The first crownchase in seven hundred years!
I gotta hand it to Atar—it was pretty smart, really. Not the part where I’m trapped in a contest to win a crown I don’t want—that sucks. But the part where the crownchase has given everyone a focus. The netstreams are flooded with people scouring for any rumor or leaked detail about what the chase might entail, and every bookie in the quadrant is living their best life, running odds on everything from who will win to where the seal is gonna be found to how long it’ll take. And the Daily Worlds and other media sources are fueling it all—every page, every article, every vid dedicated to profiling potential competitors and spinning out rumors. Basically, instead of a grieving populace and a power vacuum, we’ve got an empire anchored by this—a historic show for the ages. There’s even talk of a contest-long cease-fire on Chu’ra. I mean, can you even believe it?
“You’re looking a little green over there, Farshot,” H.M. says.
I lean out of my jump seat far enough that I can punch him right in his beefy delt. “I swear, if you don’t stop giving me those looks, I’m gonna snatch out your eyeballs and throw them out an airlock.”
“Then I could get bionic eyeballs. Cool.”
Unbelievable.
Charlie is still talking. “Every crownchaser has been given an equivalently outfitted worldcruiser and randomly selected coordinates in the quadrant as their start point. Twenty-four hours from now, all competitors will check in at their start point, and Enkindler Wythe will give the signal for the crownchase to begin.”
On the viewscreen, Wythe clears his throat. “As the Church of Solarus’s Everlasting Light has no prime family affiliation, it is my honor and privilege to hold the throne in stewardship and announce now those esteemed competitors who will be vying for the royal seal. May they be blessed with the light of Solarus.
“For the Faroshti family, Alyssa Faroshti, niece of Emperor Atar Faroshti, may he rest in the light of the sun.”
My face fills the viewscreen—looks like they used my official portrait from the Explorers’ Society, which is a damn good one, I gotta say. Much better than how I’m looking right now, which is distinctly pale and sweaty. On the right, there’s a column of text that basically lists all the need-to-knows about me and my qualifications.
Almost immediately, the comms on my wristband start flashing, and then the comms on the Vagabond do too. I shut them all off. Every line, every channel—I don’t need anyone’s Congratulations, I can’t believe it! (neither can I) or I’m praying for your victory! (thanks, I guess) or I hope you die in a gravity well, bitch. Voles forever! (you seem nice, bud).
Hell Monkey nudges my arm. “Here comes your competition.”
“For the Roy family, Setter Roy, son of Radha and Jaya Roy.”
Setter’s photo pops up on-screen. Gotta be a commissioned family portrait because he’s draped in all the official gear, going for that serious, regal look. There’s a lot of axeeli blood on the Roys’ home planet of Lenos, and you can see it in Setter too. Got the axeeli mood-ring eyes and a dose of their telepathy, but he missed out on some of the more extreme mental abilities, and his skin is a deep brown instead of the usual color-changing. He and I butted heads a lot when we were kids. Not because he’s a bad person or anything—he’s just so . . . serious. And boring.
I raise an imaginary glass to his image on the viewscreen. “You shall be code-named: Humorless Killjoy.”
“For the Mega family, Owyn Mega, son of Jenna Mega and Lorcan Mega.”
Owyn’s headshot is full-out military glorification. Otari scars on display, dark bronze against his light tan skin; full strategic armor; traditional blades strapped across his back. Typical Megas. Except for the part where if you look close enough at Owyn’s eyes, you can see he’s straight-up miserable in all his war gear.
Hell Monkey already has this one covered. “Your code name will be: Pretty Sure Your Parents Took All Your Tests for You.”
I snort with laughter and immediately regret it when my head gives a painful throb. It feels good, though. To laugh. It’s been a bit.
“For the Voles family, Edgar Voles, son of William Voles and Sylva Voles, may she rest in the light of the sun.”
Hell Monkey boos loudly and throws a stray stylus as Edgar’s pale face pops up on-screen. He’s got a big hate for the Voles family, though he’s never told me why. He doesn’t like to talk about his past, and I don’t like to push people to get chatty.
I gotta agree with him on this one. My heart sinks into my stomach. Edgar is kinda worrisome, but his dad is even worse. And the thought of those two taking my uncle’s place, after everything he accomplished, everything he sacrificed . . . Shit and hell and damn it to all the stars and gods. “His code name is: Most Definitely Gonna Get Punched in the Dick.”
“For the Orso family, Faye Orso, daughter of Sara Orso and Ivar Orso.”
I can’t help the grin that creeps onto my face as Faye’s image fills the viewscreen: tawny skin threaded with bioluminescent lines, gold eyes sharp and shiny as blades, a little curve to her mouth that’s more a threat than a smile. It’s been a couple years. She looks good. I’m not totally sure what I think of Faye as a prospective empress, but I can say this: whenever she’s in the picture, you’re ten times more likely to end up in jail, but also twelve times more likely to enjoy the ride.
Hell Monkey snorts. “Code name: Better Keep One Hand on Your Wallet.”
“And finally, for the Coyenne family, Nathalia Coyenne, daughter of Cheery Coyenne and Reginald Coyenne.”
“Coy!” I shoot forward and just about clothesline myself on my own jump seat harness. Right. Safety first. Oops. I wrench at the buckles, a wave of relief uncoiling the knot of anxiety that’s been squirming in my stomach for almost a week now. If I’d taken a sober second to think this through earlier, I would’ve realized that Coy was the natural choice to be crownchaser for her family. Savvy, charismatic, good with a ship. I’m kicking myself for not seeing this coming days ago. I could’ve saved myself a ton of existential worry.
And a lot of booze money.
Hell Monkey drums his fingers against the arms of his jump seat as he stares at the viewscreen. He looks over at me, a grin on his face, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking. “Obviously, we’ll call her: Your Official Ticket Out of This Mess.”
Six
“ALYSSA FARSHOT! AS I LIVE AND BREATHE. YOU’RE looking ravishing this morning.”
I can practically feel Hell Monkey rolling his eyes behind my back, but I keep my eyes on the viewscreen, which is currently showing me Nathalia Coyenne’s grinning face.
“Save it, Coy. This isn’t a social call. It’s business.”
“I like business. Dirty business, risky business—”
“Coy.”
She laughs, and it’s like a bell calling people to worship. Nathalia’s always had this way about her. It’s not even a beauty thing, really. It’s just like she walks around in a cloud of pheromones. People are drawn to her, and it would be dangerous as hell if she didn’t have such a good heart.
And she does. Have a good heart. She’s smart too—smarter than me in a lot of ways. Especially political ways. She loves that say-one-thing-mean-another stuff, and she’s good at it. Maybe she hasn’t ridden a flame tsunami, but she’s definitely coasted a comet’s tail or two for the Society in her time. She knows the quadrant, she understands people, and best of all—she isn’t me.