Crownchasers

by Rebecca Coffindaffer

  As we get close to the prow, I nod at Hell Monkey, and he opens up another spread from our cannons. I haul up on the Vagabond’s nose to avoid the blowback.

  “Direct hits,” he says. “Their forward shielding has definitely taken a beating.”

  I arc a sharp U-turn to come about. “How about our shielding?”

  “Looking weak, Captain. That missile shock wave put a hurt on our aft shields in particular.”

  I ping the channel again. “Faye, Setter—how are you holding up?”

  “We’ve landed some serious blows,” says Faye, her voice tight and bright with adrenaline. “But not doing the kind of damage we need.”

  “Similar situation over here.” I see Setter’s worldcruiser on the viewscreen darting over the warship’s dorsal, cannons blazing. “I’m getting low on ammo charges.”

  I punch the Vagabond’s engines, coming back in for another sweep, and that’s when I see a bright flash from one of the warship’s starboard-side guns. A heartbeat—and then one of the Wynlari’s engines disappears in fire and smoke.

  “SETTER!” My voice sounds shrill as hell over the comms channel, but I don’t care. I plow the Vagabond toward the warship, cutting in between her and the Wynlari, and Hell Monkey doesn’t even need a word from me to launch every cannon we have. They land in barrage, and the warship’s shields waver, that starboard gun bursting into pieces that drift gently away.

  I spin the Vagabond away in a sharp arc, six g’s of force flattening me into my seat as we come about near the Wynlari. She looks pretty banged up, her engines smoking in a not-good way and at least two of her cannons gone. But I can’t see any plumes that would signal she’s venting oxygen or otherwise breathable air.

  The Deadshot darts overhead, unloading cannon fire as Faye calls over the channel, “Roy, you’d better sound off quick before your mothers sense you missing and burn half the system down!”

  “I’m here.” His voice is a little rough, but at least he’s up and he can speak. “I’ve got a few minor lacerations. Sabela’s hurt—she needs medical attention.” I can hear her in the background, protesting loudly that she’s fine.

  “There’s a facility on Viola,” Hell Monkey says, already pulling up the specs of the neighboring planet. Always three steps ahead, that one. “We can cover your ass.”

  Yes, we absolutely can. As soon as the Wynlari starts to move off, I put the Vagabond to work, throwing her into big, spiraling loops around the warship, scattering spreads of shining red decoys in our wake like fireworks to draw the signals of any missiles this guy might try to launch at Setter’s retreat. It’s kind of like a roller-coaster ride with six times as much danger.

  A little giggle rises in the back of my throat. I clamp down on it. I don’t think it’s a good sign.

  I think I might be standing on that raggedy edge here.

  Pulling out of the spiral, I slice the Vagabond right over the top of the warship, back to front, Hell Monkey firing at will. And as a nice change of pace, I actually hear him let out an appreciative whistle.

  “Hell yeah. Now that finally hurt them a little,” he says.

  I throw a fist in the air, crowing for our small triumph, as I swing the Vagabond’s nose back around—

  —just in time to see a missile streak toward the Deadshot and explode in a ball of fire.

  Forty-Four

  FAYE RELEASES A STREAM OF DECOYS A SECOND TOO late, and the explosion sends her ship spinning and smoking out toward the void of space.

  “FAYE!” The scream tears my throat raw. “Faye! Honor! Respond!”

  Precious, silent seconds, and then Honor, coughing hard as she replies, “Faye is down! She got hit in the head, and there’s blood . . . I . . . I’m not . . .”

  “The warship is turning around,” Hell Monkey mutters to me through gritted teeth. “They smell a kill shot.”

  I lean so close to the comms my lips are practically touching it, like I can convey the urgency just by body angle. “Honor, get your ass in that jump seat and fly. Do you hear me? Fly that ship out of here now or you’re both dead.”

  I don’t wait for her to respond. I flip to a new channel and sing out to the warship, “Hey, new best friend! You’re not leaving, are you? Because I’m still having a ton of fun over here.”

  I flick a glance over to Hell Monkey, but he shakes his head. “Still turning . . .”

  “Fire everything we’ve got left. Their starboard side is weak anyway, and they’re an idiot to flash it at us.”

  “My pleasure, Captain,” he growls, and squeezes the cannon triggers.

  The successive booms—one, two, three, four . . . eight of them in all—thud in my chest, and I watch with a violent pleasure as they impact the warship in bursts of flames and metal pieces.

  “Now that made them stop,” says Hell Monkey. “Status of the Deadshot: she’s crawling away. Slow going, but she’s making progress.”

  Honor needs a distraction, she needs time to make her retreat. And us? I’m not sure how we get out of this one with no more ammo and a damaged ship that’s only getting more beat up with all this tight flying.

  Actually, I do. I have an idea. I just don’t like it.

  But there aren’t any other options left that I can see.

  I press my hands against the conn, feeling it hum like a living thing. I look over at Hell Monkey, who’s glaring at the warship slowly swinging back around toward us. I can see it on his face—he’d take the stand with me right now. The two of us. Going down in a blaze of glory together, just like I promised. And maybe we will someday.

  But not today.

  I mute the channel. “H.M., I need you to prep two survival suits. And three pods.”

  It takes him half a second to put it together, and his eyes widen. “You can’t be serious, Alyssa—”

  “I’m deadly serious,” I say, cutting him off. “This is an order. From your captain.”

  “There isn’t much of a charge on the suits—”

  “I know. It’ll be enough. Go.”

  He races off, and I look over at the mediabot, hovering and unsure. “Go with him. Do what he says. Move fast.”

  It tick-tick-ticks off down the corridor, and I pull my shoulders back and face the viewscreen.

  “Rose,” I call, my fingers moving across the touch screens in front of me. I can do it without hardly even looking. That’s how well I know this stupid, exquisite ship.

  “Yes, Captain Farshot.”

  Her cool voice hits me in the gut, but I push it down. “Redirect all available power to the forward shields and the sublight engines.”

  “Yes, Captain Farshot.”

  There’s a question blinking at me right now on the comms display:

  Confirm initiate self-destruct?

  Yes. I think I’m gonna be sick, but I confirm.

  Submit identity confirmation.

  I press my left hand firmly against the panel for it to scan.

  Match confirmed. Self-destruct initiated.

  I set a one-minute timer and then say, “Rose, I need a burst from the engines at their top speed on my mark. Got that?”

  “Understood, Captain Farshot.”

  The Vagabond shakes violently as a barrage from the warship slams into our forward shields. I grab the back of my jump seat to steady myself and then unmute the channel to the warship, switching to visual this time so the hooded figure on the other side can see my face.

  The blank nothingness of its mask fills the screen, and its voice blares over the comms link.

  THERE WILL BE NO QUARTER OFFERED, CROWNCHASER.

  I shrug. “Wouldn’t take it anyway, numbnuts. I was actually calling to see if you wanted to surrender to me. Y’know, show a little survival instinct. Live to fight another day.”

  The figure leans in and tilts its head.

  DESTROYING YOU WILL BE VERY SATISFYING.

  “Can’t say I didn’t try. Die in a fire, asshole.” I flip him two middle fingers and then cut the feed.r />
  Warning lights flare up all over the dash—incoming fire—but I shut it out, taking three seconds, three precious seconds, to look at the bridge of the Vagabond Quick. My baby. My home. I memorize her as she is now—the worn cushions of the jump seats, the scuffs on the panels, the layout of every screen, and the smooth feel of the conn underneath my fingertips. Every bump, every scratch, every sign that for three amazing years, I lived here and found myself here.

  Bending down, I press my lips against the dashboard, an ache from suppressed tears building in my throat.

  Stars guide you, Vagabond Quick.

  And then I bolt, sprinting down the corridor and skidding into my quarters. Wasting a few precious heartbeats to grab the holodiscs from my uncle, the mementos of my mother. And then I make a break for it to the aft bay, where Hell Monkey is already suited up and wrestling a very confused mediabot into an escape pod. The ship rattles as shots crash against our shields somewhere near the prow.

  I snatch my own survival suit and awkwardly stumble into it as I yell, “IN! NOW! LET’S GO!”

  Hell Monkey closes JR in and moves toward his own, pausing to sweep a sad look at the walls all around us. Then he steps into the pod and the door slides shut.

  I’m still wriggling my gear on as I get in and seal the pod doors. I double-check the communication link with the main ship.

  “Rose? What’s the time left on the self-destruct?”

  “Eleven seconds, Captain Farshot.”

  I sigh as I fumble with the release valve. I can hear the muffled thud and hiss off to my right as Hell Monkey’s escape pod disengages and shoots off toward the planet.

  “You’ve been an absolute peach, Rose.” My throat tightens around the words. I almost can’t get them out. “You know that?”

  “Of course, Captain Farshot.” She doesn’t have a mouth, so it’s not like she can smile, but I swear I feel like she’s smiling. In an AI way, I guess. “Eight seconds remaining.”

  Time to go. “Hit the engines, Rose.”

  And then I yank on the release valve.

  . . . five . . .

  . . . four . . .

  . . . three . . .

  . . . two . . .

  . . . one . . .

  By some twist of fate, I watch it all happen through the window on the door of my pod. I see the Vagabond Quick shoot toward the warship like an arrow a second after I disembark. I see her crash into it, nose to nose, as it tries—too late—to move out of the way.

  And then I see my beautiful ship go up in a torrent of flames and shattered pieces, taking the warship with her.

  CHAOS OVER CALM

  At least two crownchaser ships appear to go down in a fierce firefight in the remote Emoa system

  ATTACKING WARSHIP FLOWN BY UNIDENTIFIED PILOT

  The Mega facility on Rava VI confirms the warship matches the one recently stolen, but authorities have no clues as to who flew it

  WYTHE ISSUES BLISTERING CONDEMNATION

  The steward denounced the violence reported near Calm, but refrained from drawing further conclusions as to what sparked the firefight

  WHAT HAPPENS IF NO ONE WINS THE CHASE?

  Crownchasers have died trying to find the seal before, but experts say there is no precedent for a full competitor wipeout

  EMOA SYSTEM, APPROACHING THE PLANET CALM

  EDGAR STARES AT THE VIEWSCREEN, AT THE WRECKage of the warship and the worldcruiser mingling together, big chunks of the debris getting gradually pulled into the planet’s gravitation. He sighs, very slowly, out his nose. His teeth grit hard against each other.

  He and NL7 had dropped out of hyperlight in time to see the Vagabond Quick ram into the warship and explode. In time to spot three escape pods streaking down toward the planet where the next beacon is. In time to realize that his strategy hadn’t been quite as successful as he’d planned. The figure had certainly sewn chaos, but Edgar’s way forward isn’t quite as a clear as they had promised.

  He either overestimated his ally or underestimated the other crownchasers, and he isn’t quite sure which one it is.

  “We found the others, Edgar Voles,” says NL7.

  He steps over to the jump seat where the android sits, utilizing the conn to perform long-range sensor sweeps. “All of the others?”

  “All remaining worldcruisers, correct.” It swipes at the screen to put a map of their current coordinates on display. Two small lights are moving around and away from Calm, heading for the more well-known and developed planet of Viola. “Signatures identify these two as the Wynlari and the Deadshot. Both ships show significant damage, and the Deadshot is running a medical alert message. A Viola hospital has already launched an emergency liftship to assist them.”

  So that put Setter Roy and Faye Orso out of the game. At least temporarily. “What about these two?” Edgar asks, motioning to the other two indicators.

  “This one located inside the planet’s thermosphere must be what remains of Faroshti’s ship,” says NL7. “Which means that, logically, this one coming from the planet itself must be Nathalia Coyenne’s ship, the Gilded Gun.”

  Edgar raises his eyebrows. “You don’t know for sure?”

  NL7 tilts its head. “The atmosphere is in constant turmoil. Riddled with acidic rainstorms. More complete information is difficult to procure, but we can tell you that it is a signature compatible with the worldcruiser classification.”

  He frowns at that little glowing light. “Could it be wreckage? Like the Vagabond?”

  “Possible,” says NL7, “but not probable.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it is moving.”

  Edgar steps back, folding his arms over his chest. Someone with a flight-capable worldcruiser made it down onto the planet. Not just anyone-someone—that Coyenne girl. So ambitious and affected and careless. So unlike what the empire ought to have on the throne. And after everything he set into motion to prevent it. It is . . . infuriating. He feels the emotion flood hot over his skin. He knows if he looked now, he’d be flushed, that his eyes would be fever bright.

  He stuffs his hands into his pockets and curls them into fists, squeezing them tight to keep the anger quelled.

  “Do you wish to go down onto Calm, Edgar Voles?” asks NL7.

  He shakes his head and points to a spot on the map projection. “Take us there. Keep close track of that worldcruiser signature down on the planet, but power down all other extraneous systems. Anything that might be easily picked up by a passing ship. I want us to stay in the dark for a little while longer.”

  Edgar breathes, slow, in and out, until he feels the blood start to drain from his face again.

  There is time still. The race isn’t yet over.

  THREE YEARS AGO . . .

  EASTERN HANGAR BAY, THE KINGSHIP, APEX

  UNCLE ATAR’S HANDS ARE FIRM ON MY SHOULDERS as he steers me off the internal transport. There’s a blindfold wrapped around my eyes so I can’t see where we’ve stopped, but it’s not hard for me to guess. All the scents in the air are familiar—ship exhaust; engine oil; cold, fresh air slapping into us; the sharpness and salt of the ocean.

  It’s the hangar bay. Probably on the east side judging by the angle of the air flow. I’ve spent enough time down here over the years to have it memorized.

  “Have you guessed yet, Birdie?” I can hear the grin in Uncle Atar’s voice. He’s getting a huge kick out of this whole deal.

  “You got me my own waveskimmer?” It’s not a great guess. I honestly don’t think my uncles would be going through all this subterfuge stuff just for a waveskimmer. But anything more than that seems . . . too much to hope, I guess.

  I feel Uncle Charlie put his hand on top of Atar’s and squeeze. “Just show her. You’ve teased her long enough.”

  Gentle fingers pull the blindfold away and I blink in the bright light of the hangar, trying to clear the spots from my vision.

  And then I see it.

  A worldcruiser.

  An actual
worldcruiser with a tiny red bow on the prow.

  I whirl around to Atar and Charlie, who stand, arms around each other, grinning at me. I’m having a hard time catching my breath. “That’s . . . ?”

  Charlie nods. “Yes.”

  “And it’s . . . ?”

  “Yours,” says Atar. “It’s not the latest model, mind you. It’s a few years old and been around the quadrant a bit—”

  I don’t wait for him to finish. I hug him, hard. And then I hug Charlie, and then I hug them both again. I bury my face in their shoulders to hide the fact that there are tears welling in my eyes, and that shit is just embarrassing.

  I finally step away, clearing my throat and wiping awkwardly at my face as I turn back to the ship.

  My ship.

  Walking around it, I reach out and put my hand on the silvered alloy of her hull. It’s warm to the touch and almost feels like she’s humming just for me. I don’t care how old she is or how many times she’s been around the sun—she’s beautiful.

  I come around to the prow and stare up at her and that little red bow my uncles put on her.

  Atar steps up behind me. “She needs a name.”

  Oh man, I have a name. I have entire files filled with all the potential names I’ve thought up over the years. I never settled on one in particular because I always thought I’d know the right one when I met the ship.

  And it’s true. I do.

  “I’m gonna call her the Vagabond Quick.”

  Forty-Five

  Stardate: 0.05.32 in the Year 4031

  Location: Crash-landing on Calm and I’d really like to punch whichever idiot thought he was being so cute when he named this planet

  I PASS OUT AT SOME POINT AS THE ESCAPE POD rattles through the stratosphere. Which is kind of fine because it’s not like I can do much on this ride except hold on and wait. Worldcruiser escape pods are graded for planetary reentry only in the technical sense. It’ll get you down to the surface, but if you’re looking for a cushy ride, you’re gonna be disappointed.