I move up on quiet feet and drop a kiss on the top of her head, right between her spiraled horns, before I plop down into the copilot seat.
She raises an eyebrow at me, a wry smile curling her mouth. “And what was that for?”
I shake my head. “It’s just good to see you, Coyenne.”
“Alive, you mean?” She laughs. “I imagine from your position it didn’t look like good news for your oldest and loveliest friend ever.”
“I mean . . . you were on fire and spiraling toward an unfriendly planet, so . . .”
Her expression sobers a bit. “It was dodgy for a minute. But Drinn is a magician and he works quick, thank the stars. He got us stabilized, I kept us from crashing, and we managed to keep her together.” Coy flicks a look at me. “Our sensors picked up a pretty big explosion up there. Was it . . . ?”
“The Vagabond.” Her name is bittersweet on my tongue. “And the warship with it. Setter and Faye got clear.”
Coy reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “I’m sorry, Alyssa. Really. She was a good ship. One of the best.”
I open my mouth to reply, but the Gun’s AI breaks in: “Approaching designated coordinates, Captain Coyenne.”
“Thank you, Nova. Initiate landing sequence as programmed.” Coy swings her chair around and waggles her eyebrows at me. “Go get a new suit, Farshot. We’ve got time for one more walk before we leave.”
The beacon.
Hand to the stars, I’d almost forgotten about the stupid beacon. The one thing we were all scrambling for in the first place. I’d lost track of it somewhere between the exploding ships and watching Hell Monkey slowly suffocate.
Coy didn’t, though. Girl knows how to get herself a throne.
It takes us only two or three minutes to pull on fresh survival suits and head back into Calm’s balmy, hospitable landscape. It’s raining here too. Poisonous and corrosive. Really delightful. The ship is perched on the edge of a steep canyon of slick, eroded black rock. It’s hard to see the bottom—it’s so dark down there—and the only thing I can hear besides the rain is the wind. Howling like a wild beast. It basically sounds like a black hole looks.
We’ve got all the equipment a worldcruiser can offer, but even with full rappelling gear and self-adhering grips, it’s slow going. More than once, Coy and I slip and are jerked out of a death fall by our protective gear. When we finally reach the bottom, our boots sink—a dozen centimeters at least—into sludge and mud. I can’t wait to get back to the Explorers’ Society and tell them I’ll quit if they ever ask me to come back here. This planet is the worst.
Coy checks her wristband, scanning the surrounding area, and then points down a narrow crawl space between two cliff faces.
This beacon better be worth it.
Coy goes first, bracing herself between the slippery rocks, and I follow right behind her, dropping onto much firmer, drier ground. It’s sheltered down here by the overhanging rock above and the curves of the cliff face below, shutting out the worst of the storm outside.
I’m still looking around, taking stock, when Coy seizes my arm in a fierce grip.
“Ow! Hey, what the hell—”
“Alyssa!” Her voice is tight with excitement. “It’s here.”
I turn, following her gaze to the back of the overhang. There’s a pile of rocks, set up almost like a short podium or an altar, and there, at the top, is something metallic and gleaming. A disc, a little smaller than my hand.
The seal. The royal seal of the United Sovereign Empire.
“Holy shit.” I don’t mean to say it out loud. It just slips out.
Coy crashes into me, crushing me in a hug and squealing. Actually squealing like a little kid. It’s the unshielded, unfettered Coy that no one ever really sees.
“Alyssa, we did it! We actually did it!”
I squeeze her back and then extract myself, taking her helmet in my hands. “We’re going to step carefully, though, yes? Just in case. Stay behind me. Let me look at things.”
She’s practically vibrating with the desire to bolt over and grab it, but she listens and waits while I bring my wristband up and use the sensors on it to scan the seal and the space around it.
The signature that bounces back makes the readout go wild, filling with information too fast for me to process all at once. I have to stare at it, Coy craning to see over my shoulder, for probably a full minute, and while I still don’t understand it necessarily, it’s familiar.
“I’ve seen this before,” I murmur. “On the Vagabond. You know when we’d get shut down for not being the first one to get the next clue? This signature started appearing in our systems.”
“Okay . . .” She’s trying to be patient. I can hear the strain in her voice. “It’s tied to the crownchase. That makes sense. Is there anything else around it to worry about, though?”
I’m not picking up anything physical around us except the disc, but the energy coming from it is so complex, so responsive, so . . . aware.
I stare at that small, innocuous seal gleaming in the faint light. “It’s alive, Coy.”
“What do you mean, ‘alive’? It’s basically a piece of jewelry, isn’t it?”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m picking up now. It’s, like, a ship AI or something. It’s active, and it knows.”
The seal starts to glow, pinpricks of light rising to its surface connected by geodesic lines. The symbol of the empire. And then, in the air just above it:
Welcome, crownchaser. Return to the kingship and claim your throne.
Coy’s eyebrows rise up and up, and she shoots me a slightly weirded-out look.
I shrug. “Well? You don’t want to keep the sentient royal emblem waiting. That’s rude.”
She steps forward, hand outstretched, but just a few centimeters short of taking the seal, she stops. Turns. And looks at me.
“Do you want it?”
My mouth falls open. I gape at her for one second, two seconds. Then: “Are you high, Coy?”
She steps forward and takes my hands in hers. “I didn’t get here all by myself. I’m here because of you. You earned this as much as I did. It’s only fair to ask—do you want to take the seal?”
I study her face very carefully. I know her masks very well. I can almost always spot the edges. But there are no edges to her now. There’s no scheme in the corners of her mouth or false bottoms to her eyes. Her earnestness is real. She couldn’t have surprised me more if she’d stabbed me in the gut.
My gaze drifts from Coy’s face to the royal seal. Just sitting there. The fate of a thousand and one worlds compressed in a fifteen-centimeter disc. Do I want it? I know it’s what Uncle Atar was hoping for, but I can’t choose this path based on someone else’s wants. It’s gotta be what I want. We’re talking trillions of people and their lives and their hopes resting in the hands of the empress, and they deserve someone who’s more than lukewarm to the whole concept of ruling. They need passion and politics, and I’m neither.
I don’t want to be, either.
I look up into Coy’s green eyes. “No. I want you to take it, but I want you to promise me you’ll do better. Better than our parents. Better than their parents. I want you to swear you’re gonna listen to all those people who aren’t getting heard right now.”
She nods, her mouth set in a solemn line. “Like on Tear. Like you were telling me about.”
And here I hadn’t thought she was even listening to me. I guess I should know better than to underestimate Nathalia Coyenne. “Yeah, Tear would probably be a good place to start. But, Coy, hand to the stars, if you show even the slightest sign of becoming a dickbag with that crown, I will personally assassinate you, and I won’t feel bad about it.”
Coy grins and leans forward, pressing her helmet to mine. “I know you will, Alyssa. I won’t fail you.”
Then she turns, steps over to the rocks, and picks up the seal.
Breath rushes out of me in a wave of relief. The crownchase is over.
I’M THERE WHEN HELL MONKEY WAKES UP. THE sedative Drinn gave him was short-acting, and by the time we get back on board with the royal seal and point the Gilded Gun up at the stars, he’s already stirring. He doesn’t fully come around, though, until about two or three minutes after we break atmo and start to put some distance between us and Calm. I’m sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his hand, and it feels a little cheesy but completely worth it when his eyes finally open and a tired grin creeps across his face.
“I thought Drinn would be the one snuggling me when I came to.”
I pat his arm. “We flipped for it. I lost, so you’re stuck with me.”
“I’ll manage, I guess.” He shifts a little, trying out his arm. His face squishes up with pain, but he’s got movement in it at least.
“How is it feeling?”
“Stiff. A little achy. Nothing that’ll keep me down for very long.” He levers himself up on the bed so he can get a better look at my face. “What’s the status? Where are we?”
I don’t know how to answer that.
We’re at the end.
We’re at the beginning.
But instead I just let this simmering bright ball of light burst across my face in the form of a big grin. I take his face between my hands and tell him, “It’s over.”
And then I kiss him. And I’m not drunk or out of sorts or otherwise incapacitated. I have no excuse for it except that I just want to. I want to taste the warmth of his mouth and feel that exchange that kisses provide. Where I take a little of him and he takes a little of me, and if they’re the right sort of person, like Hell Monkey is, they won’t just take the good parts and leave the bad. They’ll take a little bit of all of you and leave a little bit of all of them, and you’ll step back a bit different and a bit more than you were before.
I kiss him and I keep kissing him, and he wraps his one good arm around my back to press me harder against his chest.
I know I had reasons, once, to keep him at arm’s length. To avoid this. But hand to the stars, I can’t remember what they ever were now.
I pull back after a minute, and Hell Monkey looks at me with this half-delighted, half-dazed expression.
“Were we talking about something?” His voice rumbles down my spine. “I can’t remember.”
I laugh and pat him on the cheek. “Only about our sudden and amazing freedom. No big deal.”
“Oh, sure, that.” He keeps his arm around me, like he thinks if he breaks contact, the whole scene will dissolve. “You said it’s over—are you meaning like . . . this whole mess? The actual crownchase is over?”
“Coy and I found the seal. Down on Calm. We tracked that last beacon, and—ta-da—there it was.”
His eyes grow probably three sizes. “Holy crap. What happened? What’d you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. Coy went up and took it, and that’s that. She’s on the bridge now with the Gun’s mediabot, giving a winner’s interview. She wants to get it transmitted to the media feeds before we jump to hyperlight and head to Apex. Show the quadrant their new empress.”
Empress Nathalia Coyenne. I get a vision of her, all decked out in royal finery, sitting on the throne, surrounded by the Coyenne family colors. That’s actually going to be a thing. I’m going to have to, like, bow and call her “Your Highness” or some shit like that. That’s weird to try to wrap my brain around.
Hell Monkey’s smile splits his whole face. “I can’t believe it. We actually did it, Farshot. We’re out. You’re out.”
I can’t keep it cool like I want. I grin like an idiot right with him. I even bounce a little on the edge of my seat. It’s very mature. “We can find a new ship, maybe one with an upgraded six-fusion engine. . . .”
“That’s the kind of sexy talk I like,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “What else you got, Farshot?”
“And Drago VIII is still sitting out there, just waiting to be circumnavigated. . . .”
“Oof, take it easy on me. I’m still kinda injured, y’know.”
We can pick up right where we left off, I think. And then, as Hell Monkey leans in to kiss me again, Well, maybe not right where we left off. Maybe a little better than that.
The lights in the med bay flicker. And then go dark.
I push away from Hell Monkey. My boots hit the floor as the emergency lighting comes up, casting a red glow over everything.
“What the hell? What’s happening?” he mutters.
I shake my head and cast a glance back at him, at the stabilizing wraps encasing his torso. I put a hand on his chest and press him back onto the bed. “Stay here.” He starts to protest, and I cut him off. “You’re still healing. I’m sure it’s all fine. I’m just going to go make sure everything is okay.”
I slip out into the corridor, moving a little slower than normal to keep my boots from clomping on the metal floors. Goose bumps are creeping up my skin, and I’m getting that bad-fluttery feeling in my stomach. The one that says, Listen, Farshot, I don’t know if you’ve had enough coffee to deal with this. Every part of me strains to listen, to see if I can catch any unfamiliar sounds over the hum of the sublight engines.
Or wait . . . no . . . No humming. No sublight engines. We’re not moving.
A distant shout, coming from the bridge. I can’t tell what the shout was, but it doesn’t sound like anything good.
Screw stealthy. I break into a sprint, storming down the halls, almost running over JR the mediabot as it wanders from the galley, looking confused.
“Captain Farshot, is this a planned—”
I plow by without answering.
About midway down the port-side corridor, I spot a hole in the ceiling and skid to a stop, staring up at it.
Someone has cut through the hull of the Gilded Gun and jammed an illegal docking seal around it.
We’ve been boarded. Oh gods. Nathalia.
I haul ass for the bridge, arms and legs pumping, my heart ramming against my sternum. Tension twists like a fist in my chest, and my brain jumps from who could’ve possibly to please let her be okay to I’m going to fucking murder someone.
I round a corner and the doorway to the bridge is ahead of me, wide open. I sprint through it, full-out—
—and slam into an invisible wall.
I crumple to the ground, all the breath knocked out of me. My face throbs, and the front of my body aches from the impact. I taste copper on my tongue. Something warm and wet oozes from one side of my nose, and my right ankle feels like someone twisted it around the wrong way. Groaning, I roll onto my side, scrambling to get my arms and legs under me and take stock of what the hell is happening.
I’m just inside the Gilded Gun’s bridge, but the air in front of me doesn’t look quite right. It’s got a wavy, slightly foggy quality to it—possible to see through, but when I try to put a hand through it, it might as well be steel.
A godsdamned force field.
Just beyond it, I can see Coy, straight-shouldered, chin up. Putting on her full haughtier-than-thou look. She’s standing over the smashed, twisted remains of the Gun’s assigned mediabot. At her back is what looks like another mediabot, but it’s been augmented, pieces added to its gear. It’s holding Coy’s blaster pressed to her back.
And in front of her, receiving one hundred percent of her glare, is Edgar Voles.
I can’t hear anything through the field, but I can see him talking to her, one hand out, the other clutching a blaster of his own while he gestures decisively. Coy doesn’t look impressed with whatever he’s saying. Her mouth twists, and she laughs in his face. A bright red flush rises in his cheeks.
“HEY!” I scream, pounding my fists on the force field. I limp up and down as far as I can get, waving wildly, trying to draw attention. “HEY, VOLES! OVER HERE!”
They all look. Edgar and his robot give me a quick once-over and then turn away from me. Coy quirks a smile and gives me a little wave. I don’t like the look in her eyes. There’s a dan
gerous edge in it that puts a cold, dark lump in the back of my throat.
JR peeks its head around the corner. “Captain Farshot . . .”
I shoot out a hand and drag the mediabot forward, right up to the edge of the field. “Film that,” I bark at it, and then scramble around, looking for something, anything, I can use.
For what, Farshot? What the hell do you think you’re going to do?
I don’t know, but stars and gods, I’ve got to try something.
Edgar is mad now. I don’t know when I’ve seen him so obviously and visibly mad. He’s in Coy’s face, yelling something, and she rises to meet him, yelling back. And that bot with Edgar takes half a step back, points its blaster, and shoots Coy in the leg.
I can see the pain and the scream cross her face, and my ribs are a vise crushing my lungs. I can’t breathe, my pulse fills my ears, and like a wild, cornered thing, I dig my nails into a wall panel and rip it off, using it like a bat to hit the force field over and over.
This seems to catch Edgar’s eye. He pauses to look at me for just a second—and Coy makes her move. She leaps up, kicks the robot’s blaster from its grip, and then runs at Edgar.
I don’t see exactly what happens next. There’s a flurry of movement—Edgar and Coy twine together in a violent twist of limbs—and then, in the middle of their bodies, three bright flashes.
Blaster fire.
The panel falls from my scratched and bleeding fingers, and I wait, holding my breath, for Edgar to fall to the ground.
But he doesn’t. Coy does.
My Coy. My Nathalia. She drops to her knees, her chest a mess of scorched flesh and dark green blood, spreading through her clothes and pouring down her body. She wavers; her eyes find mine. And she collapses.
I scream. I scream from my stomach, from my soul. I scream loud enough and long enough that it sinks into the walls and floors of the ship. I throw every part of me against the force field, bruising my legs and my arms and my shoulders.
Edgar’s robot picks up a half-meter-long baton device and clanks over toward me.
I’m ready. I’m seething and tasting spit and blood. “COME ON, YOU METAL SON OF A BITCH! I’LL RIP OUT YOUR CIRCUITS AND FORCE FEED THEM TO YOU!”
Crownchasers Page 26