. “You think they left a calling card? Sat at our tables? Ate with us? I don’t know their names. They come when they want and take what they want. Sometimes here, sometimes in the cities.”
I swallow hard, and I’m not sure if the bitter taste on my tongue is from the dirt anymore. “No licensed Society explorer is supposed to be doing that. They’d get tossed out on their ass. Did you—?”
“Did we what?” she snaps. The child, Thoas, tips their head forward, snuggling into her chest, and she stares at me over their ruffled hair. “Lodge a formal complaint? Seek restitution? You must not know anything about this planet. No one is stepping in to stop them. No one defends us. Our leaders say, please come in, what else can we give you.”
I don’t have anything to say to that. I feel like my arms are too long and my hands are too big and I don’t know what to do with either of them. It’s not like I haven’t heard of this happening—explorers working outside of protocols, straight up stealing and claiming it was for science. It was pretty rampant in the early years of the Society. But leadership makes a big deal about how they stamped out those shitty practices decades ago. It isn’t still supposed to be happening.
Or maybe we all just try not to see it happening.
My eyes land on Thoas’s scraped knees again, and I show the woman the bandages I’m still holding. “Can I . . . ? I mean, do you mind . . . ?”
She laughs a little. It’s not happy. It’s dark and bitter as hell. But she murmurs something to the kid and then nods me forward. “Sure, crownchaser. The least you could do, I guess.”
A horned figure appears farther down the street and starts jumping up and down in my peripheral vision. I flick a quick glance—Coy is dancing around like she’s on fire, trying to get my attention. But I ignore her and focus on the Tearians.
“I’m Alyssa, by the way,” I say to the woman as I press the first bandage gently onto Thoas’s skin. “I know it’s probably not worth much, but I’m really sorry. If you want me to, I can ask at the Explorers’ Society. About your relics. I can—”
“You can do what? Fix this one small problem so you feel better about yourself? So you sleep well at night?”
Ouch. The truth in her words hits me in the chest, and I feel a twist of shame as I put the second bandage on Thoas and step back. “Okay, that’s totally fair. I just . . . I wish I could help.”
Coy shouts my name. Like this is a damn playground or something. I wave at her to cut it out, and she responds by taking the hint and waiting patiently and respectfully.
I’m kidding. Of course she doesn’t.
She hollers, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW, FARSHOT? WHAT PART OF CHASE IS LOST ON YOU?”
I can’t look at her right now. I feel like if I look away from this moment, this Tearian woman, I’ll fail something big. Something way bigger than this crownchase.
The woman glances down and runs her thumb over the kid’s bandaged knee. “You want this to be simple. You come in uninvited, we get hurt, you put a patch on it and leave. All better, yes? But it is not that kind of problem.”
“Ione!” one of the other Tearian women calls to her from across the street. She looks over my shoulder at them and shakes her head, and then her eyes cut back to me. Her expression isn’t as sharp or unforgiving as it was before, but it’s still hard as stone.
“We don’t want a savior, crownchaser. We want justice. We want to be heard. That requires more than your bandage.”
Then she hoists the child farther up on her shoulder, turns her back on me, and walks away.
Twen
ty
I HAVE ABOUT A SECOND TO PROCESS EVERYTHING before Coy appears next to me. She takes my face between her hands, looks into my eyes, and says very low and very seriously:
“Alyssa Farshot, my darling, my truest and bestest friend, move your ridiculous ass right now or I’m going to have Drinn tow you along from our ship.”
She takes off again, back down the street.
I cast a look over at Thoas and Ione and the other Tearian women one more time, and then I follow Coy.
She runs hard, so I have to put on a pretty good pace to keep up with her. Drinn’s tinny voice comes on over her wristband, and I hear her pant out an answer but I’m not sure what either of them is saying.
We’re rapidly approaching the end of town. In another fifty meters or so, the buildings will fall away and all that’ll be left is a steep drop into a cobalt quarry.
I call out to Coy. “You found the beacon?”
“Yeah,” she hollers over her shoulder. “Almost there.”
“And? Then what?”
“Just move, Farshot. Drinn says new worldcruisers just broke atmo.”
Ah, hell. I push my speed, following her flying trail of ghost-white hair as she sweeps around a small house and out of sight.
I skid around the corner—and slam into her back.
“Coy, warn a girl!” I bark as we both stumble and right ourselves. She just elbows me in the ribs and nods at what’s in front of us.
The beacon. It looks identical to the one on AW42—shiny metal, maybe a meter high, and a bright, glowing sphere several centimeters above it with millions of microscopic somethings inside it if you look close enough. Which is hard. Because, y’know, bright.
“What are you waiting for?” I tell her. “Go get it.”
She quirks a single eyebrow at me—that’s some elegant and dismissive shit right there—and steps forward, reaching out to touch the rotating ball of illumination.
Words appear in the air above the halo of light and a voice rings out:
Welcome, crownchaser. Please submit a name.
Coy looks back at me, arms akimbo, but I gotta be honest. I’ve got no clue.
“Did you try—?”
“My name? Of course I tried my name. Here, watch.” She squares her shoulders to the beacon and says, very clearly, “Nathalia Coyenne.”
Thank you, Nathalia Coyenne. Your name is not the one required. Please return to the town and then submit a name.
She flips a rude gesture at it and then crosses her arms, turning back to me. She’s looking at me like the beacon is some kid with a bad attitude and I’m the parent supposed to straighten them out.
Submit a name . . . There are trillions of names in the empire—what kind of name? Is naming babies some kind of unique empress trait I don’t know about? Does it mean the name of a person or a place? Or maybe it’s an animal—who the hell is even supposed to know?
I realize I’m staring at the message so hard that I’m grinding my teeth, and I work my jaw around, trying to relax. Relax, Farshot. Relaaaaaax.
Return to the town. That seems strange. Why would it say return to the town and then submit a name? Unless . . .
Coy sidles up to me, her eyes narrowed. “What is it? What’s that face? That’s a something face.”
I hesitate before finally saying, “I think it’s a town name. I mean, I think it wants the name of someone who lives in town.”
“Really?” She swivels her head around to scan the brightly decorated buildings behind us. “You think so?”
I do. The more I think about it, the more it sits right in my stomach. But I shrug and go, “It’s a guess.”
“Damn . . . Nobody back there looked particularly chatty.”
The roar of ship engines reaches us, and I look above Beru’s low, shambly skyline to see two—nope, three—worldcruisers flipping their engines to landing positions and descending.
“Double damn!” Coy rounds on me. “You talked to that townswoman and that child. Did you get any names out of that?”
I did. I have two names, actually. One for each of us to use. But I can’t bring myself to open my mouth and spit them out. It feels . . . wrong.
Look, I love Nathalia. We grew up together. She was a sister when I was painfully aware of how little family I had left. And I know she’d be a good empress—clever and rational at working the system but also kind of a softie at heart so that she won’t screw us all over for eternity. But for the first time, this deal—me helping her beat everyone else—doesn’t feel that great.
Coy should have to go get a name herself. She should have to get back into that town and talk to the people there. Talk and listen. That’s the point, right? Connect with some of the people you’re going to be ruling? Hear their problems and their pains? And maybe she won’t be first. Maybe she’ll end up behind the other crownchasers. But wouldn’t that still be better for her as a leader?
That’s what Uncle Atar would say. He’d say that giving her the names is the easy way out—for her and for me. It’d be the selfish path.
Hell Monkey’s voice comes on over my wristband. “Hey, Captain, you’re not alone. I’ve got eyes on Orso, Mega, and Roy, and they’re absolutely tearing after you.”
I stare into Coy’s hopeful eyes. I’ll talk to her after this. I’ll make sure she understands all of this—the town and the people.
I don’t know if I believe it, though.
“Thoas.”
She grabs my face, kissing me on both cheeks. Then she spins and jumps back up to the beacon and puts her hand into the light, declaring, “Thoas.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, feel the illumination sear across my eyelids. When I open them again, Coy is gone.
The same thing your type is always here for. Take and then go. Take and then go.
You’re the worst of both worlds.
Ione’s words are so loud in my ears that I actually look behind me to make sure she isn’t there.
A shout behind me, from back in the middle of town. It sounds like Faye’s voice. I drag my feet into position and shove my hand into the light. There’s no reason I can think of why this situation should feel bad—it’s not cheating exactly—but it sure as hell doesn’t feel good.
“Ione.”
I’m surrounded by a flash like a supernova—and then I’m face-first in blue dirt again.
Lovely.
I can already hear the Gilded Gun powering up as I pull my feet underneath me and wrench my body upright. I’m steps away from the edge of town, steps away from the Vagabond . . .
. . . and steps away from Setter Roy.
He’s not racing toward the beacon like Faye and Owyn. He’s stopped just shy of the town limits, and he’s crouched low with his arms wrapped around his head. Like he’s grieving or in pain or something. Which makes sense. The atmosphere in this place is so intense that even my blundering ass picked up on it, and Roy is a telepath. What’s it gotta be like to have a whole town full of anger sitting in your head?
I gotta go. Coy is taking off already. Hell Monkey is waving at me from the Vagabond’s cockpit.
But I cross the cobalt-colored earth to Setter Roy’s side and wrap my hands around his arm, just above his elbow. I haul him up until his back is straight(ish) and he’s looking me in the eye. Setter might not be my favorite person in the quadrant, but he’s not a complete jerk, and I’d probably at least piss on him if he were on fire (not that he’d ask me to, but still).
So I clap him on the shoulder and say, “It’s not about the beacon. It’s about the town. Go listen to the people. It’ll be worth it.”
And then I haul it fast for where the Vagabond is waiting.
COYENNE-FARSHOT TEAM LEADS THE PACK
Public opinion swings in the Coyenne family’s favor after a run across Tear
DOES TEAMING UP OFFER FAMILIES AN UNFAIR ADVANTAGE?
Historians look at notable points in crownchase history where prime families chose to combine efforts and how it helped or hu
rt them
VOLES CONTINUES TO BE MISSING IN ACTION
Poll rankings for the Voles family plummet to only six percent after their heir fails to make an appearance on Tear
RENEWED OUTBREAK OF PROTESTS ON TEAR
Protest leaders release statement deriding the “increasingly invasive imperial presence” on the planet after it’s used for the latest leg of the crownchase
WORLDCRUISER S576-034, UNDISCLOSED COORDINATES
“EDGAR VOLES.” NL7’S VOICE ECHOES IN THE DEAD silence of their ship. “You have an incoming communication. On a secured channel.”
Edgar turns from where he’s been monitoring his crownchasers. “I shouldn’t have communications from anybody.”
“It appears to be from your father.”
Oh. Edgar smooths his hands down the front of his shirt. There shouldn’t be any wrinkles, but it doesn’t hurt to check. Also his palms feel a little cold and clammy quite suddenly.
“I will respond to him in my quarters, NL7. Please monitor the feeds and notify me of anything unusual.”
“Of course, Edgar Voles.”
He leaves the bridge, moving with sharp, deliberate steps toward the captain’s quarters. He can hear his heartbeat inside his ears, feel the frantic uptick of his pulse in the veins of his neck and wrists. His tongue sits heavy and dry in his mouth.
He feels so weak. So vulnerable. Nothing like what a Voles ought to be.
“Worldcruiser S576-034,” he calls out as the door to his quarters shuts behind him. “Please transfer the secure communications here.”
The face of William Voles fills his display screen—severely angled and exceedingly symmetrical, dark hair streaked with white, blue eyes narrowed with disapproval. Always with disapproval.
Edgar used to try to find himself in his father’s face when he was a child, but there was never any sign of it. He’s been told he takes after his mother—rounder face, softer angles, brown eyes and honey-blond hair—and he’s always hated that. How his mother had imprinted on him so much that was not-Voles, so much that was flawed and sensitive and distasteful to his family. And then she’d died and left him with the consequences of her genetics. The only thing good she’d given him was her last design and creation: NL7. And NL7, in Edgar’s mind, is perfect.
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