Last of Her Name Read online

  As the sun sinks, the sky deepens into heavy shades of violet and red. I never grow tired of that, the way the light stains the world in the late afternoon, as if the whole place has been doused in my father’s best wines. With the smell of the grapes ripe in the air, it’s almost perfect.

  Almost.

  There is the problem of the rattling hum that now reaches my ears, coming from behind. I turn and look past Clio to see my family’s dory come skimming along the road. Hovering a few inches off the ground, it moves at a swift pace, noiseless pads glowing along its underbelly.

  “Dad!” I shout, pulling Elki to the side of the road.

  My father slows the dory until it hovers beside us with a soft hum. The top is open to the air, and there Dad stands at the controls—with Pol at his side and Pol’s father, Spiros. The old vineyard manager, my father’s best friend, is a bigger version of Pol, but his black curls are threaded with silver.

  “Stacia!” Dad hits a button, releasing a small metal stair that lowers to the road. “Get up here. Hurry!”

  “We’re just going to Afka to—”

  “No, you’re coming home with us. Now.”

  “But—”

  “Stacia! For once, I need you to listen to me!”

  Relenting, I throw Pol a suspicious look. He must have ratted us out.

  “What about Clio?”

  “Clio too. Hurry!”

  I slip off Elki, Clio jumping down beside me, and then I pat the mantibu’s flank.

  “Home, boy,” I murmur. He turns and ambles back up the road, his cloven hooves kicking up dust. Behind me, Clio ascends into the dory. I bound up the steps behind her and hurry to my father’s side. “Dad, what’s wrong? What does that ship mean?”

  “It means the Committee is taking interest in Afka, and we don’t want to be anywhere near there until the astronika is gone.” His lips pinch together. “I know you love your ships, Stacia, but this time, it’s better to walk away.”

  Seeing the look in his eyes, I feel my lungs squeeze with apprehension. Dad is one of the most laid-back people I know. Even the year we lost an entire season of grapes to beetles, he only shrugged and began planning the next year’s crop. But now he seems almost … frightened. His frame is tense, poised for trouble. He keeps rubbing the stubble on his cheeks, which I know is a sign that his thoughts are racing.

  We’ve barely settled on the bench behind him before he guns the engine. The pads angle, turning us back toward the vineyard. At the controls, Dad, Pol, and Spiros bend their heads together, whispering.

  I frown. What can Dad tell Pol that he can’t tell me?

  Before I can find out, a blast of air hits us from above, seemingly from nowhere. We all cry out, ducking low as another dory descends from the sky. Twice the size of our craft, it’s much faster and louder. As it sinks to a stop, blocking our way, its pads send up a cloud of dust. My father curses.

  “Pol, with me,” snaps Spiros. They both move to stand in front of me and Clio, as if to shield us. I peer around Spiros’s bulky frame, eyes wide.

  The dory is marked with green shields, the symbol of the local Green Knight peacekeepers. There’s one at the controls—Viktor, a townie who trained with me at the little flight school outside Afka—but the rest of the men on board aren’t familiar.

  They must have come in the astronika. I know everyone in Afka and none of them dress like that, in red armor stamped with the Union seal on the chest …

  Then it hits me.

  These strangers are vityazes, the Red Knights. They’re elite military who answer directly to the Grand Committee on Alexandrine. I’ve never even seen a Red Knight before, except on the news—usually conducting mass arrests or gunning down protestors in the central systems. Now there are three of them in front of me, and one is jumping aboard our dory.

  “By order of the Grand Committee!” the man shouts. “You are to turn this craft around at once!”

  I spy Dad’s hand reaching under the control panel, where he keeps his gun. Sucking in a breath, I grab his arm. I don’t know what this is about, but I know if Dad shoots a vityaze, not one of us will leave this dory alive.

  For a moment, he seems like he’s going to grab it anyway. But then he relaxes, putting his arm around me instead. He holds me so tight I can barely breathe.

  “What’s this about?” Dad says, putting on a confused smile, like he’s just some fringe system bumpkin. “Gentlemen, I’m a simple vintner on his way home to his wife. You how the ladies get when you’re late coming home.”

  The vityazes don’t smile.

  “Viktor?” I breathe. “What’s going on?”

  Aboard the dory, Viktor looks pale beneath his green helmet. Instead of answering, he glances away, as if ashamed.

  My pulse quickens.

  Something is wrong.

  The vityaze, ignoring Dad, regards me instead, staring so hard it’s like he’s trying to read my thoughts. I glare back.

  “All citizens must report to the town hall,” the vityaze says at last. “Immediately.”

  Dad puts on his most ingratiating smile, the one he usually only pulls out when important buyers come to sample his wine. “Sir, if you could just tell us—”

  With a swift motion, the vityaze pulls his own gun and places it against Dad’s forehead.

  I stare at the weapon, unable to breathe, as Clio gasps behind me. It isn’t like Dad’s, which is only capable of stunning a target. The vityaze’s gun is bigger. Uglier.

  Deadlier.

  Dad doesn’t move, but his face drains of color. Pol looks on the verge of attacking the man, but Spiros puts out a hand to hold him back.

  “It was not a request,” the vityaze says quietly.

  “Well, then, to town we go,” I say carefully. “Won’t we, everyone? No problem. Thank you, officers.”

  The vityaze’s eyes flicker to me, and he lowers the weapon. “You should listen to the girl.”

  Dad nods, his eyes burning.

  The vityaze returns to their dory, and the larger ship follows us all the way down the road, hovering like a large predator. I watch it as dread seeps through me.

  Vityazes, on Amethyne.

  Vityazes in Afka.

  It’s wild. It’s surreal.

  I think of all the war films I’ve seen in school, of the revolution when the Red Knights stormed cities and executed everyone who resisted. And the film we’ve all seen but never talk about: the murder of the imperial family—of Emperor Pyotr Leonov, his wife, all their little children—recorded and spread throughout the remains of the Alexandrian Empire, now the Galactic Union.

  It was the people’s victory, they’d said.

  It was the end of tyranny.

  I’ve never really questioned it before. I’ve never thought much—cared much—about the world outside Amethyne. That’s Pol’s obsession. He always follows events in other systems, political uprisings, Committee crackdowns, the sort of stuff that makes me zone out during our history lectures, to his irritation. “People are vanishing!” he often tells me. “They’re thrown into prison camps or never seen again. No trial, no explanation. This stuff is important, Stacia.” It all seemed so far away, the concerns of the central systems, hardly real for us living in fringe territory. I felt bad about the unrest, but there didn’t seem to be much I could do to help those involved.

  But now I wish I’d paid more attention. Then I might have a clue why the Committee’s killers are here, in my home, threatening my family.

  “You okay?” I whisper to Clio.

  She lets her head fall on my shoulder, her hand gripping mine tightly. “I’m scared, Stace.”

  Dad parks our dory outside the town hall just as the sun sets. The dory with the vityazes continues on, once the men on board seem content that we won’t suddenly take off again. Running would be a stupid move, given that the street around the town hall is bristling with more Red Knights. There must be a hundred of them in sight. They all carry the same deadly guns as the man
who’d threatened Dad, and they all look like they want an excuse to use them. Between the vityazes’ armor and the dying sun’s rays, the whole scene seems washed in scarlet.

  Behind the town, the astronika looms larger than I could have imagined; the whole of Afka could fit inside the ship. But my excitement over seeing it has dissipated. Now I only want it far from my home.

  I catch sight of my mom standing among the crowd and let out a cry, running to embrace her. She still wears her physician’s coat and cap. She must have come straight from her office down the street. Her dark hair is twisted into a loose bun, but tendrils have pulled free and are stuck to the sweat on her temples.

  “Mom, what’s happening?”

  She squeezes my hand. “I don’t know, but we’ll find out soon.”

  She’s worried. More than worried—terrified. I’ve never seen my parents like this before, looking ready to run or fight, as if this were some central system where uprisings are a weekly occurrence.

  Way out here on Amethyne, we were supposed to be safe. We were supposed to be beyond all that, but now I wonder if I’ve been a fool to believe such a thing.

  Dad whispers to Spiros, who nods and slips away after squeezing his son’s shoulder. He vanishes in moments, but in the chaos, I barely have time to wonder what he might be up to.

  People are coming in from every direction, many hurrying from the red-armored vityazes who push them along. They seem to be sorting us, sending many back to their homes, pushing others toward the town hall. A few of the citizens are horned aeyla who’ve chosen town life over the communes of their own kind, and all these the vityazes turn away. They only seem interested in nonadapted humans.

  The mayor of Afka, a tall, befuddled-looking man named Kepht, is in the midst of it all, trying to help. “Please, everyone! Just do as they say!”

  A vityaze prods Dad with an odd metal staff. “You three! Inside! Now!”

  Dad throws up his hands. “Easy, friend! We’re going.”

  “What about Clio?” I ask.

  Dad gives me a harried look. “Bring her along. Keep moving, now.”

  The vityazes don’t seem to care one way or another, so I loop my arm through hers and we walk between my parents, while Pol follows close behind.

  Until the vityaze with the staff steps in.

  “You,” he says through his helmet, his hand closing on Pol’s shoulder. “What are you, the family pet? Get away, d’yav! Back to your own kind.”

  I gasp.

  I know few people who’d ever stoop to use the slur—demon it means, in the common tongue. The knight now seizes Pol by his hair, spinning him around and kicking him back toward the street.

  I step forward. “Stop!”

  Pol half turns, his eyes catching mine. “It’s all right, Stace.”

  Then the vityaze brings down his staff. It cracks on Pol’s spine, knocking him to the ground. A current of electricity sizzles down its length, and Pol jolts at its touch.

  “NO!” I lunge at the knight, but Dad catches me around the middle, holding me back.

  Pol clutches the grass, pulling it up by the roots as he convulses. His lips pull back, teeth grind together, and for a moment I think he’ll fight back. But the vityaze kicks him so hard I can hear the thud of the boot against Pol’s spine. The aeyla gasps, hands curling around his head and knees pulling up to his chest.

  “He’s just a boy!” Dad snaps at the man. “Let him be!”

  The knight only laughs as we are pushed through the doors. Over the crowd, I can see his staff still rising and falling. I can hear Pol crying out in pain. My skin flushes with heat, with fury. I fight against Dad, trying to get free.

  Clio lets out a cry. “We can’t let them do this!”

  My stomach is turning over; each cry from Pol strikes me like a kick from the vityaze’s boot, leaving me breathless and gasping. “Dad, Mom, we have to stop them!”

  “Not now,” Mom whispers.

  I stare at her. I’ve never known her to ignore a person in pain. As a physician, she’s sworn to aid the sick and wounded, and Pol is practically family.

  Dad drags me away, murmuring, “Stacia, if we try to intervene, they’ll kill him. Keep moving.”

  I push against him, but it’s no use.

  With the Red Knights taking up positions at all the doors, it’s clear there’ll be no helping Pol now. There are too many knights, too many guns. I press shaking hands to my face, feeling the hot tears running from my eyes. Heat prickles on my skin; rage pulses at my center. But there’s nothing I can do with it except try to hold it in, for Pol’s sake, because I know Dad’s right.

  They search us as we file into the lobby. They take Mom’s and Dad’s tabletkas, tossing them into a box with dozens of others. Are they worried we’ll try to call someone, or that we’ll record whatever’s about to happen? They even take my tools out of my pockets—my wrenches and pliers, and the scanner hanging around my neck. But they overlook my multicuff, probably thinking it’s a piece of jewelry. Finally, they push us through to the main hall.

  With its glass dome ceiling and clean white walls, the town hall is the biggest building in Afka. It was here that Pol won the district wrestling championship, and I received my mechanic’s certificate after my apprenticeship at the docks. The dome above has witnessed some of the most important events of our lives.

  Looking up now, I can see the rest of the Belt of Jewels arcing through the sky, a dusty strip of stars. Somewhere up there is Alexandrine, circling its yellow sun. How strange that a place so distant could reach us here. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget there are others out there, that there are other worlds than this one. It’s easy to forget that not too long ago, all those worlds were set on fire by the fury of the Red Revolution.

  And it’s easy to forget that not all those fires have completely burned out. I feel the heat of them now, embers flaring hot beneath my feet. I feel it, but I don’t know what it means yet. I only know that the trouble I thought we were safe from has rooted us out, and if Amethyne is no longer safe, then no place is.

  Whatever this is, it’s not going to end well.

  Fourteen Afkan families are now gathered beneath the dome, all bewildered, all frightened. Looking around, I see the common thread that connects us, and why we’ve been sorted from the rest of the townsfolk: each has a daughter around my age, give or take a few years.

  My palms begin to sweat. I start twisting my cuff again, unable to stop even when Clio elbows me.

  Most of the parents are shielding their girls, holding them tight. I’ve known them all my entire life: Honora, Ella, Ilya, Mischina, others whose names I’m not sure of, but whose faces I’ve seen around town. They look as scared as I am. Mayor Kepht has joined us, and is holding tight to his daughter, Ilya.

  Wordlessly, I meet Clio’s gaze. She’s seen the others too, and her message is clear in her eyes: They didn’t even bother to look at the boys. This is no draft.

  “Teo,” Mom hisses, her hand closing on Dad’s shoulder. My heart pinches at the naked horror in her voice. I turn to see them both drained of color.

  “Mom? What’s wrong?” I follow her and Dad’s gazes to the front of the room, where a tall vityaze is walking onto the stage.

  When I realize who he is, I gasp.

  Heads turn; whispered conversations are cut short. It isn’t long before every eye in the room is trained on the man. The same mask of shock and fear on my parents’ faces is reflected on everyone else in the hall; the silence deepens until you could hear a pin drop. No one dares move. No one dares breathe.

  And at the center of it all, as if the gravity of his presence were enough to stop the stars in their tracks, stands Alexei Volkov.

  The direktor Eminent himself.

  Head of the Grand Committee, effective ruler of all the Belt.

  He led the Unionists to triumph over the Empire years ago. But perhaps most famously, he’s the man we’ve all seen in that horrible recording, shooting the emperor, empress
, and their little children point-blank. I can still picture his eyes as they look into the camera after the murders are done. He wears an almost sheepish smile as he declares us “free.” Alexei Volkov is more legend than man, and not the good kind, either. He’s an improbable figure here in Afka, a startling intrusion into our quiet existence.

  He wears a deceptively simple uniform, red coat and trousers and polished black boots. No hat, no decorative insignias or medals, like some of the other vityaze officers. And yet looking at him, it’s obvious he is in charge. He has a “propaganda” face, as Dad has told me so many times, in a low voice soured with hate. The man possesses the sort of natural charm and pearly teeth that make people unwittingly prone to believe and obey. He looks almost boyish, his cheeks round and soft, his thick yellow hair parted down the center of his skull, but looking closer, I see wrinkles starting at the corners of his eyes.

  Volkov swirls a glass of violet Amethyne wine in a white-gloved hand, looking absorbed in thought, as if completely unaware that there are dozens of us waiting and trembling before him. He wears absolutely no expression, betraying nothing of his thoughts or mood; you’d find more emotion in a metal plank.

  “Why is he here?” Clio whispers in my ear. “What have we done?”

  I give a small shake of my head, wishing I had an answer for her.

  How many times have I seen Volkov on the government channels? Giving speeches, smiling and waving, pinning medals onto soldiers’ chests, signing laws into effect? His picture hangs in this very hall’s lobby, above the mayor’s and the Amethynian governor’s. His is the most recognizable face in the galaxy.

  I don’t think Alexei Volkov has ever even set foot on Amethyne until today.

  At last, he looks up, blinking as if a bit surprised to see us all there. Now he drinks the wine, the muscles of his throat clenching and unclenching, like my dad’s fist beside me. We can do nothing but wait in strained silence, and he makes us wait until the glass is empty.