Everything I could possibly want in the next ruler.
“It’s been a few months. I think we need to catch up in person, Coy.”
She raises her eyebrows so high they almost hit her silvery spiraled horns. “Now?”
“No time like the present.” I give her a look through the viewscreen. A significant look. Hopefully it translates. “What’s your current proximity to Gloo?”
There’s a long pause. I can feel her weighing my offer against the timing—the flag goes up in just twenty-three hours. It’s a little suspicious that I’m on her doorstep now, trying to get a face-to-face. Or, at least, it would be if she were any other crownchaser. But we have a long history, one I don’t think even something as cutthroat as a crownchase can screw up.
Nathalia’s eyes flick to the side, checking her nav readout. “Close, actually. Really close. I can be there this afternoon. You want to meet up at the club in Parm?”
I glance back at Hell Monkey, who gives me a little nod, and then I turn to Coy again. “Yeah, let’s do it. Bring cred-chips. You’re buying.”
“What came first here—the name Parm or the cheese smell?”
I stick a foot out, catching Hell Monkey on the ankle as we move through the narrow, claustrophobic streets of one of the biggest cities on Gloo. He trips and almost takes a nosedive. I barely break stride.
“Pretend to be a nice guy. Or nice-ish.”
He’s not wrong, though. Parm smells about as nice as Gloo looks from orbit. It’s squat and a little shabby and not all that much to look at. But you can get a decent lager in a few places, and there’s some really great street food if you’ve got an adventurous stomach.
But that’s not why we’re here.
The alley dead-ends in a heavy metal door. No handle, no knob, just a touch pad embedded in the center that I slap my palm against. After a second, the lock thuds and the door swings open.
There’s a short, dark hallway on the other side, and I tap the big symbol emblazoned in gold on the wall as I walk past. Official sigil of the Explorers’ Society. They’ve got clubs like this all over the quadrant. Exclusive stuff. Dim lounges with big-ass chairs and a well-stocked bar. The bar is key. I haven’t met an explorer yet who doesn’t need a drink after the stuff we pull.
Coy waves us over. She’s already kicked back in a chair, long legs propped up on the short table in front of her. She’s foarian, like a lot of the Coyenne prime family, which means horns and sharp nails and big eyes that take up about a third of their faces. For Nathalia, those horns are long, silvery spirals that angle from the top of her head, and those eyes are bright green and set against metal-gray skin and long hair whiter than the caps on the Eastern Sea’s waves. Her hands cradle a tumbler of what looks like Solari whiskey. That’s nice stuff, allegedly distilled with the essence of the sun. For religious types, the Solari know how to make some good booze.
She gestures to two other chairs close by, which already have drinks waiting at them. “I took the liberty of ordering, since I’m buying and all.”
Hell Monkey picks up the glass, his nose wrinkling as he sniffs the iridescent-green concoction inside. “What is this? It smells like piss.”
I answer before Coy. “Andujian martini. Widely considered to be one of the worst drinks in the galaxy.” I pick up mine, raise it to Coy’s grinning face, and down it in one go.
Damn. That is truly terrible.
Coy shakes her head, her smile growing even bigger. “Never underestimate a Farshot.”
“Yes, all one of us.” I dump myself into the chair, slinging my legs over the arm, and signal to the barkeep for two more of what Nathalia is drinking. Hell Monkey sits as well, setting the martini as far away from him as possible.
“I suppose a proper drink is the least I could do,” says Coy, waving a hand benevolently. “After all, very soon I will have a crown and a throne and you’ll still be stuck on your rust bucket of a cruiser.”
I shoot her a glare. “Hey, hey, easy with the name-calling. That’s my baby you’re talking about.”
The barkeep delivers the Solari whiskey, and this time I raise my glass sincerely, looking Coy right in her bright eyes. “To the new empress of the quadrant. May your reign be long and peaceful.”
Coy goes still, assessing my expression, my body language. Realization breaks over her face like a brand-new star. “You’re utterly serious.”
“Yes,” I say, adding in my poshest, most royal accent, “utterly.”
“You really have no intention of winning?”
“None whatsoever. I’m not even gonna try.” I take a long sip of the whiskey—distilled with the sun, those clever bastards—and set it down on the table.
This makes Nathalia sit up straight, her own drink forgotten. “Alyssa, you can’t be serious. A crownchase is right up your alley. I just bet money on you.”
Swinging my feet to the ground, I lean forward, elbows propped on my knees. “I’m not gonna try, Coyenne, because I’m gonna help you.”
There’s total silence. Coy is completely still, staring at me. Hell Monkey’s eyes flick from me to her and back again. I swear I can even hear the sound of cloth on glass as the barkeep dries dishes.
Then she throws her head back and laughs, loud enough that the few other patrons actually pause to look over at us. Hell Monkey shoots them some hard-core glares until they turn away again.
Coy finally stops laughing and stretches her long arms across the table, seizing my hands. “Alyssa Farshot, you’ve officially made me the luckiest idiot in this quadrant.”
My shoulders drop, and I return her grin. “Oh, I know it, Coy. You’re lucky I don’t want anything to do with ruling a thousand and one planets. And you’re mostly lucky that you’re the only crownchaser I could stand to see take my uncle’s place.”
At that, she snorts and sits back. “Yes, quite a crew we’re going up against. Owyn? Can you imagine? His family would probably start a war just to try out whatever violent new toy their company developed. And Voles . . .” She shudders. “Emperor Edgar Voles. That would be a nightmare.”
I stare down into my glass, picturing Edgar—both the small, round-faced boy he was and the stone-faced guy he grew into. “To be fair, we all bring family baggage with us. The Coyennes like to scheme, the Faroshtis are self-righteous, and the Voles . . . see bottom lines and not people. Personally, it’s not exactly an outlook I’d want to see applied at the quadrant level.”
H.M. downs most of his drink in one go, a strange edge to his voice as he says, “No . . . no, you really don’t.”
Coy rolls her half-empty glass between her hands. “Setter would be a bit like putting a crown on the color beige. Empress Faye would be a dangerous ride. It certainly wouldn’t be boring with her in charge. But . . .” She flashes a grin at me that’s gotten her through more doors and into more beds than I can even count. “I think the crown would look much better on me.”
Hell Monkey snorts into his glass. “Your head is certainly big enough.”
If that comment bothers Coy, she doesn’t show it. She just turns that supernova smile on him and says, “Indeed, sir. Let’s go find me a royal seal, shall we?”