Last of Her Name Read online

  When he finishes, he licks his lips and nods to himself, eyes thoughtful as he regards us.

  “An excellent red,” he says, lips lifting into a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “My commendation to you, people of Afka. I was told your vineyards were good, but this is truly sublime.”

  He speaks so quietly I find myself leaning forward to hear better. His words are carefully enunciated, every consonant crisp, as if he takes his voice out of a silver box each morning and irons it smooth before swallowing it.

  Volkov flicks a finger at one of the officers, handing him the empty glass. “Place an order for me, General. I’d like to take a case back to Alexandrine. The rest of the Committee will no doubt appreciate it as much as I do. This one taste was well worth the trip.”

  He gives us another smile, but it does nothing to hide the calculating sharpness of his eyes, which probe us restlessly.

  I’m not about to believe the direktor Eminent is here just to sample our wine. And judging by their faces, neither are Mom and Dad or anyone else. As much as I dread the real reason behind his surprise visit, I wish he’d just blurt it out and get it over with. The suspense is eating at me like acid.

  “Now,” Volkov says, his smile fading quickly, as if it pained him to hold it this long, “I apologize for interrupting your day. I’m sure you are anxious and confused, and I understand. I do. But put yourselves at ease. My men and I are, as always, your servants.”

  I think of Pol outside, in terrible pain. I think of the little Leonov prince and princesses dropping to the floor as Alexei Volkov shot them. I glance at the bristling vityazes waiting to shoot or shock anyone who flinches in the wrong direction, and wonder if anyone could possibly seem less servile. Behind me, my parents radiate silent alarm; I can feel it in Dad’s grip on my arm and hear it in the thin, rapid breaths Mom is taking.

  Volkov presses his hand to his chest. “When the citizens of the Belt begged me to take up this office years ago, I swore that I would root out every enemy to our safety and freedom, and that I would crush them. I made that promise to you, and I’m here to keep it. Though it breaks my spirit to say it, there are some among you, Afka, who hide treason in their hearts. We’ve received a report that renegades, dangerous enemies of our glorious Galactic Union, are harbored among you. Perhaps for many years, hiding in plain sight.”

  Murmurs rustle through the crowd; a few eyes shift, confusion morphing into suspicion. I shake my head, lips pressing together. My family has no love for the Committee or Volkov, but neither do most of the people in Afka, or the rest of the Belt, for that matter. But that doesn’t make us traitors. If Volkov wants to round up everyone who’s ever uttered a word against the Union, he’ll need a whole planet just to put us all on.

  My parents fled Alexandrine during the war, after their homes were destroyed, like most of the people in Afka. It’s a town of refugees and offworlders, now putting down fresh roots. We found a new life here, away from the chaos and aftershocks of the revolution. I was a baby then, so I don’t remember what it was like. But my dad rants about it when he’s had a bit of wine, cursing the Committee for promising freedom from the Empire but only bringing tyranny to the galaxy. My mom never speaks of it, but when Dad goes off, she gets a faraway, angry look in her eyes, and she’ll nod at all his words.

  I’ve heard nearly everyone in this hall—parents and kids alike—complain about the Committee’s censoring of broadcasts, the military draft, the strict travel and trade restrictions, the stripping of rights from the aeyla. But that doesn’t make us all traitors. That doesn’t mean we want war.

  We’re not like the infamous Loyalists I hear about on the news, starting riots and attacking government buildings, still clinging to the glory of the fallen empire like things were any better when we had an emperor on a throne. Those are the sort of people who get arrested and thrown into gulags, or executed outright.

  “Daughters of Afka,” Volkov says, lifting his hand. “No doubt you’ve guessed we called you here for a reason. So come forward now. Don’t be afraid.”

  My stomach drops.

  The most powerful man in the galaxy crossed thousands of light-years, spent weeks in transit, leaving behind stars know what sorts of pressing galactic crises—to find a teenaged girl in Afka? He thinks one of us is this dangerous outlaw? Glancing around, I imagine petite Ilya holding a gun or wide-eyed Honora smuggling Union secrets to Loyalist rebels. I would laugh, if I wasn’t focusing so much on simply breathing through the terror that grips my throat.

  Dad holds me in place, preventing me from going forward even if I wanted to. I grip Clio’s hand, wishing I’d never suggested coming to town. If we’d stayed home, we might be hiding in the cellar now with Mom and Dad and Pol. Safe from this man’s cold, probing gaze.

  No other girls step forward, either. Parents hold them tight, like mine do me, like I do Clio.

  She looks up at me. “Stace …”

  “Shh,” I say, squeezing Clio’s arm, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “We’re going to be fine. You and me against the universe, remember?”

  I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.

  Because that’s my job. It’s what I’ve done for as long as I’ve known her. Protect Clio. When I see Antonin and his gang roaming town, looking for girls to bother, I steer Clio away from them. When we go hiking in the hills, I lead the way so she doesn’t get bitten by snakes. Even though we’re the same age, sometimes I feel like she’s my younger sister. The urge to shield her is instinctual.

  Alexei Volkov winces, shaking his head wearily, as if this is what he’d expected us to do all along.

  “Very well,” he sighs, and he waves to the vityazes.

  The Red Knights jump forward and begin prowling through the crowd, grabbing girls from their parents’ arms. One seizes me by my collar. It’s the same man who threatened us aboard the dory. But my dad clutches my shoulder, the veins in his forearm bulging and his face red. The expression on his face terrifies me, not because of the anger there but because of how scared he looks. It makes my chest cave in, to see him like that, to realize how powerless even he feels right now. He’s my dad. My rock. He’s supposed to have all the answers, even when I don’t want to hear them. He isn’t supposed to look like this—defeated, trapped, as helpless as I am.

  “Sir,” says the vityaze in a low, cool voice, locking eyes with my dad. He begins to reach for his gun.

  “Dad, let go,” I say. “Please.”

  Without breaking gazes with the vityaze, he finally releases me, and my mother takes his hand, as if to restrain him if he changes his mind.

  “We’ll be right here, love,” she says to me. She’s still watching Volkov, as if he’s a diseased animal that might bite at any moment.

  The man pushes me into a line with all the other girls. Clio follows, sticking close, her hand clammy in mine.

  My free hand curls into a fist, my heart hammering. I imagine grabbing a gun from one of the vityazes, but my own frightened muscles betray me and hold still. What would I do with it, anyway? Get myself killed, and Clio and my parents too. But still something in me itches to fight back, to not be pushed around at this man’s whim. Being powerless makes me angry. Being powerless to protect Clio makes me ashamed.

  At last, the room settles again, with us girls lined up in a sniffling, trembling line and our parents silent and pale behind us. Clio is on my right. Mischina, a girl from my mechanics course, is on my left. She’s anxiously chewing the end of one of her black braids, and we exchange glances. She looks as angry as I feel, and I reach out and briefly clasp her hand too. Whatever’s happening, we’re all in this together.

  The direktor’s eyes creep along the row; he looks frustrated, as if our frightened faces and tears perplex him, as if he cannot understand why we’re afraid. He walks to the sobbing Ilya Kepht and pulls out his own handkerchief, handing it to her.

  “What’s your name, child?” he asks.

  Ilya answers in a voice
too soft for me to hear. Her father, the mayor, stands behind her, separated by a broad vityaze. He swallows repeatedly, his skinny throat bobbing. The sweat on him is visible even across the room. But he’s attempting to smile, as if to assure himself and all of us that everything is fine. I hate him a little for that tepid smile; he’s our leader. Why isn’t he fighting back? Why is he letting Alexei Volkov lay a single finger on his own daughter?

  “Ilya,” echoes Volkov. He leans down a little, to look into her eyes. “Do you know what my first duty is, Ilya, as the direktor Eminent of the Belt?”

  She just stares at him, eyes round.

  He smiles, and this time, it’s almost a believable one. “My first duty is to protect my people. It is not a task I take lightly. You, dear Ilya, and all your friends and family here, they are my people, whom I love. As far as I’m concerned, you are all my daughters, for whom I would lay down my life. Ilya, you’re a virtuous daughter of the Amethyne, are you not? Do you love our great Union?”

  She sniffs. “Y-yes, sir. I sing the Unity Hymn every morning in school, like everyone else.”

  “Good girl.” He pats her shoulder. “And as an upstanding young citizen, what do you think should be done with the traitors among us? Should I let them go about their business, planting the seeds of war, plotting against the safety of the whole Belt?”

  Her eyes widen. She glances at the rest of us, but Volkov’s fingers lightly turn her chin back to him.

  “I—I suppose they should be caught,” she says. “And perhaps … put in jail.”

  “You see?” He straightens and looks across the crowd. “Even this child knows what must be done. I can see you are good people. Once I weed the warmongers from your midst, I’ll leave you to the peace you deserve.”

  How gentle his voice is, and how noble. It’s at odds with those flat and expressionless eyes. I would almost believe him, if not for the eyes. But some of the girls relax a little. Ilya even manages a smile for the direktor. She clutches his handkerchief tight as he walks on, his eyes softening as he studies each of us in turn. I meet his gaze when he reaches me, trying to remain unswayed by that synthetic smile and soft voice. But still a shiver runs through my bones until his stare moves on. He has the same empty gaze as a snaptooth.

  Finally, he returns to the stage, where he begins to remove his crisp gloves, finger by finger. He tucks them in the inner pocket of his coat, then removes a slender white gun. It’s almost like a magic trick—transforming leather into metal, stitches into bolts. I flinch; Clio sucks in a breath.

  The direktor looks up, his smile gone.

  “The warmongers have been very clever indeed, hiding themselves here at the galaxy’s edge. But their cleverness forces my hand, much to my sorrow. For we now know that not all the Leonov tyrants died on Alexandrine sixteen years ago. One escaped. One has hidden from us, here among you good, honest folk. So I speak directly to you, Anya Petrovna Leonova, princess of the fallen Alexandrian Empire: Save these people. Because unless you step forward in thirty seconds, no one leaves this room alive.”

  I wait for someone to laugh, to explain how ridiculous the direktor’s accusation is. But the room is utterly silent, the air stretched tight, as if there isn’t enough oxygen. We’re all slowly suffocating.

  “Come now, Princess,” Volkov murmurs, eyes probing each of us, “don’t make your friends suffer pointlessly. You will not be harmed. This I swear.”

  Anya Petrovna Leonova.

  It’s a struggle to recall the day we discussed the fallen imperials in history class. Anya had been the youngest of the Leonovs, just an infant when this very man murdered her and her family. Didn’t he? I can’t remember if the baby was there in the execution video. I’d all but forgotten the little princess had ever existed.

  What sort of terrible joke is this?

  Anya, alive? In Afka?

  It’s absurd.

  But my stomach rises and twists, like I’m falling out of orbit, faster and faster, hurtling toward the ground. The direktor wouldn’t come here himself unless he believed this rumor to be true. He could have sent anyone—a general, a less important Committee member, anyone—but no, he had to come in person.

  To finish what he started all those years ago. To murder a child.

  I try to look around for my parents, to see what they must think, but when I start to turn, I get a rap on my head from the vityaze standing behind me. I stiffen, Clio’s arm curling around mine.

  Volkov waits for half a minute, but no one raises her hand to say, “It’s me you’re looking for!” And why would she? What’s waiting for her but a hot white bolt of energy to the brain? I glance sidelong down the row of my classmates, friends, neighbors, wondering if one of them is more than she claims to be.

  “Perhaps she doesn’t know who she is,” murmurs the direktor. “But someone here does. Someone here knows the truth, and until one of you speaks up, I’ll be forced to assume you are all complicit.” He turns to the vityazes. “Take the girls to the ship and we’ll run genetic tests on the way back to the capital. We can’t waste any more time here. When we’ve cleared the room, kill the rest.”

  “What?” I whisper.

  Shouts of protest break out. I’m still reeling, trying to make sense of what’s happening—when Ilya’s mother, Mrs. Kepht, bursts through the line of vityazes holding the parents back.

  “Stop this!” she cries. “You can’t take my dau—”

  Volkov fires so smoothly, so swiftly, that it’s over before I even have the chance to process what is happening. There’s a flash of hot white energy, momentarily blinding us all.

  The hole that appears in Mrs. Kepht’s forehead is no bigger than a pinprick, but smoke curls from the wound and she slumps to the ground, landing at an awkward angle, one arm twisted beneath her. And I know that behind that tiny puncture mark, her brain has been reduced to liquid. My stomach heaves, and all around me, the other girls scream. Ilya’s wail of grief is the loudest of all. She drops to her knees, one hand outstretched toward her mother’s body, but a Red Knight holds her back. Mayor Kepht stares at his wife’s body, motionless and ashen.

  The crowd of parents surges and ripples, but vityazes shock anyone who gets too close to us. Screams of protest turn to screams of pain, and a few more adults hit the floor, seizing from the electric currents. I glance at Mom and Dad, willing them to stay silent and still. But it’s as if they didn’t even notice Mrs. Kepht’s murder. Dad is whispering in Mom’s ear, and she’s nodding, her expression blank. The world seems to be shrinking around me; all I can hear is my own heartbeat. This can’t be happening. It’s all too fast. I want to pause the scene and catch my breath, make sense of the chaos.

  Tears run down Clio’s cheeks. “Poor Ilya,” she whispers.

  I wonder if she’s thinking of her own parents, killed in the war. Where had they died again? Alexandrine? Emerault? My mind struggles for the answer—I should know this—but my thoughts go fuzzy. There’s too much happening around me to focus on anything else. But for a fleeting moment, I look at my friend closer and feel a shiver of doubt. Could she be … ? No. No, that’s ridiculous. I know Clio better than I know myself. There’s no way she’s some sort of long-lost princess, even an unwitting one.

  But why can’t I remember where her parents died?

  “Someone here knows something,” Volkov says. “You have the power to end this. You have the power to save yourselves. But until you do, I regret that we must be firm. Your daughters will be safe, but we cannot allow any Loyalist sympathizers to escape. I must now assume that means all of you.”

  The reshuffling of the vityazes, the hum of their guns warming up as they turn them on the crowd of adults, underscores his meaning. None of our parents will leave this room alive.

  “No!” cries a voice, and I whirl to see Mayor Kepht rising from beside his wife’s body. He looks as if the heart has been carved from his chest. But I feel a tinge of hopeful relief. He’s in charge of Afka. We voted for him to speak f
or us. And finally, he is taking a stand. He won’t let this happen. I try to ignore the sensible voice in my head that points out the mayor is as powerless as the rest of us; that’s his wife, after all, dead at his feet. I wait, we all wait, for him to reason with the direktor. Prove to him that the very idea of a Loyalist faction hiding in Afka is ridiculous.

  Instead, what he says is: “I’ll tell you who you’re looking for. Is that enough? Will you give me back my daughter?”

  I’ve never seen such agony in a person’s face. The mayor looks like a ghost, gaunt and racked with pain.

  The direktor gives him a single nod.

  Mayor Kepht turns and raises a finger. “It’s her. She’s the one you want. She is the last of the Leonovs.”

  A murmur runs around the room. I hear a scream of rage, and someone shouts the word “Traitor!” before the hiss of a vityaze’s shock staff cuts them short.

  But all this I take in in an instant.

  Because far, far more electrifying is the finger Mayor Kepht is pointing.

  At me.

  The chamber falls silent.

  I feel every eye like a laser trained on my face. Ivora, Mischina, my friends—they all draw back as if I am contagious. Only Clio remains, fingers locked around mine. But I’m still watching Mayor Kepht, or rather, that accusatory finger, that finger more terrifying and deadly than any gun.

  “She’s the one you want,” he whispers again, and then he drops his hand and looks away.

  “No!” my mother calls out. “That isn’t true. She’s our dau—”

  She cuts off with a pained grunt, and I whirl, seeing the vityaze who punched her stomach raising his fist again. My father steps between them, hands up, trying to block any more blows. Mom swears, her eyes wild as she shakes her head at me. I fight the urge to run to them, knowing sudden movement now would only exacerbate the situation tenfold. Dread seeps through me, turning me to stone.

  I look from my parents to the direktor and find myself trapped in his gaze as his attention narrows on me. The air seems to harden around me like cement, locking me in place, weighing me down. The rest of it—the crying girls, the shouting parents, Mayor Kepht’s accusation, the impossibility of what he’s saying—I can barely grasp. For now, all that matters is that Alexei Volkov is looking at me and me alone, as if we two were the only people in the hall. So far, I’ve only been spectating at this twisted circus; now I find myself shoved with no warning into the lion’s pit.