“Aly, what are our odds?”
He eyed the daisies that hovered nearby. “We’d need to boost our velocity, so if I turned on the thrusters and we burned like hell ’til we closed in, we might be able to grav beam them back.”
“Do it, then.” Vin’s in-it-to-win-it vibe was convincing. Was he making a show for the daisies, or did he really want that vessel? Aly guessed it didn’t really matter either way. He tried not to argue with him in front of the cameras. People already thought Wraetans were loud and picked fights. He wasn’t going to add fuel to that fire.
“Roger that.” With the press of a button, the thrusters blazed, and they jumped forward. They were gaining on the beetle craft, but the beetle was gaining on the planet. Aly ran the calculations. They would lock on in five, four, three, two . . .
But the beetle surged forward, just out of their beam’s reach.
“What the hell?” Vin slammed a fist on the console.
Yeah—what the hell? Aly hadn’t expected that kind of power surge from a ship so small. His console recalculated. They’d lost it. “It’s gone, Vin.”
“It’s not gone.” Vin leaned into the throttle, gunning straight for it.
“Drop it, Vin. It’ll be in Fontis airspace by now.” Three daisies zoomed up close from different angles. He swept his arm out and ended up swatting one away. “Pavel! Redirect these damn cameras! Get ’em all out of here!”
“It’s hauling something important,” Vin said through gritted teeth.
“What are you talking about?” When the ship broke Fontis’s atmosphere, Vin didn’t deviate their course. Aly felt a flash of anger. He didn’t understand—whatever “important” thing the ship might be hauling couldn’t be worth a suspension. But Vin was like that. A golden boy. A high-society Kalusian. He did whatever he wanted because people had always let him.
“Priority transmission from headquarters,” Pavel said.
“Taejis,” Aly cursed. Why was the UniForce HQ calling? “Vin—stop. Pavel, hold the call.”
“Not possible,” Pavel said. “There’s a security override. Level five priority.”
“Level what?” But even as Aly said it, autopilot took over, and the Revolutionary pulled up abruptly. The tail of the ship skimmed the surface of the Fontisian atmosphere and burned up a pocket of air. Vin cursed. Aly realized his hands were still gripping the throttle. He’d never even heard of a security override, or level five priority.
“Transmitting,” Pavel said. From its chest, the droid projected a holo of Nero himself—the public face of the Crown Regent’s office. He wore a crisp black shirt with little silver badges lined across his collarbone like a row of sharp teeth. Behind him hung the Kalusian flag, with wide red and gold stripes and seven blue stars arranged in a semicircle, each representing one of Kalu’s continents.
“Brave soldiers of the UniForce, I regret to inform you that at approximately eighteen hundred hours today, in the Rellia Quadrant, there was an apparent assassination of Crown Princess Rhiannon Ta’an of Kalu.” Nero seemed to hesitate. Or perhaps it was just a lag in the holo feed. “Our sources have confirmed that she is dead.”
THREE
RHIANNON
WHY? Rhiannon tried to scream as Veyron tightened his grasp around her throat. But no sound came out. She could no longer move her legs. She would join the rest of her family—just as it should’ve been, all along. But the thought of it made her struggle harder, even as she caught sight of Josselyn’s holo portrait in her blurring vision. Joss had been younger than she was now when she was killed. Rhee could let herself slip away and finally see her, and their parents, again. But she was a coward. She wanted to live.
Focus. She tried to still herself; she willed her mind that was desperate for air to calm. Veyron always said to play to her strengths, which were speed—and surprise.
With the last of her energy, she released a hard kick to Veyron’s groin. He dropped her, and she collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. She could feel oxygen flood the ends of her fingers and tips of her toes. Her ears were ringing. Her neck burned with pain.
When Veyron looked up, she saw him withdraw a switchblade. He’d used it for everything—to cut his meals, to trim his garden, and now to end her life.
“Please,” she croaked out. “Stop.” Her throat felt as if someone had taken a grater to it. Veyron—the man who had taught her everything she knew about combat—had turned against her. Veyron. Her Veyron.
“I told you,” he said. “I have no choice.” He lunged for her.
She jumped backward, away from the slicing arc of the knife. Her heart thundered. They both ducked low, circling each other like the scorpions in the ring—just as they had hundreds of times before.
Of course, this was different. This wasn’t training. He was trying to kill her. He would kill her. Her head throbbed. She wouldn’t make it out alive. But she wouldn’t lie down and die either.
Veyron lunged with the knife once more. She sidestepped him, but just barely. When he was off balance, she rushed him, just like he’d always taught her: Catch your enemies off guard. Planting her left foot on his thigh, she launched herself into the air. She grabbed his extended arm and slammed it down across her right knee. The knife went clanging to the floor, and Veyron cried out. But with his other hand he grabbed her by her braid and flung her to the ground.
“How many times have I told you? You need to be three steps ahead of your opponent,” he said, panting. Even as he was trying to kill her, he still could not forget that he’d been her teacher all these years. It was true; she was cornered now. “You never think before you move.”
Coming toward her now, he had no knife, but he seemed even more terrifying with his uneven gait and his arm bent at an impossible angle. She couldn’t think—the anger was a vise, clamping down, cold and hard.
She crawled backward, slipping on the yards of fabric that pooled under her from her elaborate red dress. Veyron found the knife and retrieved it. His face was freckled and leathered by the sun. He’d fought and lived through a war. She saw in that instant how pathetic she was, how weak, despite all her years of training. She’d never face Seotra; she would never have a chance to avenge her family.
Finally, the wall was at her back. She had nowhere left to go. But Rhee struggled to get to her feet. She was the last Ta’an—twelve generations of emperors and empresses, all warriors in their own right. She wouldn’t die sitting down. Her ancestors were watching—their faces hovered in holo on the walls this very moment.
“Why?” she panted out.
“For my family,” Veyron said.
Silently, a ceiling hatch opened just behind him, and a boy descended from it, like some kind of upside-down bird. Tattoos all along his neck. Skin so fair it was translucent. His pointed ears poked through his light hair. A Fontisian. He caught Rhee’s eye and held a finger to his lips. She froze, paralyzed by the sight of him.
“Veyron, don’t.”
But her trainer raised the knife. She thought of Julian. She could still feel the small silver telescope tucked into her robes, lying against her heart. “Honor, bravery, loyalty,” she whispered.
But a second later, the Fontisian tackled, taking her trainer by surprise. The boy flipped Veyron over and hit him in the face, splattering the curious ring he wore with blood. Veyron didn’t wince, but the thud of bone was proof enough of pain. Still, he was a skilled fighter and soon managed to throw off the Fontisian. They rolled together, like a single body with two heads, until the Fontisian reared back, kicked a leg under Veyron’s chest, and heaved. He launched him over and backward. Rhee had to scramble out of the way as Veyron hit the window and collapsed on the floor, groaning. Instinctively, Rhee swooped down and snatched his abandoned switchblade.
The Fontisian stood, his chest heaving. He was probably only a few years older than Rhee, but easily a head taller than Veyron.
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“Who are you?” she demanded. She brandished the knife, willing herself not to shake. The bones of his face were sharp in a way that couldn’t ever appear friendly.
“Not even a thank-you, then?” he asked in accented Kalu.
“Who are you?” Rhee repeated. Apart from their missionaries, Fontisians did not travel freely through the universe. She’d known only of high-level diplomats visiting their planet. They practiced an unusual religion that worshipped only one god, Vodhan. They didn’t venerate their ancestors, or leave offerings, or seek counsel from dead relatives in times of need. Rather than honor the family from which they were born, they drank sacred plant elixirs and prayed to this god.
“We’ve no time for introductions.” He motioned to Veyron. “His reinforcements aren’t more than two minutes away.”
She’d never met anyone from Fontis, but she’d heard that this was their way: speaking in negatives, gauging things by how far they fell short.
“Go, Rhiannon.” Veyron stirred. His voice was pained. “They’re coming for me. I’m dead either way.”
“Do not speak.” The Fontisian drove the heel of his boot into Veyron’s stomach. She looked away. Veyron had just tried to kill her. But still she could hardly believe it was real, that her trainer, the man who had carefully wrapped her knuckles when they were bloodied and taught her to move on her toes, could have done such a thing. “I’ve readied an escape pod. If we do not move now, we will die.”
His matter-of-factness scared her. As if he was used to violence. As if it didn’t frighten him at all. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said.
“You’ve no alternative.”
“What about him?” Rhee asked, gesturing to Veyron.
The Fontisian took a step toward Veyron. But Rhee grabbed his arm, and the boy turned to her stiffly, examining her hand as if it were an insect on his skin—but he did not advance. Rhee stepped in front of him and kneeled next to Veyron, gripping the switchblade.
“Why were you trying to kill me?” she asked Veyron in a whisper.
“Because I had no choice.”
“Don’t make excuses!” She tried to steady her breathing—to find focus, clarity, answers. “You had a choice. You tried to kill me. Why?”
“Are you really so young?” He opened his eyes, but they took a second to focus on her face. “You think we live in a universe where men like me have choices? You think Julian will grow up to have a choice?”
“Don’t you dare say his name.” She couldn’t think of Julian. Not with his father’s betrayal, and not after she’d almost died.
“He would have starved.”
Behind her, the Fontisian shifted. “This man is wasting your time,” he said, and she could feel his impatience, the energy coiled deep in his words. But she ignored him.
“It was Seotra, wasn’t it?” she asked Veyron. With only a day before the coronation, it must have been a last desperate attempt to quiet Rhee forever before she could take back the throne. He’d have her killed so he could remain regent. She was the last of her line; perhaps he was even hoping to become emperor.
Veyron wiped the blood from his lip where the Fontisian had split it open. “You think you have all the answers?” He began to cough. Her face burned, and she turned away. She knew what others said—that she was spoiled, entitled, for merely asking questions and expecting answers. But she didn’t think Veyron had ever thought of her that way. Never him. “Don’t lower your eyes, child.” He said the word with more tenderness than he’d shown in all the years he’d trained her. She wished it had been venom so she could feel a sting. “You’ve been blind. Blind and willful. You worship your ancestors for their bravery on the battlefield but never for how they ruled. With wisdom. Restraint. What would your ancestors think of you now?” he asked.
Rhee was all the Ta’an had left. She couldn’t bear the thought of failing her legacy.
At that moment she hated Veyron. She hated the truth that spilled from his bleeding mouth. She was blind, and naïve, and not worthy to rule. She’d underestimated Seotra, the depth of his hatred for her family, his ruthlessness.
Then: a slight movement she nearly missed. Veyron reaching into his pocket.
But she was quicker. Without thinking, she drove the knife into his chest. She heard a high scream, and it took her several moments to realize that the sound was coming from her chest, tearing through her throat, as if it would split her in two.
Julian’s dad. She had just killed her best friend’s father.
She was filled with a sudden blind panic. She had to stop the bleeding. She had to fix this. She pulled the knife from his body and tossed it aside, but the blood came fast—it poured out of him. With both hands she tried to stanch it, but as she pressed into his chest, its warmth seeped between her fingers.
He blinked up at her. His pale blue eyes were the shade of a frozen river.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He put his hand over hers and squeezed. All their fingers were slick with his blood.
“The man tried to kill you, and you apologize?” The Fontisian’s voice was flat. If it were another boy Rhee would’ve confused his tone as caring, soft.
“Shut up,” she muttered.
Veyron coughed. A gurgling sound emerged from his throat. A moment passed. His muscles seized once, and then he was still.
Rhee couldn’t breathe. This is what it felt like to kill a man: like heartbreak.
She stood, her fingers dripping with blood. “SHUT UP!” she yelled again at the Fontisian, although he hadn’t said anything more. The boy only looked away as Rhee tried to pick up the switchblade; its handle was red and slippery now. It seemed cruel and strange that such a little thing could take so much. She’d lost Veyron and Julian forever.
“We’ve not long,” the Fontisian said.
“Where are we going?” Rhee asked. Her thoughts were spinning: a sandstorm raging through her head. Could she leave without Tai Reyanna? Had even Tai Reyanna known what Veyron was planning? Impossible. Then again, she never would have thought it possible that Veyron would try to kill her, or that she would kill Veyron. The impossible had suddenly become all too real. The Fontisian bent to hook Veyron beneath the armpits, and Rhee could only watch. “What are you doing?”
With a grunt, the Fontisian began to backtrack, hauling Veyron’s body, leaving a trail of blood. “This room isn’t far from the escape pod. If we send off his body in place of yours, his collaborators may think he was successful in killing you—which will buy us more time.”
Rhee had no more strength to argue. She looked to the holos of her ancestors, and thought to press her hands together—to bow and say a prayer—but her palms were wet and shiny and red. The hands of a killer. It was selfish to ask for a prayer now. She hadn’t honored them. At the escape pod, the boy tossed Veyron’s body in carelessly. It landed with a thud that made Rhee flinch.
“Wait,” she said just before he closed the door. She brought the weapon up to her braid and sawed it off—one, two, three pulls of the knife before it came free in her hand. Her hair fell to her shoulders, and all the tension released. With the braid still intact, she squeezed inside the pod and laid it across Veyron’s chest, gently, as if he might awaken. “Ma’tan sarili,” she told him solemnly. It was an everyday Kalusian greeting, but it meant much more than hello or goodbye. It translated to “highest self,” and to say it was a pledge to be the best person you could be. And for Rhee, that meant to be honorable, brave, and loyal to his memory, to the man she’d known, to Julian’s father.
“Surely this man isn’t worthy of such an act?” the Fontisian asked. Rhee nodded, surprised that he knew what it meant. It was an ancient tradition among Kalusian warriors. Her first kill deserved a personal sacrifice—usually a lock of hair, or the shedding of blood. The Act of Attrition, it was called.
And Rh
iannon hated her braid. She always had.
“So he’ll know I did this,” she said. Veyron might’ve been the one who tried to kill her, but it was Seotra who’d forced his hand. If he could do that, what couldn’t he do? “So Andrés Seotra will know I’m coming.” Then she slammed her hand on the ejector button. The door slid shut behind her, and the pod sailed silently into space.
FOUR
ALYOSHA
ALY felt like he’d just been punched. It had to be a joke. A sick joke. But Nero kept talking as they played B-roll footage of Princess Rhiannon boarding the Eliedio, right before the royal spacecraft exploded.
“As many of you know, Princess Rhiannon was en route from Nau Fruma to Kalu for her coronation tomorrow.” Vincent kicked his chair, which was bolted to the floor and didn’t give. Aly bet that had hurt. “While we do not yet know who is responsible for this heinous act, several teams have been deployed to the scene. Unless otherwise directed, all personnel are to report to the nearest base.”
Nero disappeared abruptly. The holo screen beamed off.
“Vodhan,” Aly said. He knew he shouldn’t take the god’s name in vain. He wasn’t sure if he even believed in Vodhan anymore, but it was his first instinct to call on him in prayer. Blame it on all those years being preached at by Fontisian missionaries.
The princess with her two different-colored eyes was gone. Lately she’d been plastered all over the holos nonstop in the coronation coverage that Nero Cimna hosted. He was ambassador to the Crown Regent Seotra, which didn’t actually mean he was an ambassador—just the public face of the office, and more like a glorified press secretary. Charming as hell, the guy was next-level dreamboat status as far as the boys and girls were concerned. Everyone called him Nero, just Nero, like he was so cool he didn’t even need a last name. But Aly had heard somewhere his real name was Nerol anyway. He’d invited Vin and Aly to a gala once, with a mix of rich politicians and their DroneVision star friends. It was the first time he’d ever felt famous.
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