I fire a rapid succession of shots. Concentrated beams of Prismic energy flash and sizzle in the air, scorching the back wall.
I’ve fired a gun before; my dad was adamant I learn how to, and now I know why. He knew, all along, that one day I’d get caught up in this war. So much makes sense now—Pol’s obsession with the security system, Dad’s insistence on my learning self-defense, even Mom’s tendency to drill medical info into my head. All along they were training me for a role I had no idea I’d one day be forced to play. How did they keep all this from me? How could they look at me every day and lie?
Before I know it, I’ve finished the simulation. I pick another, increasing the difficulty, so the ghostly figures appear and vanish in seconds, giving me barely any time to aim before I shoot. The concentrated Prismic energy interrupts their forms when I land a hit, and they burst into a shower of sparkles before dissipating. It’s disturbingly satisfying, and I worry a little at how cathartic the exercise is. Even knowing they’re just phantoms of light, I don’t want to feel good about killing. I don’t want to be like Volkov and Zhar and all the others. But with every shot, I feel like I’m slipping further from myself.
Clio would hate this. She never would practice shooting with me, and always said the galaxy would be better off if there were no guns at all.
Maybe she was right.
When the gun’s charge is depleted, I put it down and pick up another, setting the sim to the hardest mode. Phantoms pop up and vanish like bursts of light, and my hands move quicker than my mind. My thoughts suspend as instinct takes over, and the gun becomes an extension of myself. Every bolt of Prismic energy finds its mark. Every holo drops with a single hit. Minutes later, it feels as if no time has passed, but the simulation has ended.
I have a perfect score.
I stare at the results as I lower the gun. The weapon is warm from so much firing. My fingers are locked around it, my heart hammering.
All right, I could understand if I had a natural flair for shooting or something.
But this feels … different.
Unnatural.
“You shoot like a Leonov.”
With a start, I drop the gun. It clatters at my feet, and Lilyan Zhar stoops to pick it up. She slides the depleted battery out and pops in a fresh one, smoothly, expertly. All the while, she keeps her eyes on me.
“I … I got lucky,” I stammer.
“Not lucky,” she replies, keying in a code to the simulator, then widening her stance in preparation to shoot. “I saw the emperor shoot. He had that same precise eye.”
The simulation begins. Instead of the faceless holos I was firing at, the one that appears before us has its facial features. It’s a man, dressed in a white Loyalist uniform.
“Stars,” I breathe. “Is that—”
“Alexei Volkov,” says Zhar, keeping her gun trained on the figure. He stands at ease, looking off to the side, nodding as if listening to someone speak. The holo must have been ripped from a recording, but an old one. The direktor Eminent looks young here, without his trademark silvered temples.
“He worked for the emperor,” I whisper, noting his uniform.
She nods once. “He was the head of imperial security, before he defected to start his rebellion.”
“I never heard that.”
“Because he didn’t want anyone to know. He wanted to be seen as the people’s savior, one of the common folk. He changed his name, even. Alexei craves to be a hero. In truth, he was one of Alexandrine’s most elite, with an inherited command post and a healthy fortune in his pocket. He had the trust of the emperor, but he was a traitor.”
Zhar speaks with venom, her knuckles blanching as she grips the gun.
“You know him,” I realize.
Her lips press together. “Of course I know him. He is my husband.”
She fires. The gun’s ray strikes the holo-Volkov in the temple, and he bursts apart. A thousand shimmering motes of light dance before us, then fade.
Zhar sets down the gun and turns to me. “I am not your enemy, Stacia. He is. He must pay for his crimes against your family. He must answer for his treachery.”
I stare at her, as all becomes clear.
Lilyan Zhar, the loyal soldier, her name tarnished by a treasonous husband.
Her legacy stained, her liege-lord slain.
Now I know why this war is happening.
Zhar’s husband is responsible for the fall of the Empire and the deaths of the imperial family. He destroyed everything important to her, including her honor. All of this—the hidden base, the complex network of rebel Loyalists—all of it serves her. This isn’t about bringing justice to the galaxy or restoring order.
This is about vengeance.
Even Pol’s death wasn’t just about him disobeying orders. The moment she saw he was more loyal to me than her, she had to eliminate him. She can’t risk anyone getting in the way of her vengeance, not even the so-called princess she swears to serve.
“Suppose I find the Firebird,” I say softly, “and it leads us to the Prismata. What happens next?”
The corner of her mouth curls upward a fraction. “We give Alexei a chance to step down. If he doesn’t, we take them all out.”
My skin turns cold. “What?”
“With the Prismata, your rule will be absolute.” She looks me straight in the eye. “You’ll use it to destroy the Autumn Palace and every last one of the usurping murderers inside.”
“My best friend is a prisoner in the palace!”
“We’ve all sacrificed people, Anya. If you’re going to rule, you have to be willing to make the hard choices. That is how the game is played.”
She sets down the gun and walks away, and I stand frozen in place, watching her until she turns a corner. My hands tremble at my sides.
Whatever small hope I had that Zhar would help me save Clio, it’s gone now. She doesn’t care about Clio. She doesn’t care about anyone.
It’s beyond time to get off this rock.
There isn’t a single guard posted in the medical ward during the night cycle. Even so, I creep along the wall, making no sound, my skin clammy. The first room I come to is the one in which Dr. Luka ran my DNA sample and Zhar told me about the Prismata. The lights are off, but the machines blink and their screens glow enough that I can see as I rummage through cabinets. I can feel time running out; the pillows I piled beneath my bedcovers might not fool the guards for long. And the moment they realize I’m trying to escape, it’s over. Stealth is the only real weapon I have.
But the glinting scalpel I find in the top cabinet could also be useful.
I have to climb onto a table to reach it, and now I scurry down, trying to move quickly. But my leg hits a chair and it crashes to the ground.
I freeze, heart pounding.
A moment passes and nothing happens, no one comes running. I slowly slide off the table and tiptoe to the door, the scalpel gripped in my hand. It’s no match for a gun, but if I’m quick and quiet enough, that won’t matter. I don’t think about whether I could actually use the blade on someone. If I think about it, I’ll lose my nerve.
We become the monsters so the ones we love don’t have to.
Breathing faster, I step into the hallway
And smack into Dr. Luka.
With a startled shout, I jump back—a mistake. Now he’s out of my blade’s reach, and he’s holding a charged gun. He must have heard the crash and come ready for trouble.
“Princess? What are you doing here?” His eyes flicker to the scalpel in my fist.
For a moment we stare at each other; I think he’s as surprised as I am. But he’s also the one with the superior weapon, and he quickly recovers to wave me back into the exam room.
“Out of sight, quickly, girl! Have you lost your mind?”
My heart slams against my ribs. I suppress the urge to scream. There goes my escape plan. There goes every chance of saving Riyan.
Still, I eye the doctor as he follows me in
to the room, gauging whether I could lunge at him before he could shoot me.
“I’m done cooperating with you people,” I say. “Get out of my way or shoot me, because that’s the only way this ends.”
The machine by Dr. Luka’s head is covered with small blue lights, and they cast a ghostly tone over his face. He studies me, the gun still raised. “So you thought you’d just, what? Sneak out?”
“Zhar is willing to destroy whoever she must in order to get her revenge,” I go on. “I won’t be part of that. She’s just as bad as Volkov. I’m getting out of here, whatever it takes, and I’m going to save my friend.”
He glances at my scalpel. “With that?”
I shrug. “If it was Mara out there, if it was her life at risk, what would you do to save her?”
Dr. Luka smiles grimly. “For starters, I wouldn’t try to break out of a secure military base with a toothpick like that.” He sighs and shakes his head, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Instead, I’d confide in the people who were on my side and always have been. The people who are sworn to serve me and not some suicidal vendetta.”
My eyes widen; I stay very still, wondering if I’m hearing him right.
Dr. Luka raises the gun and I flinch, but then he flips it over, extending the grip to me.
“And I’d arm myself properly,” he adds.
I slowly take the gun from him, my eyes locked on his.
“You’re right about Zhar,” he says. “She’s lost her way. Many of us here see it, but just as many share her anger, her need for vengeance. Volkov destroyed our lives and killed our loved ones, after all. But, Princess, I was there the day you were born. I delivered you myself, and when your tiny lungs failed to inhale, I breathed air into you and brought you back. You are like another daughter to me, a child I was supposed to watch grow up and become strong like her brother and sisters. I loved your family, Anya. And I won’t see you become a pawn in Zhar’s game.”
I shake my head. “Doc … I … what do I do?”
“You go and get your tensor and give him that antidote,” Dr. Luka says. He heaves a weary groan. “I’d rather do this slowly, laying careful plans and covering all contingencies, but I can see you’re not going to wait. And to be honest, I’m not sure the tensor can hold out much longer. I can only do so much for him before the poison wins out.”
“So you’re helping me?”
“Like I said, I’m sworn to serve the Leonov line, and if this is what you must do, then I have no choice but to help you. Besides, you’re just going to get yourself hurt or killed, running around with a blazing scalpel.” He ducks through the door and glances down the hall. “It’s clear. Go quickly, and meet me in the hangar. I can get us off the base, but I have to take care of a few things first, and find Mara. That’s my only condition—if we’re doing this, she’s coming with us.”
“Of course. Thank you,” I breathe. Relief and excitement ignite a rush of adrenaline in my veins. Before, I’d been filled with dread, knowing my poorly conceived plan would almost certainly end in disaster. But now I have hope.
More than that, I have an ally.
There’s one soldier on guard in the cells, the pale Opallan I saw in the hangar a few days ago. He’s holding Riyan’s staff, using it as a prop to lean on while he drowses in the dim night-cycle lighting. His pearly complexion and white hair make him seem almost luminescent. I vaguely recall that the Opallans live underground, which is why they have so little pigment in their skin. It makes him a bright target, even in the dark.
I set my gun to nonlethal, but even so, when I raise it my palms go clammy.
A hiss, a flash of Prismic energy, and the guard drops with a thump. The staff clatters and rolls away.
I smile a little, thinking Pol would have been proud of the shot.
Then emergency lights flood the corridor with red light. An alarm begins screaming overhead, a long, whooping screech that strikes with almost physical force.
I spot the tiny camera mounted above the guard’s station. Stupid! I should have checked for eyes before dropping him, but it’s too late now.
So much for doing this quietly. Dr. Luka will not be very pleased.
I sprint down the corridor and smash the lockpad with the heel of the gun. It throws sparks, crackling as the bolts disengage and the door swings open.
“Riyan!”
He is so deep in his trance that he doesn’t even flinch. I can barely think over the blaring alarms. With a growl, I turn and shoot the speaker in the ceiling. Sparks rain around us, but at least the noise lessens.
I take the vial of antidote from my neck and pop the lid, trying to wake Riyan by slapping his arm. When that fails, I pry apart his lips and shove the vial between his teeth, but he won’t loosen his jaw. I can hear boots pounding down the corridor, closing in on the cell.
“Stars curse you, I’m trying to save your life! Wake up!”
I stand behind him, one hand cupped under his chin to tilt back his head. His jaw is like a vise, but I finally manage to tip the vial between his teeth.
“Princess! Stop!”
White-coated soldiers fill the corridor, crouched behind their guns. My hand jerks, and half the antidote spills onto the floor.
“Back away from the witch!” shouts one of the soldiers. It’s the eeda pilot from yesterday, the one Mara said wet his pants in the sims. He doesn’t look so frightened now. He looks on the verge of blowing my head off.
I dump the rest of the antidote into Riyan’s mouth, unsure how much actually makes it down his throat. Just as the first soldier raises his weapon to shoot, I step in front of Riyan, shielding him. My own gun is trained on the soldiers.
“Get out of my way,” I warn.
“Just stun them both,” the pilot says. “We’ll sort them out later.”
I fire.
Just like in the range, something takes control of me. I give in to it completely, watching my arm move on its own. The gun fires six rapid shots, nonlethal pulses that fly faster than my eye can even follow. Six soldiers hit the ground, unconscious.
“Oh,” I breathe, staring at the gun, my hand beginning to tremble. Then I shake myself, forcing my limbs back into action. I try to get Riyan to his feet, but his muscles are rigid. I manage to drag him to the door before I fall to my knees, panting.
“The guy who can bend gravity, too heavy to carry,” I groan. “Nice time to be ironic, Riyan.”
Hearing shouts, I look up and see more soldiers coming down the steps. I drop the tensor and start firing, but there are too many. For every one I hit, two more appear. They start shooting back, nonlethal pulses only. I pull back into the cell, dragging Riyan with me.
“Blast!” My gun’s run out of charge. The soldiers scattered in the corridor are too far away for me to grab theirs. I have Riyan’s staff, but it’s just plain wood, not an electric one like the vityazes use.
Letting out a frustrated growl, I drop my useless weapon and stand up. Maybe I can at least bargain for Riyan’s life.
“I’m coming out!” I call. “Don’t fire!”
Slowly I step into the corridor, one leg at a time to be sure they’re not going to blast me into unconsciousness. When nothing happens, the rest of me follows.
Zhar stands flanked by her soldiers, her eyes like black holes.
“This was foolish, Anya.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to get that. I’ll come nicely, just swear you won’t hurt Riyan.”
“You’re not in a position to bargain, Princess.” She turns to the soldiers. “Grab her. Execute the tensor. He’s too dangerous to keep any longer.”
“No!” I shout, taking a step forward—only to see my foot fly away from me as I go weightless.
With a startled yelp, I pitch forward, my momentum taking me into a full, midair somersault. I bump against one wall and rebound to the other, while ahead of me, the soldiers and Zhar are all lifting up and tangling together. Someone fires, probably by accident, and the pulse hisses past my ear
.
“He’s awake!” Zhar shouts. “Drop him!”
Then Riyan is there, grabbing my hand and yanking me behind him. He has no trouble navigating his zero-g stress field. His robes float around him, but he walks along the floor as naturally as if he were planetbound, his staff striking the floor with every step. I set down behind him, able to stand once more, while the soldiers collide and twist in the air over the stairs.
“Finally!” I’ve never been more relieved in my life.
He tosses me a look over his shoulder, his eyes masked with black spidery lines, his irises tinted silver. “Keep hold of me, Princess.”
He needn’t tell me; his grip on my hand is so strong I couldn’t break it if I wanted to. Riyan starts toward the soldiers, pulling me along, his other hand thrown forward.
The air cracks, the corridor tessellating into a kaleidoscope around us, crunching and splintering. The soldiers and Zhar drop, pinned down the way Riyan took out the guards on Sapphine. But we are unaffected.
Until my hair starts to fall sideways.
Riyan plants a foot on the left wall, and with a shout, I follow, as he tilts gravity around us. I find myself walking along the wall as if it were the floor, while my head spins and my stomach threatens to mutiny. He uses his staff to push off the walls, guiding us through the low gravity. Then he tessellates again, and this time, we drop to the ceiling. I shut my eyes briefly, try to reorient my mind, and then open them again. It helps, but not much. It still feels completely wrong to be walking along the ceiling while the soldiers writhe beneath us. Zhar is on her back, and as we walk over her, I look up to lock gazes with her. Riyan’s stress field makes it seem like I’m staring at her through a pane of cracked glass.
“I … will … find you,” she grates, fighting for breath.
Riyan puts us down when we reach the second level, and I have to take a moment to reorient myself. Riyan leans on his staff, trembling. He manages to warp the metal of the door to the cells, a temporary block against Zhar and her soldiers, but then he collapses to his knees, panting. Sweat rolls down his face.
Last of Her Name Page 14
