Last of Her Name

by Jessica Khoury

  Behind me, the hatch seals shut.

  Pol and I whirl around to see my parents on the other side. They stare at me through the hatch’s round glass window. Their eyes are sad, but they’re smiling.

  “No,” I whisper. “No, no, no—”

  “Go, Stacia,” Dad says, his voice muffled. “Whatever life you choose, we know you’ll make it a good one.”

  “We do love you,” says Mom, pressing a hand to the glass. “No matter what, you were always our Stacia.”

  “NO!” I reach for the door lever, but my parents shut the station’s paired hatch, sealing us out.

  I look up, unable to speak or think or breathe, as they engage the manual undocking equipment. I can see the sweat on Dad’s chin as he hauls on one large lever, while Mom frantically opens a panel and operates the gears behind it.

  The clamps holding the ship in place give way with a clank, and Mara immediately fires the thrusters while yelling at us to hang on. The Valentina sails free of the station, and in the last glimpse I have of my parents, they’re holding each other, visors pressed together, hands on each other’s helmets.

  “We’re sorry.” My mother’s last words are a crackle of static in my ear, over my comm channel. “And we love you.”

  As the Valentina pulls away, I can see the Committee ships spread across the sky, and the smaller transport shuttle Volkov must have used is docked at the far end of the station. The remaining Loyalists seem to be trying to pull free on their large, bulky battleship, but they aren’t fast enough.

  The wave of debris from the Prismata rips through the station; it’s like watching a paper crane go through a shredder. Panels go spinning, glass shatters, walls rip and tear free. Some of the debris pelts the clipper, and the Valentina shudders but holds firm. Riyan and Natalya tessellate a stress field around us to block the larger pieces, but turned away from the cloud, we are a much smaller target. Even so, Mara has to work hard to dodge the bigger fragments. The clipper dives and spirals wildly, and we all hang on hard.

  In moments, it’s all gone—the station, the Loyalist ship, the Committee fleet. Zhar and Volkov.

  My family.

  I sink to the floor, shaking. Pol kneels beside me. Together we stare through the hatch window, watching the destruction fade away.

  Debris becomes dust, and dust becomes nothing.

  I let out a long breath and curl over, drawing breath in raspy heaves. Pol pressurizes the air lock and then removes my helmet. My hair slips free, sticking to my sweaty face. I dig my gloves into the floor and hear a sob rip from my throat.

  Pol puts an arm around me. He says nothing, just holds me, his breath as ragged as mine. Tears run from his eyes, cutting dark paths down his cheeks.

  Hours later, Natalya rouses us. I don’t remember drifting off, but my throat is still sore from crying, and Pol looks terrible. She wordlessly hands us a canteen of water, then slips out of the air lock and back onto the bridge. Soft auxiliary lighting casts a blue haze over the Valentina’s interior, and through the air lock window, there’s nothing but inky darkness and the distant stars. Mara is asleep on one of the sofas, out of her space suit, with her injured leg propped up.

  I stare at her, unable to summon the anger I felt earlier. Whether she betrayed us or not, I suppose it all would have ended the same. And she was just trying to do the right thing, as best she could. We all were. And we all failed.

  Pol hands me the water. I drink deep, then pass it to him. I feel exhausted, wrung out. All I want to do is hide in my cabin and burrow into my bunk and do nothing, ever again. Just sleep.

  “You guys might want to buckle in,” says Natalya, reappearing.

  “Huh?” Pol stiffens. “More debris?”

  She shakes her head. “We’re going to warp.”

  Pol and I exchange looks.

  “But … there’s no power,” I point out, as if informing her that water is wet.

  She shrugs, and then Riyan calls down from the control deck, “Not anymore! We were out for several hours, but it’s back up now. The Prism sort of … woke up. It’s weak, so it’s taken a lot longer to charge the Takhdrive, but I think we can make it now. Just tell me where to go.”

  I look at Pol, and he looks at me.

  “How is that possible?” he asks. “We drained the crystal on the way here, and we saw the Prismata explode. All the Prisms went dark.”

  “I’m not an expert.”

  “Stacia, you’re the only expert when it comes to this stuff.”

  I struggle to my feet, feeling wobbly. Putting out a hand to brace myself, I shake my head. “Maybe—”

  I pause, staring at my multicuff.

  It’s glowing, light shining through the seams in the metal.

  I pull off my glove so I can unlatch the cuff. I pry open the panel on the inside, where the Prism battery is stored. It’s supposed to last a lifetime, but when I expose it, I gasp. The thin wires around the battery are frayed, filaments splayed and bare and sparking. And among them, nestled like a pearl, is a tiny glowing ball.

  Breath held, I gently reach into the wires and grasp the little thing. It’s hard, no bigger than a pea. Extracting it and setting it onto my other palm, I stare in astonishment. It shines golden white, perfectly smooth, perfectly round.

  I raise it up between my thumb and forefinger again and, peering closely, see it start to push out a tiny little crystal, like a seed sprouting. Closing my eyes, I reach for it with my thoughts—and gasp when it reaches back. Its touch is no more than a feather’s brush against my mind, but it’s there. The seed is alive, conscious, pulsing with potential.

  Hope is born in darkness.

  Clio knew. She knew the missiles were coming. She knew the Prismata would not survive. Maybe she even chose not to.

  And she gave herself to me.

  This is the soul of the Prismata; that great, massive life reduced and compacted into this tiny seed. It must have fled a moment before it exploded, a spark of energy sent back to the station with me, after it cast me away. It was with me the whole time, burning against my skin. She was with me, as she always has been.

  Pol leans over, eyes wide. “What is it?”

  Letting out a shuddering breath, I reply, “Hope.”

  “Are you ready?” Pol asks, the doors of the Solariat tall and imposing behind him.

  “Is it too late to run?”

  He grins. “You say the word, Princess. We could be in Rubyat in five days.”

  With a sigh, I tug at the tight fabric around my waist. The structured blue dress, the shoes, the jewelry—all of it feels wrong. Like a costume. Worst of all is the crown atop my head, heavy as a shackle.

  “Why should they listen to me?”

  Pol takes my hands and pulls me close. “Because you turned the lights back on.”

  When we limped into Emerault’s system, twenty days after my parents died, we learned that the Prismata’s destruction had caused a galaxy-wide blackout for five hours. Casualties were low, considering. Each system lost several thousand lives, people from stations or ships who had no backup, non-Prismic power. Still, it was a price that should never have been paid. I have to remind myself their deaths are Volkov’s fault, not mine—but it’s hard not to feel guilt, to wonder if I might have saved the Prismata if I’d only been faster or smarter.

  “Hey.” Pol’s fingers brush my chin. “We keep moving forward, okay?”

  I nod, not quite meeting his eyes. He’s an inch taller than he was when this all began.

  “I don’t like it when you get that look,” he says. “Like you’re slipping away. You don’t have to do this, you know. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

  “I’m all right.”

  It’s been six months since the Prismata exploded. Most of the galaxy has begun to move on, the blackout another painful footnote in our tumultuous history. But for me, for Pol, for everyone at the center of things, these six months have been one long period of chaos.

  With the collapse of the
Union, trade routes shut down, food and water shortages became catastrophic, and most of all, the struggle for power—literal power, the energy to power ships and buildings and tech—resulted in violent outbreaks across the galaxy. With the Prism power still far weaker than it once was, everyone has been affected. But slowly, the Prismic energy has been getting stronger.

  All thanks to the seed, nestled in the little case that hangs around my neck. I raise my hand to it and squeeze. Pol leans forward until his forehead presses against mine, and we both shut our eyes. I relish a quiet, stolen moment with him; we don’t get nearly enough these days.

  “Ahem,” says a voice directly behind us. Pol and I both jump, my heart clawing its way up my throat.

  “Riyan!” we say in unison.

  The tensor’s robes are still fluttering from his silent touchdown beside us. He gives a little smile. “Sorry.”

  “You’re never going to stop doing that, are you?” I ask, shaking my head.

  He raises a hand. “They’re ready for you.”

  Ahead, the door of the Solariat is open. I draw a deep breath, squeeze Pol’s hand, then walk in.

  I have to see this through. It’s my responsibility, as the last Firebird.

  The last time I was in this room, I’d just unlocked the code, and it feels like an entirely new place now. The old Crescent Throne is gone. I don’t know where it went, and I don’t much care. The room feels smaller without it, but the view of Alexandrine is just as stunning as it always was.

  The Allied Council has assembled here: four presidents, a gold-skinned zheran prime minister, a delicate paryan queen, the Lord Tensor, an aeyla spokesman, and an eeda admiral. They’re seated in a wide circle, with various staff arranged behind them.

  Each of them represents one of the Jewels, most chosen according to their planet’s pre-Empire traditions. Once diplomats, royalty, and generals under the Empire, many of them were prisoners here at the palace all through the Union’s brief but bloody rule, and helped the galaxy find stability after the eruption of the Prism network.

  It’s strange to see Riyan’s father again, after everything that happened on Diamin. He hasn’t spoken to his son, and I don’t think Riyan is ready for that, anyway. So although they’re in the same building, they might as well be strangers. As long as Riyan doesn’t return home, his father can’t enforce his sentence. It makes me sad, to think there are still some rifts that can’t be mended, but at least Riyan has Natalya now.

  I’m not the only one who’s nervous around the Lord Tensor, although the Council leaders have different reasons. Some of them, I think, didn’t want Diamin to be part of the Alliance at all. They still don’t trust the tensors. But I made it clear I wouldn’t do this unless all nine planets were represented. Beyond that, I can’t do anything to help the tensors. They’ll have to find a way to fit in on their own, and the other planets will just have to get over it. Maybe Riyan’s dream of seeing his people accepted will come true eventually, but it’s going to take time.

  The Council watches me in silence, most of them with expressions of suspicion. I don’t blame them. What I am and what I can do with the Prisms has become widespread knowledge, but the stories have gotten out of control. I don’t doubt these rulers have heard some pretty monstrous versions. I wish I could make them understand what I truly am—a girl who still has to pick up the pieces of herself every morning and carry on, no matter how much she wants to break down.

  “Anya Leonova, welcome.” The queen of Sapphine greets me with a smile, at least. She sits beneath a spray of mist, to keep her eeda skin comfortably damp.

  I bow to her as a pedestal rises from the floor in front of me. I walk to it and set down the small tabletka I’m carrying. With a touch, I send a hologram glittering into the air.

  “Esteemed Council of the Jewel Alliance,” I say. “I am happy to report that the Prismata is healthy and growing.”

  I raise a hand to the holo, which depicts the small crystal. It turns slowly, all twelve points shimmering. I’ve made it larger so they can all see, but in truth, it’s still no bigger than the tip of my thumb. Its growth rate has led us to believe it will be several hundred thousand years before it’s even half the size it was when Volkov attacked it. So that they can be assured it’s still safe, I raise the little egg-shaped case around my neck. Made of black diamantglass, a press of a little button on the top clears away the dark tint, revealing the shining pearl inside. After they have a chance to see it, I let the glass cloud again, safely hiding the most precious object in the galaxy.

  “Power across the Belt, as you know, is still extremely low. But thanks to the solar farms on Sapphine”—I nod to the queen—“and the wind farms of Rubyat, we’re making do.”

  The galaxy still needs Prismic energy, especially to power Takhdrives, but I don’t think we’ll ever be as fully reliant on it as we once were. That’s a lesson we learned the hard way.

  “Has it … spoken to you?” asks the aeyla spokesman, hesitantly.

  They all look at me with interest, and some skepticism. I know from our previous meetings that many still have trouble believing the Prismata is a living being.

  “No,” I say, hiding the ache of sadness in my chest. “It’s still quite weak. I’m not sure it will ever speak to us again, perhaps not for thousands of years. But it lives, and that is what’s important. As long as we protect it, understand it, and trust it as it trusted us, we have nothing to fear.”

  “We will be the judge of that,” grunts the president of Rubyat.

  I nod, glancing worriedly at him. He’s the least receptive of all of them; Rubyat was the last of the Jewels to join the Alliance. In this room, all the systems are equal but independent. No emperors, no direktors, just nine sovereign worlds trying to find a way to get along. I’m just glad I’m not in one of those seats. Forging peace after everything our galaxy has been through in the last two decades is no easy thing. My job has been simple in comparison: to monitor the Prismata and keep the lights on, so to speak.

  “I have what I promised,” I say, “and I offer it freely, under the terms of the Prismata Accords.”

  I plug a data stick into the tabletka. When it clicks into place, the holo shifts into a revolving scarlet bird, the seal of the Leonovs.

  “The Firebird code. It’s all there, from beginning to end.”

  “According to the terms,” says the eeda queen, “we will now present our candidates for the office of Firebird.”

  Each system puts forth two chosen ones, most of them young and brilliant, plucked from top universities across the Belt, of races both human and adapted. One thing’s for sure—each one is way more qualified than I am for this job. They bow to their leaders and approach me, solemn-faced. Forming a circle, they hold up data pods, and I transmit the code to each of them. It’s a symbolic gesture more than anything. Soon, they’ll undergo the months-long procedure that will graft the code to their DNA. By the end of the Alexandrine year, they’ll all be Firebirds. I won’t be alone anymore.

  Ours is a symbiotic relationship—the races of humanity and the strange, living crystal from the edge of the galaxy. It powers our world, and in return, we give it our joys and sorrows, our anger and our love. I know now what we mean to the Prismata, how we saved it just as it saved us. We need it to survive, and it needs us so that it isn’t alone. Sometimes, in my dreams, I still feel the current of emotions rushing toward the Prismata, and glimpse the faces and moments and sensations the crystal had collected.

  My part of the ceremony is almost done. The Firebird candidates return to their spots behind the circle. The heads of the Belt watch me expectantly.

  Stars, it’s hot in here.

  I remove my tabletka and hand it to an attendant, then stare a moment at the bare pedestal in front of me. This is the part I’ve actually been looking forward to—probably since that awful day back on Amethyne.

  But still, I hesitate.

  The Leonovs had many faults, but they also did what had
been thought impossible: reuniting all the lost tribes of humanity, founding an empire that would forever change the course of our race. They discovered the Prismata, created the Firebird code, and ruled—by means both foul and fair—for centuries.

  All that ends with me.

  I raise my hands and lift the crown from my head. Slowly, I set it on the pedestal, where it glints, rubies dark as blood, emeralds glinting, sapphires blue as the Sapphine sea. One jewel for each system, bright and brilliant.

  “I, Anya Leonova,” I say softly, “hereby renounce the throne of my ancestors and formally dissolve the Alexandrine Empire.” Raising my eyes, I add, “May the stars grant us peace.”

  To my surprise, they murmur it back: “May the stars grant us peace.”

  That done, I turn and barely keep myself from sprinting out of the Solariat. Pol’s waiting at the doors.

  “Well?” he says, searching my face. “How’d it go? Was it hard?”

  I shrug. “Stars, no. The thing was giving me a headache.”

  We stand at the edge of the conservatory, looking through the glass at Alexandrine. Behind us, dignitaries and trade delegations walk and murmur in small groups, planning the future of the human race. More than happy to leave them to it, I spoon strawberry ice onto my tongue, letting it sit there a moment to melt. Ships come and go, bearing the newly minted colors and flags of the nine Free Worlds. My eyes fix on a courier, bearing the violet-and-white crest of the new spokesman of Amethyne.

  “You did the right thing,” Pol says. “This is how it should have been from the beginning, people making their own choices.”

  “I didn’t do anything. They did it themselves.”

  “You brought back the seed, giving us the energy to run our entire civilization.”

  “I was just the messenger. The Prismata gave me its own heart, even though we destroyed it, all because it knew that was the only way to peace. It wanted nothing in return, just to connect. To love and be loved.” I stare down into my now empty bowl. “It didn’t deserve what happened.”