Empress of a Thousand Skies(10)

“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.