Crownchasers

by Rebecca Coffindaffer

  There really was no way to shut it up. We tried. Whatever the digital imprint did, it embedded itself so far up the Vagabond’s ass that we couldn’t find a source point to even try and extract it. So we just rode it out. Buried ourselves in anything that would help muffle the noise.

  Until Rose saved us. Dear universe, please bless Rose. She’s always been my favorite.

  She’d found a source in the Otari system. The Megas’ home system. It was coming from a massive asteroid belt there called the Ships’ Graveyard.

  Super promising, right?

  I’d called Coy, who was still pretty pissed about being hung up on, but she got a lot less pissed when I gave her some new coordinates. Especially when inputting those coordinates finally turned off that stars-blighted noise. Then Coy was all smiles again.

  I tried to talk to her about Tear. About the town and the woman Ione and what she’d said. But we got interrupted by Drinn and then by the mediabot and then I wasn’t even sure she was really listening anyway, so I just told her we’d talk about it more later.

  Plenty of time to discuss it once she’s got the seal, right?

  We jumped into a hyperlight lane about an hour ago, but it’s going to take a lot longer than that to get to the Otari system. Almost two full days. I know I should catch up on sleep while there’s all this downtime—who knows when I’ll get to hit the pillow next—but I’ve been walking the rooms and corridors of the Vagabond instead.

  I drag my fingers along the wall panels in the starboard corridor, run my eyes along the lines of the Vagabond’s frame and the small rectangular windows sitting high up so you can get a peek at the stars. I make my way to the bridge and stand for a while, just inside the door, taking in the blue jump seats, the glowing lights of the navcomm, the streaming colors of the hyperlight lane flowing around us on the viewscreen. Hell Monkey posted up in his jump seat, monitoring our speed and course, making sure we’re still on track. I hover there, watching his hands move across the dash, quick and confident.

  I love this ship. I love everything about it and the freedom it gives me. I love the life I’ve built on it.

  I just want to hold on to that. I want everything to go back to exactly how it was two and a half weeks ago. Before my uncle was taken from me and replaced with a hijacked future and an infiltrated ship. Where it was just me and Hell Monkey and I was known only for being the best of the best Explorers’ Society pilots. Simple, right? That’s not such a big ask, is it?

  “Captain?”

  I refocus. Hell Monkey has swiveled around in his jump seat and is staring at me. “You okay?” he asks.

  I straighten up, tugging at my jumpsuit like I suddenly care about the millions of little wrinkles in it. “Yeah, fine. I’m good. Just thinking.”

  He raises his eyebrow and opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “No, wait! I got this one. How about, ‘Don’t hurt anything thinking that hard, boss’? Or maybe, ‘Are you sure you’re cleared for that much mental work?’”

  He ducks his head, and his chuckle is a little off, a little sad maybe. But he just says, “Yeah, sure, that covered it.”

  “See? You don’t have to sing me the song, I know it by heart.”

  I shoot him double finger guns and then slink off the bridge, heading back to my quarters—for real this time. I sit on my cot for a while staring at the far wall, wishing . . .

  Wishing I could talk to someone. A grown-up type of someone who might have some decent advice or just be able to say, Hey, kid, you’re gonna be fine.

  I wish I could talk to Uncle Atar, and that hurts like hell.

  I go to the comms display anyway. I’ve got one last family member left in this whole damn universe, and I’m not even supposed to contact him. But I wouldn’t exactly be me if I was a stickler about rules.

  It’s still kind of a surprise when Uncle Charlie appears on-screen. I’d kinda figured he just wouldn’t answer. But it’s really good to see his face—even if it’s pale and tight with nerves and his eyes keep flicking back over his shoulder.

  “Alyssa, this is very unexpected.” He sounds like he doesn’t know whether he’s happy or about to freak out. Charlie is a rule stickler. “As a royal official, I’m not supposed to contact any of the participating crownchasers—”

  “You didn’t contact me, I contacted you,” I point out. “And you can tell whoever is lurking around in there listening to come on out. I’m not trying to wheedle secret information out of you or anything.”

  There’s a pause and a rustle of clothes and soft footsteps, and then a Solari enkindler appears behind Charlie, looking like an enormous log of cheese in his long yellow robes. This is a new development. I expected some kind of royal enforcer, like an otari crownsguard, but an enkindler? The only one I can ever remember seeing on the kingship growing up is Enkindler Wythe, slithering around and serving as a representative. It’s strange as hell to see one babysitting Charles Viqtorial, chief envoy to the former emperor. I raise an eyebrow at him, and then at Charlie, but I see the muscles around Charlie’s eyes tighten. Just a little. So I keep my mouth shut.

  “I just needed to see a friendly face,” I tell Charlie. “Nothing nefarious. I was just . . . sad, I guess.”

  Charlie’s face softens a few millimeters. Which is a lot for Charlie. “I understand what you mean. I have been . . . sad too. I’m glad to see you are well. I’ve been watching your progress—”

  The enkindler clears his throat a little, but when he doesn’t say anything, Charlie plows on.

  “Atar would’ve been very proud of you, Alyssa.”

  “Ahem, a-HEM.” It’s more pointed this time.

  Charlie looks back at him, frowning.

  “Uncle Charlie,” I say, calling his attention back to the screen. “Can I ask a question? About Uncle Atar—”

  “Ahem!”

  “—and whether he talked to you much about regretting—”

  “Ahem, ahem!”

  “—giving up exploring for—”

  “AHEM!”

  “OH MY GODS, FLAMEOUT, DO YOU NEED A LOZENGE OR SOMETHING?”

  There’s a pause where all I can hear is the hiss of Charlie sucking in a breath. That’s not a particularly nice term for enkindlers. And I shouldn’t have used it. I just can hardly see anything right now except the pounding of my own pulse behind my eyeballs.

  “I don’t appreciate your tone, crownchaser,” the enkindler says.

  “And I don’t appreciate you lurking like a babysitter around Charles Freaking Viqtorial, a highly commended and highly respected representative of the throne!”

  The enkindler sweeps forward, filling the screen, blocking any view I have of Uncle Charlie. I hear him object, but the enkindler’s eyes are locked on mine. “The throne sits empty, crownchaser. He’s a representative of no one now. And this conversation is over.”

  And then the screen goes dark.

  Nice one, Farshot. That went well.

  Twenty-Four

  Stardate: 0.05.22 in the Year 4031

  Location: On our way to the Ships’ Graveyard, which is totally normal and not at all ominous, everything is fine

  I FALL ASLEEP WORRYING ABOUT UNCLE CHARLIE.

  And I wake up worrying about him too. Wondering what the hell is going on over on Apex that there are enkindlers running around the kingship, throwing their weight about like they own the place. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

  I clean up and head to the bridge, which is empty for the moment. Rose is maintaining our systems, monitoring any small adjustments needed to keep us riding the hyperlight lane, and I’m not going to elbow my way in on that just yet. Instead, I wander over to the media feeds running silently at the port-side station and swipe up from the bottom of the main screen, bringing up a query input. I have it search for every mention of Enkindler Wythe in the Daily Worlds or any other news media in the thirteen days since my uncle passed away, and then I start scanning the articles and video clips as they come in.

&n
bsp; Steward Wythe declares he will push forward with an agenda for the empire. (Pretty bold declaration for someone who’s technically supposed to function as a seat warmer.)

  Wythe makes a surprise visit to Helix. (A lot of money and influence flows out of Helix. Homeworld of the Voles too. Very weird. . . .)

  Chancellor Orsed floats a radical idea for the future of the empire. (This radical idea apparently is that the empire is lacking “moral leadership” and needs a new form of government to “grow in the right direction.”)

  There are others too—snippets of him traveling here or there, a brief profile on a brand-new adviser he apparently brought onto the kingship, a report of him being spotted making an appearance at a fund-raising dinner on an orbital yacht owned by William Voles. None of this stuff seems to have made major headlines or been more than a blip across the quadrant-wide feeds, but then again, why would they when there are an eyeball-flattening number of hours of crownchase footage to watch. And analysis of crownchase footage. And predictions of future crownchase footage. And yet more reruns of crownchase footage. All overlaid with polls and predictions and previews of Who Will Win and How It Will Affect the Empire.

  And in the meantime . . . I dunno. Maybe we’re missing something really big right under our noses.

  Hell Monkey’s heavy footfalls thud against the deck, and I feel his presence at my back. “What are we looking at?”

  “Maybe something. . . . Maybe nothing. . . .”

  “Steward Wythe? You think he’s got something shifty going on?”

  “I think he is shifty. He’s always been shifty. The only question is whether he’s an empty robe or a blaster in a holster.”

  Rose’s voice breaks across the bridge. “Captain Farshot, we are approaching the selected coordinates. Prepare for deceleration.”

  We exchange a look and then make a break for our jump seats, strapping in as the multicolored aura of hyperlight falls away and the darkness of space encircles us. The bridge doors whoosh open behind me, and I hear JR, our trusty mediabot, tiptoe its way over to us.

  I grab the controls, ready to angle the Vagabond toward the asteroid belt, when Rose speaks up again.

  “Proximity alert, Captain Farshot. Worldcruiser signature detected. Identification: the Gilded Gun.”

  “Well, that’s not really a surpr—”

  “Proximity alert. Multiple targets. Warship signatures detected.”

  Hell Monkey’s head whips around. “Wait—what?”

  “Classifications: Mega-registered gunners. Mega-registered howlers. Mega-registered destroyers—”

  I punch at the dash, calling up every kind of scan we’ve got. “What the hell is going on? Rose! I need it all on the viewscreen right now!”

  There’s a beat while the sensors make their sweep, and then everything lights up in front of us. The massive drifting rocks of the Ships’ Graveyard asteroid belt. The sleek silhouette of Coy’s worldcruiser just ahead and to our starboard.

  And between us and the next hoop we need to jump through: a blockade of maybe two dozen warships branded with the Mega family seal, sitting with their front-mounted cannons warmed up like they’re ready to start something.

  Son. Of. A. Bitch.

  Hell Monkey growls. “How the hell did they get here ahead of us? And with a force like that?”

  “I’m more interested in what exactly they think they’re going to do with all that firepower. Rose? Hail their lead ship. The one that’s sitting there like it’s got the best hand in poker.”

  “Yes, Captain Farshot. Comms channel open.”

  I stand and face the viewscreen. I kind of wish I’d had time for a costume change, something more intimidating, but my wrinkled jumpsuit will have to do.

  “This is Captain Alyssa Farshot of the Vagabond Quick addressing the commander of this fleet. Identify yourself and explain your presence here.”

  Hell Monkey gives me an appreciative look over his shoulder, like this is exactly his brand of oh-hell-yeah. Can’t really blame him. I impress myself sometimes when I throw on this serious authoritative shit.

  The viewscreen flickers and a face appears a second later: otari, with rocky scars very strategically placed along his bone structure. That by itself says a lot because it means he hasn’t ever gotten into an unexpected fight. He likely comes from a well-off family and never really had to earn a place.

  “This is Commander Hwn of the Dark Star,” he says, and the sneer underneath his tone makes me square my shoulders and set my jaw a little harder. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

  I roll my eyes. “Going through an emo phase when you named that ship, were you? We’re here as members of the crownchase and are functioning under full diplomatic immunity. We’ve got jurisdiction pretty much everywhere. So your turn, Hwn. What brings you to this fine abandoned asteroid field first thing in the morning?”

  The commander tugs his stiff uniform collar straighter and lifts his chin. “This is a simple fleet exercise, authorized by the admirals’ council, and we have every right to be in this space. We weren’t aware the crownchase would be in this sector—”

  “No? Golly, that is a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  He sticks his nose even higher in the air. “Captain Farshot, if you’re implying—”

  “You’re damn right I’m implying. I’m absolutely implying. I’ll just take a quick second to remind you—and any Mega family members who might be lurking around listening—that if anything happens to me or to Coy, Owyn and everyone related to him are immediately disqualified from the crownchase. So tell your ships to drop formation so we can pass without trouble.”

  His expression flickers just for a second, and then his eyes narrow. “I am a fleet commander, and we are in the middle of an exercise. You do not give me orders.”

  I step closer to the viewscreen. “You want to play that way, buddy, that’s fine. But one way or another, we’re coming through.”

  I cut the channel and drop into my jump seat. “H.M., warm up our guns and send a message to Coy. Tell her to drop back in our wake and stay close.”

  He nods, already working. “We’re running it?”

  “Hell yeah.” I crack my knuckles and wrap my fingers around the controls. “We’re definitely running it.”

  MEGA FAMILY EXACERBATES CROWNCHASE TENSIONS WITH BLOCKADE

  Mega spokesperson calls it a “prescheduled training exercise” but others decry it as a “full-scale intimidation tactic”

  EXPLORERS’ SOCIETY LAUNCHES INTERNAL INVESTIGATION

  Executive chairwoman Wesley releases statement declaring an investigation will look into accusations of artifact stealing and other violations of Society laws

  MARKETS BOOMING IN THE WAKE OF THE CROWNCHASE

  Experts say high levels of excitement across the empire are driving big economic growth, even as the chase enters its second week

  FOLLOWING THE GALACTIC MONEY

  A multipart look at the Orso family’s meteoric rise to prime status after centuries of piracy

  THE SHIPS’ GRAVEYARD, OTARI SYSTEM

  WORLDCRUISER S576-034 SITS IN A SENSOR SHADOW on the far side of the asteroid belt. NL7 calculated that this was the perfect position to monitor the activity of the crownchasers and the beacon without being detected by them in return.

  Not that he thinks they’re going to be worried about him. He wonders if they even remember that he’s in the chase or if they’ve forgotten his existence. They’re good at that, after all.

  And besides, they have a Mega squadron to deal with at the moment.

  It is so very like the Megas to make a move like this. A show of brute force to remind the quadrant what they bring to the table as a family and stir up latent patriotism with a gawdy display of imperial military pageantry. Most likely in an attempt to boost Owyn’s standing in the public poll since he’s been trailing so much in the actual race. Maybe to rattle the other crownchasers as well and give their heir a leg up. It’s not as if nepotism is l
ooked down upon in the prime families, after all. Especially not by Lorcan and Jenna Mega, who never met a problem of Owyn’s that they couldn’t step in and fix for him.

  It’s a boorish move. All muscle and posturing. No subtlety or finesse. But it also shows desperation to Edgar, and that is something he could maybe use.

  Curious, too, how the Megas knew the crownchasers would be coming to this part of their system. Someone had to have tipped them off. Someone with insider knowledge, with enough influence to convince the Megas to play the power and patriotism card. Edgar can use that too if he can deduce who it was that pulled their strings.

  “Edgar Voles.” NL7 motions him over to the comms. “We are picking up a ghost signature.”

  Edgar frowns and moves over to stand with the android. “Put it on the viewscreen.”

  NL7 taps on the panel, but their current view of the edge of the asteroid belt remains unchanged.

  “Nothing seems to be out there,” says Edgar. “Could be an error.”

  “Unlikely. We have picked it up again. Trajectory seems to be toward the asteroid belt. Should we use a more intensive scan?”

  Edgar shakes his head. “No. I don’t want to give away our position to whomever might be out there. We’ll get a clearer picture as they get closer.”

  In less than a minute, he’s proven right. A small, sleek ship comes into view—so to speak. It’s been outfitted for stealth with a mirrormask, so Edgar isn’t entirely sure he would have seen it if he hadn’t been looking so intently for it. It approaches the asteroid belt approximately a parsec away from their current location, close enough that their sensors get a better read of it and produce an outline of its general shape and specs.

  Edgar tilts his head as he looks at the readout. “It’s a huffar design. That’s strange.”

  “How so?” asks NL7.

  “They’re not known for being particularly political. They managed to remain neutral during the entirety of the war. At least, publicly they were neutral.”