Just a few more seconds. I have to hang on that long.
I watch the atmospheric scanner, waiting to see even the faintest O2 levels outside. Still nothing.
My head’s spinning, my vision shrinking to a point. I need air now. Involuntarily I gasp, but my lungs find nothing. Frantically, I flip open my visor, and feel the heat of atmospheric entry wash over my face. My brain is shutting down, my consciousness like fingers gripping the edge of a cliff, slipping one by one …
There!
The scanner’s picked up an O2 reading. It’s weak, but it’s there.
I reverse the vents and flood the life-support system with salty Sapphine sky just as my eyes go dark and my head pitches forward. My hands slip from the controls; the ship starts to tilt, leaning into that deadly spin.
Then oxygen fills my lungs.
With a long, straining gasp, I lift my head and grab the controls, my body coming alive again. I haul on the manual stick, pulling the caravel up before it can tumble out of control. And below, the blue surface of Sapphine appears beneath layers of thin white cloud. The sun is behind us, burning across the face of the ocean.
“Stacia!” Pol shouts. “Angle east! There’s a settlement—”
“I’ll try!”
There’s not much I can do with a dead ship except fall, but with the vents sucking in air that I can now reroute to the thrusters, I can at least nudge us a bit. The thrusters are useless against the planet’s gravity, so there’ll be no flying, no easy, soft touchdown. We’re still hurtling toward the planet at a lethal rate, but if I can strike at an angle, we might skim to a halt like a stone skipping across water. It’ll take a ridiculously perfect approach, though, and I never was much good at manual landings in the simulators. My mechanic training focused on fixing ships, not flying them.
“There, there!” Pol shouts, pointing at something in the distance. There’s a smudge on the water, some sort of human settlement. But I’m too focused on controlling the ship to study it.
“Brace!” I shout. “Brace hard!”
I engage all the starboard thrusters, trying to slow our descent as much as possible while turning us horizontal to the surface. The altimeter drops at an alarming rate. A thousand feet, eight hundred, six, four, two—
We strike the ocean and the force snaps my head forward. Everything goes black.
The first thing I’m aware of is the stench of fish, so rotten it’s like a punch to the olfactory nerve.
I crack open my eyes to see nothing but darkness, gagging on the foul odor. For a moment, panic grips me. My body is immobile, locked in place, every frantic jerk of my limbs met with resistance.
Then I realize I’m still in my seat, and the spongy darkness around me is the ship’s emergency foam, sprung from the chair to expand around me, keeping me from feeling the brunt of the crash. I’m like a fragile vase packed inside a box.
The ship is rocking gently, and it occurs to me that we’re floating, being tossed by waves, instead of sinking to the ocean’s depths.
Which means … we might actually survive this.
I feel about, pushing against the foam, as panic wells in me. I can’t find the release button. I’m going to suffocate in here, in a bubble of black, never knowing—
The foam releases with a hiss, contracting and falling limp, a spongy sheet folding over the sides of the chair. Hands unlock my helmet, and I gasp down salty, fishy, humid air, so gloriously oxygenated that I want to cry.
A face—tinted blue and scaled on the cheeks and chin, with large, dark eyes and no hair to speak of—blinks back at me. I recognize the man as an eeda, the race of adapted humans native to Sapphine. But even having seen them on holo before, I’m still slightly taken aback by how … aquatic he looks.
The eeda takes one look at me and grimaces.
“Oh, just an easy scrap haul, Ma said,” he moans. “Just an easy bit of money. Didn’t count on salt-brained survivors, did she? Blasted inconvenient. Oh, c’mon, offworlder. Up, up, before I change my mind and leave you to drown, eh?”
Pol and I stand on a metal dock, watching our crumpled caravel as it’s lifted out of the sea. Water pours from the engine, and seeing the shape it’s in, I’m still shocked we survived relatively unscathed. The eeda was all too happy to accept the ship as payment for our rescue, but as Pol pointed out to me, we didn’t have much choice. If we’d resisted, he’d simply have taken the ship and left us behind. The Laika’s useless now, but the scrap will be worth something—and its Prism a small fortune. I suppose it’s the eeda’s lucky day, for all his moaning about having to rescue us “blasted fool offworlders.”
“Well,” I say, turning away from the wreck, my stomach still queasy, “now what?”
This is the floating city of Junwa Quay, according to our reluctant rescuer. We’re facing a vast network of floating docks, cobbled together from sheets of aluminum, metal grates, and rope, and buoyed by what look like crates full of kelp. Dozens of ships come and go, jockeying for landing pads. I watch them closely, wondering if any are bound for Amethyne. But most of them are small local vessels, hauling cargo crates or fishing equipment. All around them, automated skiffs lift containers to and from the ships’ bays, while eeda and humans barter and shout along the quay.
Pol coughs and gently redirects me, turning us both so we’re facing the caravel. Green Knight peacekeepers are approaching; the eeda told us they pay them off, so they won’t report the scrap haul to the dock master, but he said nothing about us. If we’re registered as undocumented arrivals, we’ll be in trouble.
We keep our backs turned until the knights go past, then hurry down the quay toward the city.
A ring surrounds the entire settlement, a great floating wall that keeps out the strong waves. The water inside is relatively still and stunningly turquoise. A network of aluminum quays connect massive floating platforms, on which rusty buildings huddle. We stop as a warning light flashes in front of us; the quay ahead lifts, allowing a small, agile vessel manned by an eeda to skim through. Once the quay lowers again, we walk across. I remember seeing aerial shots of Sapphine’s famous floating cities and thinking how they looked almost alive: branching, growing organisms spread across the water. Every part is mobile, the platforms like vast barges that can connect and disconnect, so the footprint of the city is always shifting. Most of Sapphine’s cities are concentrated on its equatorial current, so while they seem to stand still when you’re in them, they’re actually constantly on the move, like space ports orbiting the planet.
Eeda children dive effortlessly into the water and pop up with fish in their hands. Glass aquaculture domes protect thriving plant life. The quays form a maze through markets and residential districts, and I’m struck by the almost complete lack of wood, which is our primary building material on forested Amethyne. But here, everything is made of glass and metal, and it’s clear nothing is wasted. Many buildings look like they were cobbled out of old boat hulls, some of them still stamped with the fading names of the ships they once were.
When we reach a market barge, we pass rows of beggars holding up credit pods, pleading silently for deposits. Each of them has a vertical line tattooed between their eyebrows. I reach into my pocket, where I usually keep my own pod, then remember it’s long gone, seized by the vityazes along with my scanner and tools. All I have left is my multicuff.
“We’re in the center of the Belt now,” Pol whispers in my ear. “Things will be different here. The Committee’s presence is stronger in this sector.”
“These people … Why does no one help them?”
“They’re the lucky ones. Most are relatives of dissenters and protesters, stripped of their property, money, and rights. Those tattoos mark them as ineligible for jobs, so they’ll always serve as warnings to the rest of the people. Stay in line, or get forced outside of society altogether.”
“If this is what happens to the families,” I whisper, “where are the actual criminals?”
“They’re not
criminals,” he returns sharply. “They’re just trying to find freedom. And they’ll be in one of the gulags, if not dead.”
The market swallows us up; the air is thick with the smells of smoke and salt and above all else, fish. I’ve never seen so many types of seafood, from raw, tentacled things to pallets of kelp. To our left, a bar is serving bowls of steaming noodles. The smell makes my stomach grumble, and I remember I haven’t eaten in ages. All this food, right next to all those starving outcasts.
Back on Amethyne, are my parents being tattooed with that line of shame? Is Clio being forced to beg? I doubt they’d get off that easy.
“We should go back to my original plan,” I say. Putting a hand on his arm, I meet his eyes. “We try talking to them. Maybe it’s not too late to clear things up. If we … if …”
Pol frowns. “Stacia?”
I can’t speak.
Can’t think.
Because my eyes are fixed on a holoscreen booth behind him, where a dozen different displays are broadcasting the same scene: a group of prisoners marching onto a transport ship, their hands shackled and heads bent.
“Clio,” I whisper.
Pol turns to look. “What?”
I shake my head and point. The prisoners are all Afkans, my neighbors and friends. And there she is among them, her eyes downcast, her shoulders hunched. She looks traumatized. Her hair is slung down her back in a messy braid. Her clothes—a brown, shapeless prisoner’s uniform—are too big for her, swallowing her up.
“They’ve got Clio, Pol.”
He takes my hand and says nothing, eyes fixed on the screen.
The camera pans slightly to Alexei Volkov. He’s dressed in combat gear, but he doesn’t look like he’s been doing much fighting. There’s too much polish on him, his yellow hair too perfect. The uniform is just for show. I can’t hear the broadcast over the noise of the market, but I can read the words on the holo plainly enough.
UNION FORCES QUELL UPRISING ON AMETHYNE
Below that reads, Committee refutes claims that Anya Leonova is alive.
“Where are they taking them?” I whisper. Pulling away from Pol, I approach the booth, until I’m close enough to hear the announcement. Behind me, people are pausing to look up curiously at the screen. A man carrying a load of fishing nets spits on the floor, muttering about rebels making everything worse.
A woman’s smooth voice is narrating the broadcast.
“A recent terrorist incident on the fringe planet of Amethyne has led to an increase of insurrectionist activity. Claims have been made that Anya Leonova, youngest of the imperial family, may in fact be alive and involved in the event.”
The screen now shows scenes of the destruction of Afka. Not just the town hall but most of the other buildings are on fire, belching clouds of black smoke.
The world seems to tilt around me. I lean against Pol, nauseated.
Then the direktor himself speaks. “These claims are false, of course. Princess Anya Leonova perished sixteen years ago, alongside the tyrannical Emperor Pyotr. This imposter, this Stacia Androva of Afka-on-Amethyne, will be found, I assure you, and brought to justice for this senseless attack. We hope Ms. Androva chooses the peaceful option and turns herself in, but rest assured, we will do whatever it takes to bring her into custody. In the meantime, we will be questioning her known associates at our secure facilities back at the Autumn Palace.”
And there we are: holos of me and Pol, rotating under the words wanted and dangerous.
“A reward is being offered for information leading to the capture of two individuals believed to be behind the attack,” says the announcer.
“We have to get out of here,” Pol murmurs in my ear. “Now.”
“They took her. They took Clio.”
His face is pale, his grip hard on my arm. “It’s a trap, Stacia. He wanted you to see the prisoners, so you’d come running into his hands.”
“So? They’re going to torture her!”
“No,” he breathes. “She’ll be fine. I swear to you, no one will hurt Clio.”
“How can you know that? You can’t possibly know that!”
He pulls at me. My shouts are drawing attention.
All thoughts of returning to Amethyne evaporate from my head. Clio, my Clio, has been ripped from home and taken across the stars to some Alexandrine prison. She must be terrified. She must believe that I abandoned her.
But I haven’t. And I won’t.
“If I turn myself in, maybe they’ll let her go,” I say. “You heard him: They’re going to interrogate her. That means torture, Pol.” Tears burn in my eyes; I can’t even say the words without my voice sticking to my throat. The Sapphine air is hot and humid, but I’m chilled to my core.
“Let’s just focus on surviving this planet, okay? Then we’ll worry about what comes next.”
Pol starts pulling me away. I catch one more glimpse of her on the screen, as the Afkan prisoners settle in for transport to Alexandrine.
I’m coming, I promise. I’ll do whatever it takes to reach you. I’ll tear every star from the sky if I must.
“Stacia, let’s go!”
We walk through the city’s less populated streets until we find an alley that dead-ends into the sea. The buildings on either side—apartments, ratty and rusted—lean overhead, reducing the sky to a sliver and casting the alley in shadow. A sign squeaks as it sways in the wind, advertising a psychic’s services, but the shop looks long closed. My leg is starting to hurt again, and we have no more pain patches. Pol leaves me to rest on the steps and goes off in search of a transmitter, hoping to contact the Loyalists.
While he’s gone, I unclip my multicuff and remove the hinges from the psychic’s door. After making sure no one is watching, I slip inside.
The shop is dusty and piled with junk, boxes of charms and gems and carved totems. I shuffle through the mess to the far wall, which is covered in heavy drapes. Pulling them down, I find a wide window looking out to the sea, with no buildings or quays to interrupt the scene. A rusted panel on the wall opens to reveal electrical wiring. I study it a moment, then pull out my tools again and set to work.
Within a few minutes, I’ve got a few lamps lit. They’re shaped like crystal balls and glow softly blue. Dragging cushions from a box, I pile them by the window, and that’s where Pol finds me an hour later, lying back and watching the waves lap at the city’s barrier ring.
He’s sporting a new hat—a wide-brimmed, conical thing I’ve seen the eeda wearing. It looks ridiculous on him, but it hides his telltale horns that are basically antennae transmitting I’m not from here. He’s also got on a fisherman’s coat that hangs to his knees and makes him look vaguely piratical.
“Nice,” he says, looking around. “No transmitter, but I swiped these.”
His pockets are full of ration bars. I open one, sniff, and grimace. The bars are made of seaweed and taste awful, but I’m hungry enough to not care too much.
“Wait,” I say, pausing over a mouthful of seaweed. “Where did you get that?”
He brushes his coat, trying to conceal the gun tucked in his belt. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Pol—”
“We can’t be defenseless here, Stace. Don’t worry. The guy never knew I took it. He’ll wake up in an hour and think he got mugged by some gang. There are enough of them running around this place.” He sits beside me and opens another pocket in his coat. “I thought we’d better wear disguises, since our faces are popping up all over the news.”
I take the bottle of hair dye he hands me and lift a brow. “Purple?”
He blinks. “It’s your favorite color.”
“Yeah … but I never thought to use it on my hair.”
He flushes and mutters, “Fine, I’ll go get another—”
“Oh, sit down. You’ll have to help me with it, though. My leg’s killing me.”
“Right, I got something for that too.”
He hands me a wad of pain patches, then finds a bucket ami
d the clutter behind us. The taps still work, probably pulling water straight from the sea below.
Pol sits behind me and carefully rinses my hair. His hands are surprisingly gentle, his fingers teasing out the knots. He squints at the instructions on the dye before carefully applying it. I’d half worried he’d scrub it into my scalp as if I were one of his mantibu, but he seems almost afraid to touch me, as if my hair were made of glass and he fears it will shatter if handled too roughly.
I can only imagine what Clio would have to say about this. My cheeks grow hot.
“We have to go to her, Pol. We have to get her back.”
“We can save all our people once we have the Loyalists’ help. You’ll see. We’ll take back the galaxy and free everyone.”
“I promised her we’d get strawberry ice,” I whisper. “I have to keep that promise.”
“You’ll keep it. Look, I swear to you, Clio is going to be fine.”
I lean back, letting him rinse out the excess dye. I never knew Pol could be so gentle. Tingles race over my scalp and down my spine, and I start to shiver.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Uh … the water’s cold.”
He takes off his coat and wraps it around my shoulders, then finds a ream of gauzy cloth that he uses to wrap up my wet hair.
“You look ready to tell my fortune,” he says, grinning.
I sigh and huddle in his coat. I wish someone could tell me mine, could promise that soon my family will be together again, happy like we once were. But I know it’s impossible; even if I get home somehow, even if I get Clio back, Pol’s dad would still be dead. Spiros was a part of our family, like my big, hairy, laughing uncle. I can picture him in his scarf, sharing a joke with Dad—probably at my or Pol’s expense. Thinking of him brings tears to my eyes, but I don’t want Pol to see them, so I blink hard until they’re gone.
We sit side by side, watching the water. The sun is setting to the west, out of sight, but its riot of color splashes the horizon and shimmers on the water. A few boats move in the distance, and a space-bound ship angles upward, trailing blue lines across the sky.
Last of Her Name Page 7
