Last of Her Name

by Jessica Khoury

  “She’s my best friend,” I whisper.

  His eyes dart to the gun, then back to me. I walk backward, out of reach, so he can’t grab the weapon. My foot finds the stairs and I slowly ascend, keeping the gun trained on Pol. I don’t want to shoot him, not even with the nonlethal setting. But if he makes a move, I will. I will, because every bone in my body knows this is the only way to save him.

  “Goodbye, Pol,” I whisper. I start to lower the gun and turn, enough distance between us now that I can turn my back to him. But still, it’s the hardest step I’ve ever taken in my life.

  “Stacia.” His voice is wretched with pain.

  I keep walking, my back rigid.

  “Stacia!”

  My heart tumbles, pleading, tugging me back. I fight against it.

  “She’s not on Alexandrine, Stacia!”

  His shout rings across the room, and I pause.

  “Clio isn’t there! You’ll be surrendering for no reason!”

  I turn. He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me with such misery that my stomach drops.

  “Of course she’s on Alexandrine,” I say. “We saw the footage of the prisoners.”

  He shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “She’s not there. You have to believe me on this one, Stace.”

  “What are you saying?” Despite myself, I take a step downward. “Are you saying she’s dead? Because we have no way of knowing—”

  “She’s not dead. She— Stars, Stacia. How do I say this? How do I say what I’ve spent my whole life keeping secret? How do I tell you the truth, knowing it will destroy you?”

  My heart climbs into my throat. His words fill me with inexplicable dread. They make no sense. I know he’s just trying to stop me from turning myself over to the Committee. But still, fear seeps through me, wet and cold as the snow.

  “Stop,” I whisper. “Whatever you’re trying to do, just stop.”

  I’ve never seen him with such pain in his eyes. His hands curl into fists until the veins in his arms stand rigid. Distantly, behind him, I hear voices. The tensors are on their way up, probably to the hangar.

  I’m out of time.

  “I’m sorry, Pol,” I whisper.

  His eyes grow wide. “Stacia, don’t—”

  He flinches when the gun’s pulse hits him. I hurry forward, catching him as he topples into the stairs, nearly collapsing under his weight.

  I ease him to the ground and lay the gun on the floor beside him. My hands find his face, brushing back his hair. Raising his hand, I check for his pulse, breathing in relief when I find it steady as ever. Then I lean over and kiss his forehead.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper into his hair. “Stars, I wish there were another way.”

  Then I back away, pressing shaking hands to my face. I shot my own friend, laid him out cold, and now I’m turning my back on him. Possibly for good.

  We become the monsters so the ones we love don’t have to.

  The voices are getting louder. I turn and run up the steps, reaching for my oxygen. I press it to my face as I tumble out into the hangar, running across the smooth floor toward the smallest ships, little interplanetary couriers lined up like sleek silver birds.

  The one I choose doesn’t operate much differently from a dory. There’s no Prism to activate, because this is no warp ship; its power is stored in cells, and I turn them on one by one. The buttons flash, and a screen prompts me when it’s ready for launch.

  Tensors spill into the hangar at the same moment that I lift off, their robes swirling as they run. I’m spotted at once, hands and voices raised in my direction. I punch the thrusters, shooting out into the sky before they have a chance to pull me back down.

  The little courier swoops through the dusty snow, aiming for the Union ships hanging in the upper atmosphere. I lean back, letting the autopilot lock on my destination, and release a long breath.

  Then I double over and let the tears fall into my shaking hands.

  An impassive general leads me through the sleek corridors of the astronika, with ten vityazes trailing behind. I walk rigidly, my heart in my throat, wondering if I’ve made a fatal mistake. My hands are shackled behind me, the plastic cuffs chafing my wrists, even though I docked with the great ship of my own volition. I haven’t said a single word since setting foot on the astronika, and neither have my captors, except to tell me to follow.

  This is the same ship that landed in Afka ages ago. I remember how excited I was to see it, and how eager I was to get a closer look.

  How naive I was.

  Still, it’s an impressive vessel, probably the most luxuriously outfitted ship in the Belt. All glass and light and high-end tech, it’s like a flying city, part battleship, part palace. Military decks are tucked between floors devoted to art galleries and ballrooms, but for the most part, the soldiers keep separate from the dignitaries who occupy the astronika’s more gilded spaces.

  When we reach what appears to be the command deck—every soldier we pass here seems to rank colonel or above—I ask, “How did you get through the gravity wall?”

  The only reply I get is a severe look from the general escorting me. I wasn’t expecting much of an answer, anyway. But it’s been bothering me. Diamin was supposed to be the safest bit of space in the galaxy. If I’d known the Committee could breach the wall, I’d never have invited them to the tensors’ doorstep.

  Finally, we come to the bow of the ship, and here the general stops and nods to the two vityazes guarding a plain white door. They step aside, allowing him to open the door and wave me in. Apparently I’m meant to go in alone. I do so feeling like I’m plunging into a snaptooth-infested pool.

  Inside, the direktor Eminent is waiting.

  The room is some sort of lounge area, its clear walls made of translucent material, so they shift with subtle color, like they’re made of ice. Two crescent sofas face each other over a table engraved with a Triangulum board; it has metal playing pieces on it, instead of the usual holo setup.

  Alexei Volkov is dressed in a Union red vest that sweeps the floor over a plain black shirt and trousers, a stiff collar hugging his neck. He looks much the same as he did the first time I saw him, but now the sight of him fills me with a rush of violent memories: his cold order to the vityazes to pull us girls from our parents’ arms, his passionless murder of Ilya Kepht’s mother, the way his eyes settled on me when I was exposed as the princess.

  The first time I saw him, I feared what he might do. Now I fear him because I know what he’s done.

  “Princess Anya Leonova,” Volkov says, his voice soft, warm. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Let’s get you out of those.”

  He snaps his fingers, and the old general jumps to release my hands, but he isn’t gentle about it.

  “Do you require anything?” Volkov asks me. “Food? Sleep? Please, allow me to make you as comfortable as possible. You are, after all, our very important and cherished guest.”

  I shake my head as the general backs away, slipping out the door. It hisses shut, and I’m alone with the most powerful man in the galaxy.

  I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  Volkov’s smile eases. “Well. You can imagine how pleased I was when I saw your message. That was clever of you, delivering it to your own address.”

  “I figured you guys had hacked into all my stuff. But we were supposed to meet outside the gravity wall. How did you get through?”

  He gives a soft laugh. “You know, your father, the oh-so-great Emperor Pyotr, underestimated me too. He thought no one could penetrate the palace’s defense shield, and yet.” He spreads his hands, the conclusion obvious. “Now. You said you have the Firebird, and that you’d give it to us, if your demands were met.”

  I nod, my palms starting to sweat. “The prisoners from Amethyne—I want them released. And I want to see them first, to be sure they’re … unhurt.” I don’t want him to know it’s Clio, specifically, who I’m looking for. I can’t risk that he mig
ht use her as leverage against me.

  He nods. “They’re being held at a facility near the palace. I’ll take you there as soon as we arrive. Anything else?”

  “I want to know that the tensors will be left alone. You’ve got what you wanted, so leave them out of it. My parents too. I want the fighting to stop.”

  The direktor smiles. “Absolutely. We don’t want unnecessary casualties any more than you do.”

  I think a moment, then add, “My friend Appollo Androsthenes. There’s a warrant out for him and I want it canceled.”

  He nods again. “Consider it done.”

  I stare at Volkov, lost for words. This is not what I expected from him—gentility, assurances, giving in to everything I demand. Where is the fight I’d braced myself for?

  No doubt this is some ploy to win my trust, but if he thinks I’ll give in that easily, he’s in for disappointment. I won’t forget who he is or what he’s done, or what I’ve lost because of him.

  “Would you care to sit?” he asks. “It’s been a long day. The journey to Alexandrine will last two weeks, and I hope to get to know each other well in that time. Despite that unfortunate business on Amethyne—your people did, after all, attempt to kill me—I think you’ll find me not quite the monster you fear.”

  I perch on the edge of the crescent couch. My fingers leave smudges on the white leather.

  Volkov picks up the Triangulum die and rolls it on his palm, then offers it to me.

  “Do you know the rules?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  I take the die and roll it; it’s made of glass, and its fourteen sides glint as it tumbles across the board. Glancing at the result, I arrange my pieces accordingly. They’re shaped like little people, each one carved from a different gem, representing the nine Jewels. My hand lingers on the amethyst aeylic warrior before I set it down with the others. Meanwhile, Volkov sets up his own pieces, humming softly as he does.

  With his sleeves rolled back and his approachable demeanor, I wonder how this man came to overthrow a dynasty that had ruled for centuries. An entire galaxy, overtaken by that sheepish smile and that boyish face and those soft, manicured hands. He looks like he’s never seen an hour of fighting.

  Volkov slides his ruby pirate across the spherical designs of the board, cutting off my attack route. “So, Anya. What do you know of the Firebird?”

  “I know that it holds the location of the Prismata, the source of all Prisms and the most powerful weapon in the galaxy. At least, according to your wife.”

  He chuckles, shaking his head. “So you met dear Lilyan. I thought we had her when we captured the asteroid base, but as usual, I underestimated her.”

  Great. So Zhar’s still running around the galaxy, probably even more unhinged than she was before. I guess it was too much to hope that the Committee would have caught her.

  I move my sapphire fisherman, defending one of my vulnerable spheres from Volkov’s ruby pirate. “It’s a shame you two couldn’t work out your issues without dragging the rest of the galaxy into it.”

  He laughs and leans forward, one hand dangling from his knee, the other rubbing his chin as he studies the Triangulum board. His eyes track my hand as I move another piece, stealing one of his spheres. Up close, he looks older and harder.

  “Anya, Anya. You know, I grew up in the Alexandrine court, playing this game—this very set, in fact—with Pyotr Leonov. He was the only person who ever beat me at it. I loved your father as if he were my own brother. “

  I pause in the middle of moving my emerald priest. “You killed the emperor.”

  Volkov sighs. “No, I didn’t.”

  “I’ve seen the footage. You executed them, point-blank.”

  His eyes find mine, green as the emerald piece in my hand. “That is how we told the story, and we created the footage to back it up. But the truth is, Anya, when my people and I breached the Autumn Palace sixteen years ago, the emperor and his family were already dead.”

  I sit back, blinking. “If it wasn’t you, then who—”

  “It was Pyotr himself.” He pauses. The skin at the corners of his eyes pinches. “He used a poison, gentle but fast-working. By the time we got to them, it was too late. Empress Katarina, the three children, Pyotr himself … all had been lost. But of infant Anya, of course, there was no sign. She was small enough to have been smuggled out in a pack, right under our noses.”

  I shake my head. “Why would he murder his own family?”

  “He knew I wanted them alive.”

  I’m clutching the emerald game piece so hard it leaves the imprint of a miniature priest in my palm. “So they could give you the Firebird.”

  “Yes. But also because he had been my friend, and because I loved his children—you and your siblings.” His sorrowful eyes are almost convincing. “I never wanted them to die. I only wanted them to cooperate with the people’s wishes, to ensure our safety. And the Firebird was, and still is, the key to that safety. But Pyotr couldn’t set aside his pride and give it up.”

  He infuriates me, the way he twists history, making himself out as the hero.

  I realize he’s exactly the person to lead a revolution—not with guns and bravado and glorious battle victories, but with words. And now he’s using those words on me, distracting me from who he is and what he’s done.

  “So you faked the executions because … what? You couldn’t stand for people to know the truth, that the Leonovs outsmarted you in the end?” I shake my head in disgust. “Why not forget the Firebird? It’s not like you need it or the Prismata. You already control everything.”

  He sighs like he’s a mathematics teacher and I’m not following the lesson. “This has never been about control. This is about the survival of humanity. Our civilization is in terrible danger, Anya Leonova. You have no idea of the threat hanging over us, or what the Prisms really are.”

  “I know what the Prisms are, like I know you’re the threat hanging over us.”

  Anger flashes in his eyes. Just a bit, enough to see there’s another layer beneath his pleasant facade. “I assume you’ve figured out what the Firebird is.”

  I swallow and look away but can’t hide the heat gathering in my cheeks.

  “Ah.” He leans back, eyes glinting. “I see you have.”

  I think of the tensor gene, the Legacy Stones, the streams of data dancing across the Chamber of Judgment. Dr. Luka’s last words to me: You’ve always had it.

  I haven’t been able to admit it to myself yet, but during that last climb through Tyrrha, I had nothing but time to ponder it.

  To connect the dots and find the truth that’s been staring me straight in the eyes.

  Ironically, when I first sent Volkov my surrender message, I hadn’t known what the Firebird was. It had all been a bluff. I had no idea that only hours later, I’d have the real answer.

  “I’m not telling you anything,” I say. “Not until my friends are safe. That was our deal.”

  Volkov looks me in the eyes for a long moment, his lips slowly peeling back into a thin smile. He looks like a viper that’s already struck, who knows its poison is working its way through my body and now it’s only a matter of time.

  And then it hits me—he knows, he’s always known—and I can’t stop the little gasp of dismay that breaks from my lips. My body turns heavy, my skin tight, as I realize he’s already a dozen moves ahead of me. I’ve played right into his hands.

  The truth about the Firebird had been my one bargaining chip—the only leverage I had to wield. But he knows it already. And because he knows, all the promises he made to me are worthless. My list of conditions are so many ashes falling through my fingers.

  “Yes, Anya,” Volkov murmurs, “I know the Firebird is you, or rather, it’s an artificial segment of your DNA, a cybernetic code passed down through generations of your family.”

  I set down the emerald priest, but my hand is so sweaty it slips and clatters on the floor.

  “Don’t worry,”
he adds. “I’ll still meet your demands, provided you offer me your cooperation.”

  I can only nod.

  He considers me thoughtfully, the pad of his thumb rubbing his lower lip. Then he says, “What do you know about the Firebird code?”

  “Only that the tensors have it too.”

  “They have something like it,” he corrects me. “Before they were rulers, the Leonovs were artists of genetic enhancement, and the tensor code was one of their earlier innovations. They created four Firebird codes in all. The tensors’ gyrokinesis one, two others lost long ago—one that fostered superintelligence, the other rumored to grant virtual immortality—and the final code—yours.”

  I draw a deep breath and look down at my hands.

  I am the Firebird.

  “But what does that mean? What does the code do?”

  Before replying, Volkov rises and walks to a cabinet against the wall. As he opens it and looks through the contents, he continues, “I was twenty when your father broke his family’s most sacred rule and told me about the Firebird. Pyotr always was the braggart. He showed me the things he could do—the gifts he had, like no other. He called it prismakinesis. Pyotr—all the Leonovs—could control the energy the Prisms produce, the same way tensors control gravity.”

  “They controlled Prismic energy …” My hands knit together on my lap, starting to shake. “Zhar said he used the Prismata to blow up Emerault’s moon.”

  “Yes.” He finds the bottle he wants and pulls it out, then turns to look at me. “The Leonovs could reach any Prism in the galaxy, and cause it to explode or fade or even manipulate the tech and systems they powered. Any station, any settlement—it was all at their fingertips. They could pluck your secrets from your tabletkas, spy on you through your own security cameras, override any system they liked. If it was powered by Prism energy, it was theirs for the taking.” He shakes his head, eyes darkening. “I lost a lot of good people the day Pyotr blew up Emerault’s moon, and that was when I knew he would never come to terms with us. The genetic code that granted the Leonovs such great power also cursed them with insanity. Strange visions haunted them; voices woke them in the night. I remember old Feodor, Pyotr’s father, holding conversations with people who were not there. And Pyotr finally succumbed to that curse. He had to be removed from the throne.”