Rebecca Coffindaffer - Thronebreakers

To my big damn hero. So say we all.

Photo by Natalie C. Parker

REBECCA COFFINDAFFER (they/she) grew up on Star Wars, Star Trek, fantastical movies, and even more fantastical books. They waited a long time for their secret elemental powers to develop, and in the interim, they started writing stories about magic and politics, spaceships, far-off worlds, and people walking away from explosions in slow motion. These days they live in Kansas with their family, surrounded by a lot of books and a lot of tabletop games and one big fuzzy dog.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

Crownchasers

Thronebreakers

DISCOVER

your next favorite read

MEET

new authors to love

WIN

free books

SHARE

infographics, playlists, quizzes, and more

WATCH

the latest videos

www.epicreads.com

HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

THRONEBREAKERS . Copyright 2021 by Full Fathom Five, LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

www.epicreads.com

Cover art 2021 by DOALY

Cover design by CHRIS KWON

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021939638

Digital Edition OCTOBER 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-284521-4

Print ISBN: 978-0-06-284519-1

2122232425 PC/LSCH 10987654321

FIRST EDITION

Australia

HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.

Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

www.harpercollins.com.au

Canada

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower

22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor

Toronto, Ontario, M5H 4E3

www.harpercollins.ca

India

HarperCollins India

A 75, Sector 57

Noida

Uttar Pradesh 201 301

www.harpercollins.co.in

New Zealand

HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand

Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive

Rosedale 0632

Auckland, New Zealand

www.harpercollins.co.nz

United Kingdom

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF, UK

www.harpercollins.co.uk

United States

HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

195 Broadway

New York, NY 10007

www.harpercollins.com

Seventeen years ago...

NL7 HOLDS PERFECTLY STILL AS THREE FLOATING tablets circle the alloy frame of its body. The only other sentient presence in the rooma woman, human, Helixianmoves from one tablet to the next, her hands touching lightly across the surfaces, her eyes scanning the readouts.

Diagnostic outputs. It is the fifth time she has scanned NL7s functions in the past twenty-four hours alone. Far more frequent than usual.

The woman stumbles a little and catches herself on the edge of a nearby desk. She leans against it, her breathing heavy.

NL7 has noted recent changes in the womans performance and appearance. A loss of body mass. A greater probability of instability. Slurred or inarticulate speech patterns.

You are experiencing physiological malfunctions, it says to her.

Yes. Yes, I am. She looks up at it and smiles. That reminds me. I need to tweak those speech patterns a little more.

Pushing off the desk, she waves one of the tablets over to her. NL7 observes as she taps and swipes along the screen. It has another question, but it cannot ask her until she has finished adjusting its dialogue algorithms.

When she finally waves the tablet away, it takes NL7 a fraction of a second to adjust to its new functionality, and then it asks, Is it serious?

She smiles again. NL7 notes that this one differs from the previous one in small waysshape, intensity, and something else it cannot quantify.

Brain stem degeneration. So yes, NL7. Its very serious.

Rest would be the preferred course of action for someone in your condition.

At a gesture from her, the tablets return to their docking ports, and the woman pats NL7 on the equivalent of its shoulder joint. Not quite yet. I will soon.

She leaves the room and comes back a moment later carrying another, much smaller creature. NL7 analyzes its facehuman, similar in genetic makeup to the woman, approximately two years old. A child, then. The womans offspring.

She steps over to NL7. The child stares up at it, and it stares back.

NL7, Id like you to meet my son, Edgar, the woman says. Edgar, this is NL7. Its going to take care of you.

STARDATE: 0.06.03 in the Year 4031, under the reign of the Empress Who Never Was, Nathalia Matilda Coyenne, long may she rest in glory

LOCATION: Playing the waiting game on a spaceport called Pal

S OMETHING JAGGED AND METAL ON THIS CHAIR IS digging into my back, right near my spine, and its gonna leave a bruise. I just know it.

Fuck it. It can join all the other injuries Ive collected recently. Ive been shot, dislocated my shoulder, thrown myself off a cliff, blown up the best spaceship in the galaxy, crash-landed on a planet that poured acid rain, and had fifty thousand volts jammed into my body. Its been a week, is what Im saying. Or more than a week, I guess. Its all kind of running together. There are really just two points in time for me right now.

Before Coy died.

And after.

Theres this itching deep inside my muscles. Its been there for hours and hours, and it makes me want to snarl and snap at things like an Ekarsian saber rat. I want long, sharp teeth. I want fangs I can bare to tell everyone around me right now to get the hell away from me.

Instead, Im on a spaceport called Pal.

Its official name is Palaxindromedaxardian, but pretty much no one wants to say that more than once so everyone just calls it Pal. As in, buddy. As in, friend. As in, Ill bump into someone and theyll apologize to me. Its that kind of place. Which doesnt really sound like something to complain about except that my head right now is filled with this primal, from-the-gut screaming and all the politeness around me just makes it louder. Im too aware of the anger radiating off my skin. Is there a spaceport somewhere where no one talks and everyone gets around by shoving and using their elbows? Maybe thats the place I shouldve gone to.

I didnt choose Pal, though. And I only have to stay here long enough to find the person Hell Monkey and I are looking for and then bug out. Ive got business on Apex that cant wait.