Last of Her Name

by Jessica Khoury

  Exhausted, I sink to my knees, hands still pressed against the glass. I breathe in and out, trying to stop the trembling that overtakes me.

  My throat is thick and scratchy from the sleep patch. I find the papery thin square still on my neck and rip it off savagely, then begin shredding it into fragments, breathing hard.

  I’m still dressed in my tensor tunic and leggings, but my feet are bare and my pockets are empty. They even took my multicuff. Without it, I feel naked.

  When the patch is shredded to nothing, I fold my feet, one atop the other, and wrap my arms around my knees. The air in here smells stale, like it’s been filtered too many times; this is air that’s never blown through a forest of leaves or rustled fresh grass. It’s manufactured and sterile, and it burns my throat.

  “He can’t be dead,” I whisper. “He can’t be.”

  I think back, hoping it was all a nightmare, or at least that the sleep patch somehow altered the memory, making it seem worse than it truly was. But it comes back clearly: Pol falling at Zhar’s feet, the weight of his head in my hands, the absolute stillness of his eyes.

  All because he stood up for me. All because, in the end, he chose Stacia over Anya.

  Guilt squeezes my lungs. I did this. I pushed him to choose a side. I begged him to choose me. And he paid for it with his life. I as good as shot him myself.

  Rocking in place, I hold down sobs but can’t stop the tears. A part of my brain works, nonsensically, to figure out how to reverse time, how to go back and stop it all from happening. It’s like watching a rat in a maze with no exits. I know how it will end, but I can’t convince the creature to stop trying.

  Hours seem to pass, but it’s probably only twenty minutes or so before a muted tap catches my ear. I track the sound to the fold-out lavatory, which I practically rip out of the wall in my frustration, thinking it’s just a water drip.

  But there’s no water in the little white bowl, and I can still hear the tapping.

  “Hello?” I say, then I shake my head and lean back.

  Stars, Stacia, you’ve really lost it. You’re talking to a toilet.

  But then I hear a soft “There you are,” and I clutch the little lav harder.

  “Riyan?”

  “I’m next door. I think our lav pipes are connected.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  A pause, then he says, “I’m alive for now, so that’s what counts.”

  I rub my forehead, sighing as guilt overwhelms me. “I’m sorry, Riyan. I’m sorry we got you into this.”

  A dry chuckle comes echoing through the pipes. “It’s no worse than what I’d have gotten you into, if Pol hadn’t hijacked my ship.”

  “Is he—did you see what happened to him?”

  “They knocked me out right after they got you. But … he took a hit to the chest, with a nano gun. Nobody survives that, Stacia. I’m so sorry.”

  I can’t reply. My throat’s too choked. If I say it, there’s no going back. There’s no fixing things.

  If I say it, I have to believe it.

  I bend over the lav again. “Can you, you know, gravity-magic us out of here?”

  “No. They …”

  I catch a strain in his voice. “Riyan?”

  He takes a moment before replying. “They dosed me with a lethal metal compound. I’m using all my strength to tessellate it in the lower half of my body, but if it reaches my heart, I will die.”

  He says it so matter-of-factly, as if informing me he has a headache.

  Fury rolls through me, scalding my mind. “How long can you hold on, Riyan?”

  “I don’t know. Can’t keep talking. Have to focus.”

  “Riyan?”

  I push my face into the lav, ears straining to hear him.

  “Riyan! Riyan, are you—”

  Sensing movement to my left, I turn just as my cell door opens and white-clad soldiers pour in. I scramble to my feet, back to the far wall. Six of them crowd my little space, all shoulders and stony eyes.

  But one is dressed differently, in plainer clothes, no armor. His skin is warm brown and his hair is white, neatly combed into a thick wave that falls to his shoulders. He peers at me over his large, hooked nose with something almost like sympathy. He extends a hand, which I don’t take.

  “Princess, I am Dr. Faran Luka. Things got out of control in the hangar, but I promise, we will take the best care of you from here on out.”

  Before I can reply, he jams something into my arm. I shriek, leaping back, but he’s already finished, and now peers at the little device that punctured me.

  “Don’t worry. Just making sure your system has stabilized.” A note of anger creeps into his voice. “That was quite a strong dose of sedative they gave you.”

  He steps closer, and I flinch, but he only briefly clasps my wrist and whispers, “You have friends here, Anya Leonova. Let me help you.”

  I spit in his face.

  He blinks, then backs off, wiping his face with his sleeve and regarding me with a sigh. He nods at the guards, leaving them to close in on me.

  “Come with us, Princess,” one says.

  “Why? Are you going to shoot me too?”

  Instead of responding, they just grab me and march me out. I dig my heels in front of Riyan’s cell. “Wait! Stars curse you, wait a moment!”

  Dr. Luka nods to the guards. “Let her go.”

  I wrench free and press my hands to the glass of Riyan’s door. He’s sitting cross-legged, eyes shut and fingers steepled in front of his chest, like he’s meditating. If he hears me, he doesn’t show it. Sweat beads his brow and neck. His feet are bare, the tendons of his ankles standing out in evidence of his concentration.

  If he lets up for even a moment, will the poison destroy him?

  “You have to stop this!” I grab Dr. Luka by his coat. “He’ll die!”

  The doctor coughs and lowers his gaze, his brow furrowed. “The commander has her reasons, Princess.”

  With a snarl, I shove him away and turn back to the door.

  I barely know the tensor. Just yesterday he was trying to abduct me and hand me over to my enemies, but right now I feel like he’s the only ally I have left in the universe. Clearly these Loyalists are not trustworthy. Maybe Riyan isn’t, either, but I am not going to let him die here.

  I’m not going to lose anyone else.

  “I’ll get you out of here,” I whisper through the glass, hoping he can hear. “I promise. Just … just stay strong.”

  Right before I turn away, his lips part and he whispers in a strained voice, “Hurry.”

  They lead me through a maze of stone corridors, each one looking exactly the same as the last. We pass more soldiers in white, with that red bird incorporated into their uniforms. How long have they been here? Why are they so loyal to a dead regime? And if they think I’m their princess, why are they handling me like I’m some sort of dangerous criminal?

  My parents trusted these people. If Pol hadn’t brought me here, my mom or dad would have. I wonder what they would have done in Pol’s place, in that horrible moment. Would they have let Lilyan Zhar shoot Riyan? I don’t know. I don’t know if I ever truly knew them, not the real Elena and Teo. As difficult as it is to imagine them here, in white uniforms with imperial crests emblazoned over their hearts, these are their people. Maybe there are faces here they would recognize from their old life, before they were my parents. Or maybe they never truly were my parents—just imperial babysitters, doing their duty, fulfilling some oath. The thought lodges in my gut like a splinter, cutting deeper with every breath.

  Finally, we come to a wide, brightly lit chamber, stone walls and high ceiling over a floor of polished asteroid. A long conference table dominates the space, but the rest of the room is clear. The far wall sports a massive imperial crest. This bird seems to glare at me with one red eye, its wings raised and its tail morphing into a flame.

  There is Zhar, surrounded by twenty or so children. She’s sitting cross-legged on the fl
oor, a tiny boy in her lap as she reads a holobook to them. The image of a planet hangs above her, turning slowly, green and blue.

  “Ah, look who’s come to join us,” she says, looking up with a smile.

  The kids all turn to stare at me.

  “This, my loves, is Anya Leonova. Our princess and the heir to the Autumn Throne.”

  “A real princess?” squeals a girl in braids.

  “A real one,” says Zhar coolly, her predatory eyes fixed on me. “And the last one. Bring her over, Taysie.”

  The girl jumps up and runs to me, grabbing my hand. I want to pull away, but Zhar has me smoothly trapped. It’s not like I can knock over a child.

  I follow Taysie into the circle, shaking with fury. This is all a pretense: The children. The playful tone. Zhar is using them as a shield.

  “That’s better,” she says, once I’m sitting in the circle. Taysie plops into my lap uninvited, knitting her fingers through mine.

  “You see, Highness,” Zhar says, “we have been waiting for you. All of us.”

  Not just soldiers, she means. She wants me to see that they have families and children who need me to cooperate. To be the obedient, loyal symbol Zhar wants. Because on her rock, she’s the one in charge. Challenge her, and you get shot.

  She kisses the head of the boy on her lap. “This is Adi, my nephew. Adi, tell the princess about the story we’re reading.”

  He smiles. “It’s the one about the Motherworld.”

  “Ah, Zemlya,” she sighs. “Our lost paradise.”

  I glare at her. “Whatever game this is—”

  “Adi,” she cuts in, “why don’t you tell the princess the story? I think she has forgotten it.”

  Adi nods, taking the book from her and opening it on his lap. The blue planet spins above us, and the children look up with wide eyes. Zemlya reminds me a little of Amethyne; it’s a bit larger, and its sun was yellow, not violet, but the green continents and blue seas are similar. And like my home planet, the Motherworld is said to have been lush and forested once.

  “Zemlya was dying,” Adi says, reciting more than reading. “Humans had used up all her water and plants. So they built ten ships.”

  “Ten arks to sail to ten distant stars,” murmurs Zhar.

  Adi nods, turning a page, and the ships appear above us, each going a different direction. They were bulky, ugly things, built to house generation after generation. Millions of humans living and dying without ever standing on any planet at all, in the hopes their descendents would one day find solid ground again.

  Adi says, “But they were so slow because they didn’t have … um, what’s the word, Aunt?”

  “Prisms, dear. They lacked the energy to exceed the speed of light, and so they limped through the universe.”

  Adi flips patiently through the book, the holo overhead changing with each turn of the page, recounting the ancient story. Of the ten ships that left Zemlya, nine reached their destinations. But by the time the arks reached their planets, for some, hundreds of years had gone by. And once they arrived, they were alone, isolated from the other arks, unable to communicate. They didn’t know if their sister tribes lived or died. And so they developed their own cultures, languages, even genetic code, adapting to their new worlds in strange and wonderful ways.

  My genes are Alexandrian; I don’t look much different from those first humans who left the Motherworld, just built a little smaller, because of Alexandrine’s slightly higher gravity. I think miserably of the aeyla, of Pol and his ivory horns and his quick reflexes.

  “In the end,” Adi continues, turning a page, “there were nine races in nine systems, seeds fallen far from their mother tree. And so it would have gone on forever, humanity split into nine new species, growing ever more separate.”

  “Then a pair of scientists on Alexandrine, the sisters Danica and Zorica Leonova, discovered Prisms,” I rush in, trying to bring the story to a close. Taysie shifts on my lap to look up at me, her braids tickling my chin. “The Leonova sisters used them to develop warp ships, found the other eight tribes, and formed the Belt of Jewels. That was a thousand years ago, so why does it matter now?”

  Zhar smiles at the children, taking the hands of the ones on either side of her. “From the beginning, it was House Leonov of Alexandrine who brought peace and unity to the galaxy. They paved the way for the exchange of goods, languages, genes, cultures, between all the people of the Belt. We need you, Anya Leonova, last of your name, so that we can restore the unity and vision of Alexandrine and bring down the self-serving Committee for good.”

  My blood rises. “You speak of peace and unity, but you’re a monster. You shot my friend!”

  My shout frightens Taysie, who scrambles away. I lock eyes with the commander. Zhar’s motherly facade begins to fracture, revealing the adamantine woman beneath. “Adi, children, go on to lunch now.”

  “But, Aunt—”

  “Now.”

  He sighs and storms out, throwing me a dirty look. The others follow, holding hands. Once the doors hiss shut behind them, Zhar stalks toward me. She is all steely commandant now, cold and relentless as a comet churning through space.

  “Is Pol alive?” I whisper.

  “Princess—”

  “Is he?” My voice cracks with desperation.

  Zhar purses her lips, her gaze falling away. “I sent his body to the crematorium hours ago. They’ll have deposited the ashes in space by now. It is an honorable end.”

  My heart shatters, a star gone supernova.

  I can’t speak. Can’t look at her. Can’t breathe.

  I imagine Pol, dust among stars. He’d have hated that. Hated it. The aeyla bury their dead. It’s their most important tradition, that reunion with their beloved Amethyne. I owed Pol my life. I couldn’t even give him a proper death.

  With a roar, I lunge at her, tackling her to the floor and reaching for her throat. It’s like an animal has awoken inside me, hungry and clawed.

  My hold doesn’t last but a moment. She manages to throw me off, and then I’m the one pinned to the ground, facedown, arms wrenched behind me. Zhar is breathing a bit harder, but it’s clear I’m no match for her. I snarl, my face pressing into the cold stone floor, but can’t do anything to free myself. I peer up at her with one eye, anger like a hot rash on my skin.

  “You love your people, Anya,” she hisses. “Just as I love mine. I grew up in the Leonov court, and I was honored to serve your family. But I saw them fall. And later, I saw Adi’s father hanged for smuggling refugees off Alexandrine. My sister was assassinated for speaking out against the Committee. A ruthless enemy requires ruthless resistance. They may call you a monster, as you call me one. But I become the monster so that years from now, the ones I love—those children—don’t have to.”

  She releases me then. Several locks of her hair have come loose, and they hang over her forehead like icicles. Slightly undone, she seems younger than I first thought.

  I turn onto my back, feeling the last of my fury fade away until I’m as limp as a slinke leaf, without the will to even lift my head.

  “Shooting Pol was wrong,” I say hoarsely.

  She looks at me, eyes weary. “I know it hurts, but it was necessary. He disobeyed a direct order, and I have to know that I can trust my people. One weak link on this rock could lead to our destruction. Our families are here. Our children, Anya.”

  How dare she speak of her loved ones when mine are torn from me, one by one?

  “So why let Riyan live? Why poison him? It’s torture.”

  Zhar sighs. “The tensors betrayed the Leonovs when they needed their aid most. They could have turned the tide during the rebellion, but they refused our call and hid on their cold moon. That boy is not one of us, and he never will be. Even the Committee has the sense to outlaw his kind, for the tensors’ power is volatile and unnatural.” Her eyes narrow. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? You know what they’re capable of.”

  I shake my head, jaw tight, but think
of Riyan nearly crushing Pol’s skull.

  But he hadn’t. He’d stopped himself. And now he could die for that mercy.

  “He doesn’t deserve this,” I whisper.

  Zhar pulls something from her pocket and tosses it to me. It’s a vial, fragile and no bigger than my pinkie. Inside is a clear liquid.

  “That is the antidote for the tensor,” says Zhar. “You’re lucky it didn’t crack when you attacked me. It’s the only supply we have. Cooperate with me, and you may give it to him soon. I know you think us harsh, but we have to be.”

  I cradle the vial, feeling how delicate it is. This is Riyan’s life, literally in the palm of my hand. And he’s not the only one waiting for me.

  “Volkov took my friend,” I say quietly. “She’s being held prisoner on Alexandrine. If I do what you want, can you save her?”

  “Become who you were born to be,” Zhar replies, “and you can save her yourself.”

  I shut my eyes and say a silent apology to Pol for letting his killer outplay me. But I have to reach Clio. I can’t sacrifice her safety for the sake of revenge.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask tonelessly.

  Zhar’s satisfied smile makes my blood burn. “Come with me.”

  She stands and starts for the door again. I follow, hating her and hating that I have no choice. She takes me down the hallway and into a medical ward. Metal grates plate the walls and ceiling, revealing the asteroid rock behind them. I recognize some of the beeping machines from my mom’s practice, but these ones look older and show evidence of many repairs.

  Dr. Luka is there, busy at an arrangement of equipment. He turns when we enter, brushing his hands together.

  “Ah, here you are, Princess, excellent.”

  Zhar gestures to a chair. I eye it warily, but it looks fairly normal—a metal folding seat, no shackles or electric wires hooked to it. “What is this?”

  “Nothing to worry about.” She nods to the doctor, who rolls a squeaky table in front of me. “We need to be sure you are indeed our Anya.”

  “I just need a bit of blood,” Dr. Luka says, far too cheerfully. “Skin and hair are too easy to replicate these days, you know.”