Crownchasers

by Rebecca Coffindaffer

  I don’t see how it brings the force field down. All I know is that it disappears, and the robot immediately shoves that baton into my stomach. My muscles seize up. Bright, sharp pain lances through my brain. And then the last thing I remember is the metal floor rushing toward my face.

  HAS THE SEAL BEEN FOUND?

  Experts say there’s cause to think the crownchase has ended, but a winner has yet to emerge

  WYTHE: “WE WILL NOT RECOGNIZE A FALSE CLAIMANT”

  The steward of the throne releases a statement vowing to fully verify any declared winner before ceding the power of the throne

  WILLIAM VOLES CALLS EMERGENCY IMPERIAL COUNCIL MEETING

  Prime family patriarch says, given the multiple interferences in the crownchase, they must convene to discuss viable paths forward

  ORSO, ROY REPORTED AT A VIOLA HOSPITAL

  The two crownchasers are both said to be stable and healing from injuries sustained in the mysterious firefight over Calm

  A HYPERLIGHT LANE, HEADING FOR APEX

  EDGAR ONCE READ THAT CLOSE TO NINETY PERCENT of all recognized species in the empire have blood or a blood-like substance as part of their biological makeup. It’s such a common thing to so many life-forms that there really should be nothing significant about it. It’s a simple organic output. That’s all.

  Edgar tells himself this as he strips off his ruined clothes and throws them in the incinerator.

  He tells himself this as he washes Nathalia Coyenne’s blood off his hands.

  And then he washes them again. And again.

  He tells himself this as he walks, shoulders back, onto the bridge of Worldcruiser S576-034, with those same hands jammed into his pockets to keep them from shaking.

  NL7 stands at the strategic-operations table. The royal seal sits in the middle of it, and the android moves its hands through the air as it assesses the diagnostic readouts being projected above it. Edgar steps up next to it, but he doesn’t look at the display. His eyes are fixed on the royal seal. It’s so small really, its surface completely blank and clean at the moment.

  It certainly doesn’t look worth killing for.

  That hadn’t been the plan. NL7 had proposed that as his first move, but he’d balked at the suggestion. Killing a fellow crownchaser would disqualify him from the throne. And in any case, he’d thought he could reason with Nathalia. That in the precarious situation she’d been backed into, she’d be amenable to negotiation. He’d even offered her significant power under his rule.

  She’d laughed at him. Anger had flooded every part of him. He hadn’t even been able to see straight.

  But he still hadn’t shot her. Not until she’d tackled him and grabbed for the blaster and his grip had slipped in the struggle. . . .

  There’d been so much blood. Maybe he should go wash his hands again.

  “Very curious,” says NL7. “There’s an intelligence in this, Edgar Voles.”

  He drags his eyes up to the readouts but hardly sees them. “In what? In the seal?”

  “Correct. Highly sophisticated. A central sentience within the disc controlling billions of microscopic nanoids. It is plausible that the seal itself was coordinating the crownchase this entire time. That would certainly be a way to ensure impartiality—”

  Edgar shakes his head. His chest is filled with a heavy ache, and his skin crawls with guilt. With grief even, maybe. He can’t seem to collect his emotions right now and shove them back into the box he built for them. He can still feel the warmth of blood soaking into his shirt. And see Nathalia’s shocked face as she slipped to the ground.

  He’s glad his father isn’t here to see this. All of this. The abject failure of his too soft, too emotional son. The great family disappointment.

  Edgar stuffs his hand back in his pocket. “It’s not important. I’m no longer a candidate to claim the throne.”

  NL7 looks over at him, tilting its head. “How so, Edgar Voles?”

  “I broke one of the explicit rules. I killed a fellow crownchaser. That’s automatic disqualification.”

  NL7 turns back to the projection and wipes it clean, pulling up two different files. One is the list of crownchase rules and regulations. One is the complete history of imperial crownchases.

  “In 2297, two years after a crownchase won by the Coyenne prime family, the former crownchaser of the Megas killed the former crownchaser of the Roys in a personal skirmish. The Roys used the laws as written at that time to disqualify the Mega prime family from the next chase for the throne. They won their case on this technicality, but after that, a new phrase was introduced into the canon.”

  NL7 zooms in on one of the article lines:

  . . . crownchaser who kills a fellow crownchaser before the royal seal has been found . . .

  Edgar stares at those last seven words, weighing them in his head. Before the royal seal has been found. It’s slow to dawn, an unusual phenomenon in and of itself for someone as smart as him, but it pushes its way past the pall of emotions clogging his brain.

  He killed Nathalia Coyenne, but it wasn’t until after the seal had been retrieved. He hadn’t violated the rules as written. He can still sit on the throne. Where he belongs.

  He reaches out and picks up the royal seal for the first time since they came back from the Gilded Gun, testing the feel of the smooth, cool metal in his palm. Cupping it in front of him, he walks over and sits in the captain’s chair, spinning to face NL7. “You still have the mediabot’s ability to record and transmit, yes?”

  “Of course, Edgar Voles.”

  “Good. Begin.” He waits until the lenses on NL7’s stolen body glow with blue light, and then he takes a deep breath and says, “This is Edgar Marius Tycho Voles. I have claimed the royal seal of the United Sovereign Empire. I am your new emperor.”

  EIGHT YEARS AGO . . .

  CHEERY COYENNE’S LUXURY STAR-YACHT, APEX ORBIT

  I KNOW I SHOULD BE AT THE PARTY DOWNSTAIRS. That’s the whole reason why I’m even up here instead of down on the planet like usual.

  But I found the observation deck and I can’t make myself leave.

  I’ve never been this close to the stars before.

  I’ve seen them from the windows of the kingship. I’ve seen them in the on-board planetarium.

  But this is different. They’re right here. I could almost touch them. I could fall right off the edge of this ship and into the middle of them and watch them ripple around me like water.

  I don’t know how Uncle Atar was ever able to drag himself away from them.

  It’s probably been an hour since I snuck out. Or close to that. My uncles are going to start getting worried about where I am. Ms. Coyenne and her husband might notice soon too and be offended that the emperor’s niece bailed on them.

  And Nat—

  “Found you!” Someone half tackles me, and I yelp in surprise. I recognize Nathalia’s tall, gangly figure and big green eyes a second later, and I relax as she slings an arm over my shoulders. “Should’ve guessed you’d be up here.”

  I scratch at the back of my head. “I was coming right back down, I swear, I—”

  “No, you weren’t, liar.” She hip checks me and spins around to sprawl on one of the long, low couches scattered around the room. “It’s fine. It’s a party for my parents, really. My birthday is just a convenient excuse for them to trap everyone on board and play mind games with them.”

  I sit down next to her and pull my knees into my chest. “Do you think that’s going to be us someday? Like, we won’t be able to trust anything the other person is saying and we’ll always be trying to get an angle on people. . . .”

  Nathalia screws her face up, thinking for a long minute. “Honestly? Maybe. I mean, eventually we’re all going to have to take over whatever it is all our parents do, and then . . . ?”

  She shrugs, like it’s no big deal, and I feel my face fall. My eyes drift back to the stars.

  She sits forward and grabs my hand, squeezing it tight. “Not u
s, though, Alyssa. Everyone else can turn on each other and play their stupid games, but you and me—we have each other’s backs. We’ll always be there for one another, right?”

  I look back at her, and my heart swells. “Always. I promise.”

  Nathalia smiles, bright, like a supernova. “Me too.”

  I hold on to her hand so tight and so long that my fingers start to ache. But I don’t let go.

  Because I made a promise.

  Forty-Nine

  I WAKE UP GASPING.

  Lightning is wrapped around my body. A thousand Puorvian wasps are trapped inside my skin. I surge upward—I don’t even know where I think I’m going—but strong hands clamp down on my arms and hold me in place.

  I try to focus on the person in front of me. My eyes feel jumpy. My ears are full of buzzing.

  “Alyssa!”

  I know that voice. That’s Hell Monkey’s voice. I squeeze my eyes shut and then snap them open again, and this time they land securely on his face. He reaches down and plucks something from my chest, just over my heart.

  A syringe. An empty syringe.

  Now I know why I’m feeling the strong urge to lift tables and see how far I can throw them. “You gave me an adrenaline shot.”

  “I’m sorry.” He puts one hand on my cheek, his thumb along my jaw to keep me framed on him. My jittery brain keeps trying to drift. “I’m so sorry, but I need you up. They left a hull breach in the port-side corridor and they set the self-destruct on the ship and we—”

  I scramble onto my feet, grabbing Hell Monkey’s uninjured shoulder to heave myself up. My body feels weird. Like the insides of me are all hollow but the outsides are lit up with angry energy. It makes me feel only half-here, half in control of what I’m doing. I register the sight of JR nearby, its body smashed all to hell.

  I register the sight of Coy too, but I can’t . . .

  I can’t.

  “Find Drinn,” I tell Hell Monkey. “We’re gonna need him.”

  I don’t think he wants to leave me. I can feel him hover around near my shoulder for a few seconds too long, but then he takes off, door sliding closed behind him. I steady myself on the table and lurch across the bridge, falling into the captain’s chair.

  The conn swims in front of my eyes. I’m not sure exactly what that robot hit me with, but I think I might’ve needed a little while longer to sleep it off. My head doesn’t seem quite connected to the rest of me. I scrub at my face and focus.

  The self-destruct clock is ticking down. Forty-two seconds and counting.

  Hands vibrating, I move my fingers as quickly as I can over the dash. I don’t have the initial codes or commands Edgar Voles used—or maybe his fucking robot used—so I have to settle for work-arounds. Overrides and back doors that I’ve learned from driving a worldcruiser class starship for the past three years. It takes longer than it would if I had proper authorization, but if I can move quickly enough, if I can type quickly enough—

  Self-destruct cancellation request received.

  Good.

  Submit captain identity confirmation.

  Oh.

  It means Coy.

  My gaze drifts down to her, a crumpled, blood-covered heap on the floor. The thought of using her body so callously, like she’s just a tool, churns my stomach. But there’s only fifteen seconds left to self-destruct. And a dead hero can’t avenge anyone.

  I vault out of the chair and haul her right arm out from under her. Her skin is already too cool, too clammy; the feel of it sends a shudder down my body. She’s not close enough to reach the panel from here, so I have to scoop my arms underneath her shoulders and drag her body a few meters. But it’s awkward because she is—was—a lot taller than me and exhaustion is starting to creep back into my limbs. At one point, I actually slip in her blood and fall on my ass and I think I might laugh or maybe cry or maybe scream down the godsdamned stars. I grit my teeth and dig in my heels and pull the dead weight of her body until I can stretch her arm up to the conn and press her lifeless hand against the screen.

  Five seconds left.

  The ship scans her fingers and palm, processes them.

  Four seconds left. Three seconds . . .

  Identity confirmed. Self-destruct canceled.

  I let Coy’s arm fall, and I fall with it, collapsing on the floor beside her body.

  Her body.

  I look at her—really look at her—for the first time, sprawled right in front of me. Her legs twisted at odd angles. Her chest a mass of blasted flesh and congealed blood. And her face . . . Empty. Completely empty. Eyes staring at nothing. All spark, all essence, all of what made her Nathalia Coyenne—evaporated. Just like that.

  She was here—she was right here. Bold and vibrant and devilish, even with blasters pointed at her.

  And now . . . nothing. Now all that sits here is a broken ex-cruiser jockey and the husk of the girl who should’ve been empress.

  I wait for the tears to come. I can feel them pressing against the backs of my eyes. But they don’t fall. I wait and wait, the lower half of me going numb from being in the same position on the cold bridge floor. But they just sit there. Building up in my chest.

  The port-side door slides open and Hell Monkey rushes in. He stops short when he sees me curled up on the ground with Nathalia’s blood all over my arms and chest and neck. He moves forward slowly and carefully. Like the whole room is made of glass. Or maybe just I am.

  He crouches down next to me and reaches a hand out, but I shake my head. I don’t want him to touch me right now. I don’t want anyone to touch me right now. I can still feel Coy’s cold skin on my fingertips and I hate it and cherish it at the same time.

  “Drinn?” I ask.

  “I found him,” Hell Monkey says. “They shot him, but he’s alive. Critical, but alive. I got him back to the med bay and got treatment cuffs on him. Hopefully that fixes him up all right.”

  I nod and then cut a glance over at him. “How about you? How’s your arm?”

  There’s a beat where he cocks his head at me—like, are you really asking about a minor broken arm after this?—and then he realizes what I’m really asking and a fierceness drops over his expression. “Strong enough, Captain.”

  “Good. Help me up. We’ve got work to do.”

  Fifty

  Stardate: 0.06.01 in the Year 4031, under the reign of the Never-Crowned Empress, Nathalia Matilda Coyenne, long may she rest in glory

  Location: Preparing to take a hyperlight lane straight up Edgar Voles’s ass

  IT’S BEEN SEVENTEEN HOURS SINCE COY DIED HERE on her own bridge. Seventeen hours, three minutes, and forty-three seconds.

  Not that I’m counting.

  I still haven’t cried at all. My tears have gone dormant. Like they’ve buried themselves deep underneath my skin. Probably somewhere beneath all these brand-new layers of simmering violence.

  That’s fine. I don’t have time for tears anyway.

  I rock back on my heels, taking another look at the circuit board I’m reconfiguring. It taps directly into the conn, and Hell Monkey says a few easy changes will help us optimize screen controls. Just enough to shave a few seconds off our reaction times. I’ll take it—I’ll take any advantage we can get—but I need Hell Monkey in the engine room, trying to repair whatever damage he can without us taking time to dock somewhere. So he walked me through how to switch the circuitry around. Three times. I think the last time stuck, though. Scanning it now, I think it looks about how Hell Monkey had described it.

  I roll my aching shoulders—who knew fiddly circuit work could make your arms hurt so much?—and feel the iridescent metal of my mother’s armband tighten around my bicep.

  I brush my fingertips along the feathered etchings.

  Count up another body that hit the ground for the throne. It’s been eating people up my whole life.

  I pick up the wall panel from the ground and shove it back into place, wiping my hands on a towel as I cross back over to the capt
ain’s chair. Spots of Coy’s blood still stain my skin, now mixed with the blue-tinged oil that lubricates the inside workings of the ship. Her body isn’t here any longer, though, and I scrubbed the blood from the floor myself, the old-fashioned way, with a brush and solvent and all of my grief while Hell Monkey sealed up the hull breach in the corridor. Afterward, he helped me wrap her in a big cloth of the Coyenne family colors that we found hung up in her quarters. We placed her in a stasis chamber, to keep her body preserved.

  Until I can bring her to her mother.

  Cheery Coyenne is going to kill everyone for this.

  But only if I don’t do it first.

  Heavy boots cross the bridge, and I feel Hell Monkey at my back. He doesn’t touch me—he hasn’t even tried since he found me with Coy’s body on the bridge. He’s just been hovering nearby, quiet, steady. Waiting on me.

  “I checked in on Drinn,” he says, holding out a flask of water. “He’s sleeping, but the worst of it seems to have passed.”

  I nod, take the water, and then lean back against him. Not very much, but it’s still nice to let someone else take some of the weight I’m dragging. Even just for a moment.

  “I’m gonna rename her,” I say, gesturing at the navcomm area.

  He slips a hand around my waist. “New captain, new name. Makes sense to me. What’d you have in mind?”

  “The Nathalia. She’s gonna be named the Nathalia.”

  He doesn’t say anything. Just nods and holds me a little tighter. I squeeze his fingers and then step out of his arms, slipping into the captain’s chair. It’s not my seat. It’s not my ship. Coy should be the one sitting here right now, and instead of pushing that thought aside, I let it stay, let it turn to a bright, hot pool of lava in my stomach. Reaching forward, I swipe my fingers across one of the screens on the dash, calling up the ship’s AI.

  “What can I do for you, Alyssa Farshot?” The AI’s voice is a little deeper than Rose’s, but still with that cool, mechanical quality. It takes me a second to remember the name Coy had given them.