Crownchasers

by Rebecca Coffindaffer

  People like Hell Monkey and his folks, apparently.

  “We worked on a flower farm,” he continues. “Which sounds like it should be all nice and pretty, but there’s no such thing as a job like that on Homestead. It was a lot of manure and sweat and bleeding all over from scratches and thorns to grow a ton of flowers that didn’t belong there just so someone on Helix had something pretty to stare at in a window for a few days. All my family worked the fields, but I was little for my age and good with a gear wrench, so they had me fixing machines, wedging myself into tiny spaces to grease a cog just so they wouldn’t miss a day’s production.

  “I was half-in, half-out of the wheel well of a combine when the explosion hit.” His voice goes rough. Like the memory itself is grating him raw. “The company we worked for had brought in a banned fertilizer—outlawed for being too big of a fire hazard. No one knew, though. Not even the overseers. Not until one of the blades on a gigantic stem stripper machine threw a spark out in the fields and—FWOOM. Whole place went up.”

  I press myself against his side. “And took everyone with it.”

  “Just about.” His gaze drops to one of my hands, resting on my knee, and he brushes his thumb along my knuckles. “There was a big dustup for, like, a day. An empire official even came and declared there’d be an official investigation. But then the Voleses and the other Helix big shots started passing out credits, and it all went away.”

  A long silence creeps over us, making me shiver. I don’t know what to say. It’s not like there’s a pithy response to hearing that your closest friend’s whole childhood went up in a firestorm. In a seriously literal way. So I say nothing. I just lay my cheek against his arm.

  After a few minutes, he looks over at me. He’s not off in memory land anymore. He’s extremely present.

  “I’ve got no love for the empire, Alyssa. You said you don’t want the throne, and I’m there with you. Same page. I’d much rather you be here . . . with me.”

  Those words are weightier than they seem, and I feel them land in my chest, soft and warm.

  “But this kind of running—it’s gonna eat you up. You’re never gonna be happy unless you see this thing through.”

  “Happiness is overrated,” I grumble.

  “No, it’s not. You take as much happiness as you can get, wherever you can find it.” He scoots away and turns so he can face me, his hands wrapping around my hands. “But right now, you’re Alyssa Fucking Farshot. You’ve got the ship and the skills to get in there, watch Coy’s back, and ensure the person who sits on that throne is one who’s gonna do right by people. Someone who’ll work for planets like Homestead. Planets like Tear. So what are you gonna do?”

  Like I even have a chance with him looking at me like that? I mean, seriously. This guy.

  “Dammit, Hell Monkey. You’re the worst.”

  ALL CROWNCHASERS CLEARED IN MEGA’S MURDER

  Kingship confirms body of unidentified figure captured in the released drone footage was found at the scene

  WHO’S BEHIND THE DEFIANT ASSAULT

  Authorities struggle to uncover any clues as to the identity of the murderer or what they were doing in the asteroid belt

  KINGSHIP REJECTS MEGAS PUSH FOR A SPECIAL INQUIRY

  The prime family has asked for an independent investigator, but kingship officials say that everything that can be done is being done

  CHEERY COYENNE ANNOUNCES RELEASE OF “OWYN MEGA: A RETROSPECTIVE”

  The executive editor says many of the crownchaser’s closest friends and family contributed to the memorial show

  SYSTRIA IX, IN REMOTE ORBIT

  THE MEGAS WILL NOT BE SWAYED.

  After all the trouble Edgar went to in order to contact them, to make his pitch about backing the Voles family and playing a part in his great victory. He’d appealed to their future, promising them power and wealth beyond what they had even now. He’d appealed to their sense of justice, in helping him put the Coyennes and Faroshtis in their place, in getting to the bottom of Owyn’s murder. He’d even tried to appeal to their grief.

  And that’s when they’d cut the transmission.

  He sits in the captain’s chair, fingers pressed into his temples, staring into empty space. He’d been certain he could convince them, and now he needs to adjust. It ought to be simple to come up with a different angle. He does this all the time.

  But his mind keeps getting stuck. On the twin looks of disdain on the Megas’ faces as he talked to them. On everything his father said on his last call.

  The family didn’t want you . . .

  On everything else underneath his father’s words.

  You’d better not fail, Edgar. Don’t disappoint me again, Edgar. I never wanted you, Edgar—

  “Edgar Voles,” NL7 says suddenly.

  He looks up at the android and follows the line of its eyesight back over his shoulder.

  There’s a figure standing on the bridge.

  Edgar jumps sharply to his feet, his breath catching with panic. NL7 steps in front of him, shielding him.

  “Who are you?” he snaps. “How did you get on board?”

  The figure—tall, hooded, with a mask covering their whole face—doesn’t respond. They tilt their head and swipe a gloved hand down, straight through the strategic-operations table.

  A hologram. Edgar’s shoulders relax a little, but still. The very fact that they were able to project their image onto his ship without permission or notification is exceptional. Edgar moves in front of NL7. He’s tempted to adjust his collar, smooth out his shirt, but he knows even those small motions might demonstrate nervousness or weakness and he needs to be in control of this situation. So instead he simply raises his chin higher in the air.

  “One of your kind attacked the crownchasers in the asteroid field.”

  They nod.

  “What do you want here?”

  They lift their hand and press a button on the sleek cuff wrapped around their forearm. The voice that comes out of it is cold, precise, and completely artificially generated:

  WE RECOGNIZE THAT THE VOLES ARE IN PLAY FOR THE SEAL. WE HAVE A STRONG INTEREST IN YOUR SUCCESS. WE OFFER OUR ASSISTANCE IN CLEARING YOUR PATH FORWARD.

  Edgar hesitates. There is no doubt of the deadly intent behind that offer. Whoever these people are, they’ve already proven their willingness to spill blood. “How can I trust you? Your . . . affiliate already killed a crownchaser. I’m not interested in being next.”

  The figure taps out another response.

  OUR ALLIES ARE YOUR ALLIES, EDGAR VOLES. BESIDES, YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF PLANS. AND YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME.

  Edgar’s throat tightens, and he turns back to the viewscreen so that the figure can’t see him compose himself. “I need a moment,” he says over his shoulder, “to confer with my colleague and consider your proposal.”

  WE WILL RETURN IN FIVE MINUTES. THE OFFER EXPIRES AFTER THAT.

  The figure flickers and disappears.

  NL7 hovers near his arm. “An ally would be of benefit to us.”

  It would. He knows it would, and he should jump on an opportunity like this. But something about that figure makes his skin crawl. He keeps thinking about the ragged footage from the asteroid belt of the firefight and Owyn Mega dead on the glass floor. He leans over the conn, bracing his hands on the surface. “This is an entirely unknown element. I don’t know . . . I didn’t plan for this.”

  NL7 steps around in front of him. “Do you believe you belong on the throne, Edgar Voles?”

  He does. Not just because he wants it, but because he’s earned it. None of the others have worked like he has, striven to be the best, to be first, like he has. None of them have even bothered to notice all his struggles and endeavors. He’s been aiming himself at this target for half his life, while the other crownchasers have been wasting themselves. It’s time for his family to take control of the empire, and he deserves to be the one who leads it.

  Edgar takes a slow breath in thro
ugh his nose. Cool, detached. Voleses don’t tremble. Voleses don’t fear.

  When the figure reappears a few minutes later, he stands tall and ready to meet it.

  TWO YEARS AGO . . .

  THE WATERING HOLE, SPACE STATION SHISSO

  THE WATERING HOLE IS CROWDED TONIGHT. HALF the station has showed up to shoot drinks and socialize. Some are gathered around the media feed, watching a big speeder race happening over in the Artev system. The rest are lining the bar or crowding the surrounding tables to talk shit and play at dice.

  Or lose at dice, if you’re me.

  I’m out twenty credits in this game, and I’ve been sitting at the table for only half an hour.

  Larg slides me a look, and her species has six eyes, so that’s a lot of side-eye. “You actually in this game, Farshot?”

  I flick a hand at her. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Just warming up.”

  Jitka, the foarian who runs the Watering Hole, slides in to drop off a drink and raises their eyebrows at me. “Warming up? That’s a new way of putting it.”

  I push them away. “Hush. It’s all part of my diabolical plan.”

  Across the table from me, Anke laughs out loud and throws out his dice with a dramatic flourish. I groan as the numbers come up and I’m out another ten credits.

  “Come off it, Farshot,” Anke says. “You’re useless tonight. What’s the story?”

  I toss my hands in the air and lean back. “I just had another engineer walk off the job, that’s all.”

  Larg grunts. “Did you scare the piss out of this one too?”

  “No! I mean, maybe a little, but the circumstances—”

  Anke shakes his head. “There’s always circumstances.”

  “—the job required a certain amount of risk—”

  “There’s always a certain amount of risk,” Jitka sings out as they bustle by with more drinks.

  I scowl at all their smiling faces. “You’re terrible. The whole lot of you. Y’know, it really was—”

  “Excuse me.”

  A low voice cuts through our chatter, and I look up at a young guy with big, long-lashed hazel eyes. He’s built like a wall—tall, broad-shouldered—and he’s got his hands shoved into the pockets of a mechanic’s jumpsuit and omni-goggles sitting on his buzzed brown hair.

  He’s got a cocksure little grin on his face, and he looks me straight in the eye and says, “You’re looking for an engineer?”

  I give him my most winning smile. “Maybe. Why—you know someone?”

  He steps back and winks at me. “Name’s Hell Monkey. I’ll report for duty in the morning, Captain Farshot.”

  Then he turns around and disappears into the crowd.

  Thirty-Three

  Stardate: 0.05.28 in the Year 4031

  Location: Back on board my baby, but unfortunately not to prepare for an epic run around the Kessell Comet that loops this system

  COY IS PRETTY PISSED.

  I mean, I expected her to be a little grumpy with me for . . . I dunno . . . dropping out of sight and leaving her high and dry after promising to be her wing-person. But I figured I’d say sorry, promise to buy her three celebratory bottles of Solari whiskey on her coronation day, and that’d be that.

  That wasn’t that. That wasn’t that at all.

  “Four,” I tell her, smiling as hard as I can at her glowering face on the comms display in my quarters. “Four bottles of Solari whiskey. That’s how sorry I am, right?”

  She snorts. “I did okay without you, y’know.”

  “I know! I saw the leaderboard. And I caught up on some of the footage.”

  Apparently I missed one of the challenges while I was hiding on Shisso. I haven’t watched all of it yet—I just skimmed some of the headlines and watched a clip recap reel while I was shoveling down dinner last night. It looks like they’d had to face down a South Artacian hellbeast—these enormous, wild-dog-looking creatures—and get to the next beacon, all without seriously hurting the animal or any of its cubs. I’m almost a little sorry I missed that one. I dealt with hellbeasts once before while running a mission on Artacia, and it turns out they’re suckers for honey. They turn into total softies if you bring some along. Coy apparently had been the only other one who knew the honey trick. Setter had managed to scoop up one of the hellbeast cubs and had essentially used it as leverage to get by safely. Faye had set off a smoke bomb and gotten by in the chaos, but not without a giant gash down the side of her leg.

  The performance had given Coy a little jump in the polls, although Faye and Setter weren’t far behind. Still doing those prime family names proud, apparently.

  My name fell quite a bit. Not below Edgar’s, since he’s still strangely absent from this whole scuffle, but my approval number definitely isn’t great. I guess ducking out and shirking your responsibilities to the current favorite doesn’t sit well with the general public.

  That’s okay. I’m not here to be the popular one. I just need to finish what I started. And that begins with some hard-core groveling.

  I clear my throat and hold up my hands, palms out. Yes, hello, here is my gesture of peace. “Look, I know I screwed you over by ghosting on you, Coy. I didn’t . . . handle things well after . . . the Defiant. And maybe you don’t need me for the rest of this. Maybe you’re good. But I did make you a promise. And I’d like to see it through.”

  Coy stares down at her feet for a moment, sighs, and when she looks up again, the edges of her face have softened. She shakes her head at me. “I’m not mad at you for disappearing, Alyssa.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “You’re not?”

  “Of course not.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Are you kidding me? I don’t exactly know what happened down there on the Defiant, but I can only imagine what it was like to be standing next to poor Owyn when he was killed. I imagine I might’ve bolted after that my own self. I’m upset because you didn’t talk to me.”

  Oof. I feel that last part. And she’s giving me an all-out, hurt-baby-animal look on top of it. Not fair, Coy. Definitely not fair.

  “Look, you want to tell everyone in this chase to blow it up their hole, I’m on it,” she says. “If you want to throw them two or three or even four middle fingers and run off to Nysus, I will loan you the money and cover your tracks. But you didn’t even send me half a comm to let me know what happened. I didn’t know if you were okay, if you were hurt, if someone had gotten you. That was unacceptable. Disappear on everyone else, but don’t disappear on me. You got that, Farshot?”

  “Dammit, Coy. You’ve got me feeling about one meter tall.”

  “Well, then, I didn’t scold you enough. You should be feeling one centimeter tall, if anything.”

  “Leave off. I get the picture.” I drop my hands, wrapping my arms around my stomach. “I’m sorry, Nathalia. I really am. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  She sniffs. “Well . . . I’ll give you a pass this time. That was four Solari whiskey bottles you promised me, right?”

  “You bitch. I’m hanging up.”

  Her laughter rings across the comms and bounces around the walls of my quarters. I love it. If you make Nathalia Coyenne laugh once, you want to do it every time you see her. It’s the kind of laugh that just fills you up with gold.

  “I saw you remembered the honey trick with those hellbeasts,” I tell her as her laughter dies down. “Nice work.”

  “Can you believe it? Who knew that would come in handy in this of all things?” She drops down onto her bed on the far side of her room and groans. “I wonder how many more of these ridiculous challenges we’re going to have to do. Three more? Ten more? What’s the acceptable number of hoops to jump through to prove yourself as the leader of an empire?”

  “Maybe it’s a chase of attrition. Last one still running around is the one who gets it.”

  “If that’s true, then I’m rightly screwed because there’s no way that Setter Roy is giving up for anything short of death. Maybe not even then.”

  She’
s not wrong. He’s always been pretty tenacious, even as a kid, but it seems to have gotten exponentially more intense since then. Not in a bad way, necessarily. But almost definitely in a way that’s gonna give him a heart attack at a young age if he doesn’t learn to unclench a bit.

  “So . . . again, not that you need me or anything, but . . . how are you doing with your next clue?”

  “Ah yes. That.” She sighs and gets to her feet, coming over to the display panel. I can see her typing at something just to the side of the screen. “Well, I’m sure I’ll have it figured out in a jiffy—you know how clever I am—but I suppose I won’t say no to a little extra perspective on this.”

  There’s a little beep from the comms that confirms a file was just received, and Coy gives me a devilish grin. “Have fun with this one, Farshot.”

  Welp. That’s a bad sign.

  I accept the file and pull it up, displaying it as a projection in the middle of my room:

  An enormous string of numbers: 04371922516236092955257095087050.

  And below that, one simple phrase: From the crown, I see it.

  Thirty-Four

  “THAT IS A LOT OF EFFING NUMBERS.”

  Hell Monkey stands next to me, hands on his hips, staring at the three-dimensional projection of the clue Coy sent me. I called him pretty much immediately. If you’re gonna unpack thirty-two nonsequential numbers and a mysterious phrase, you probably want every brain on board involved in it.

  I catch myself gnawing on a thumbnail and quickly cross my arms over my chest. “Any ideas?”

  “That was my idea. That this is a lot of effing numbers. That’s it. That’s the end of it.”