Last of Her Name

by Jessica Khoury

  “If this Firebird is what you claim it is,” says Commerce stiffly.

  The direktor’s lips press thin. “Observe, if you please.”

  He waves a hand, and the doors of the Solariat swing open. A row of vityazes march in, three by three. They walk through the center of the Committee and spread before Volkov and me. I watch disinterestedly; I’ve passed so many Red Knights since arriving at the palace, it’s hardly news to see a few more.

  Then I realize the middle three are not vityazes at all. What I took for red fatigues are really red prison uniforms, jumpsuits with identification numbers stamped across the fronts.

  My stomach drops into free fall.

  “We found these three attempting to broach the outer shield,” says Volkov. “But for your sake, Princess, we took great care to bring them in alive, when it would have been much easier to simply shoot them out of the sky.”

  I stare at Mara, then Riyan, then Pol.

  They gaze back, silent and defiant. They’re a wreck; Mara’s braids are undone, her hair knotted and snarled. Pol has a fresh bruise on his jaw. Their hands aren’t even bound, so why aren’t they fighting back? Are they brainjacked too? I lock gazes with Pol, heart fluttering, trying to see if he’s still the Pol I know. He stares back rigidly.

  Then Riyan’s eyes find Natalya on my left, and he stiffens. His lips part, and he takes a half step toward her.

  “Natal—”

  He cuts short as he suddenly topples over, howling with pain, and it’s then that I notice the thin black bands around each of their necks, the same as Dr. Luka wears.

  The collars are wired with electricity.

  Riyan curls up on the floor, gasping, his body jerking. Pol and Mara flinch but must realize they’ll only end up like the tensor if they move, because they freeze in place.

  “Stop it!” I scream, lunging forward, but Volkov holds me back, his fingers digging into my shoulder through my gown’s thin fabric.

  “Enough,” he says, and the vityaze controlling the collar releases the charge. I recognize the man from the attack on Afka—he’s the same one who stopped my family’s dory and escorted us to town. Judging by the bars on his uniform, he’s been promoted since then. At his feet, Riyan sags with a long exhale.

  Through all of this, Natalya stands impassive, seemingly unaware that her brother is only steps away.

  “What’ve you done to her?” gasps Riyan. “You monsters—”

  Another jolt of electricity sizzles through him, and I struggle, trying to get past Volkov. Even the Committee is looking uncomfortable with the scene. Several of them look down at the floor; Commerce is pale and wide-eyed, and opens her mouth like she’s going to protest, but then Defense lightly touches her arm and she clamps her jaw shut. There’ll be no help from them.

  Riyan is released again, and this time the vityazes pull him back to his feet. There he hunches over, watching Natalya with haunted eyes. Beside him, Pol and Mara exchange looks, and Mara’s hand moves to her collar, shaking a little. All three of them look traumatized, and I realize this mustn’t be the first time their collars have been activated since they were captured.

  Tears trace burning lines down my cheeks. I feel utterly useless and sick with shame.

  What were they thinking, coming here? That they could break into the most secure bit of space in the galaxy and just snatch me from under Volkov’s nose? I shake my head at Pol, my heart crumbling. He had to know this was impossible.

  But he came, anyway.

  Pol catches my eye, and the corner of his mouth quirks in the smallest of defiant grins, as if even now he is urging me to fight back. Saying this isn’t over.

  But it is over.

  Stars, it’s been over for longer than either of us knew. Maybe since before it even began. If this was where we would end up, why did we ever run in the first place? I ran and I ran and I ran, and still, I couldn’t escape this moment.

  “What is this?” I whisper to the direktor. “Why are they here?”

  “It’s time you accepted the truth of who you are,” he replies.

  Volkov sets up a tabletka and projects a hologram of an aerial view of a battlefield. Hills and buildings spread over the great Solariat floor like a miniature world, seen through a slowly strafing camera. From this angle, it takes me a moment to realize what I’m looking at.

  Afka.

  I pull my eyes from Pol to stare at my home, which is now smoldering ruins, the slinke forests burning. My family’s vineyard is gone completely, nothing but a scorch mark on the face of Amethyne. Distantly, I wonder what happened to Elki and the other mantibu. All I can think is that I hope they were let out of the stables. Maybe they disappeared into the hills with their wild kin. I focus on that; it’s easier than processing the whole of the truth before me: that my home is gone. Obliterated. The hills where Pol and Clio and I— I wince, amending that thought. The hills where Pol and I played are burning by the acre, most of the land blackened and prickled with charred slinke trunks. Of Afka itself, few buildings are still intact.

  Volkov walks slowly through the hologram, his steps falling on the homes and fields of my neighbors. The hologram fractures into pixelated blocks of light around his polished shoes. His eyes never leave my face. “We’ve withdrawn our troops. Only a few Loyalist factions remain in Afka, but not for long. Before you can heal a wound, Anya, you must first cut out the dead tissue. As long as these dissenters remain at large, their poison will spread, infecting the whole of Amethyne and the galaxy beyond. Their violence and bloodshed must be confronted with definitive strength. And so we have ten interstellar Prismic missiles inside the palace armory, awaiting your order. They can make the jump in ten minutes, faster than any ship.”

  He hands me a small transmitter; the screen on it displays the coordinates of Afka and the status of the missiles—armed and locked onto their target. Below that, a red button reads launch. All it’s waiting for is someone to press it. There is no option to disarm the missiles or change the coordinates. Despite its small size, the device weighs like a brick in my hand.

  “It’s not an easy choice,” says the direktor. “But it’s the right one.”

  Across the room, the Head of Defense is nodding, his eyes glinting with appreciation.

  “You … want me to wipe out my home?” My voice cracks.

  “Stacia Androva’s home, not yours.” He crosses to stand between Pol and Riyan, putting a hand on either boy’s shoulder. They flinch at his touch, Pol’s lips pulling back to show his teeth.

  “Prove who you are, or I will be forced to strip away, bit by bit, every remaining piece of Stacia Androva. Claim your place or be dragged into it.”

  I stare at him in horror.

  Pol jerks away from the direktor. “Stace, don’t press that—”

  He drops to his knees with a howl of pain as the collar on his throat activates. He shudders, one hand gripped around the metal band, until the charge fades. But still he grimaces with pain, the blood draining from his face. All the while, Volkov stands behind him, his expression impassive.

  I clench the transmitter, my chest compressing. My mind flashes back to that terrible day on Afka, my father pulling me away as the vityazes beat Pol, telling me that interfering would only get him killed. It feels like we’ve come full circle, like everything between then and now has been for nothing.

  “Please stop this,” I whisper to Volkov. “I’m begging you. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Then do it. Prove you are a Leonova. Prove you’re strong enough.” His eyes are cold; my friends’ pain doesn’t affect him in the least. “Once I have what I need, all this will end. You will be free. Your friends will be free. Just give me the Firebird.”

  A vityaze hauls Pol back to his feet. Sweat runs down his temples, and his skin is pale and drawn. He raises his eyes to mine, and this time, I can barely see his defiance for the pain that creases his face. It’s as if the shock aged him five years.

  I look down at the button
.

  One simple press, and it would be over.

  No one in Afka would ever know. My parents probably aren’t even there anymore.

  I could save Pol and Mara and Riyan; I could give Volkov what he wants, and then he could deliver on his end of the deal: letting my friends and me disappear.

  We could walk away from all this. I could have Pol; I could find my parents.

  We could be free.

  “End this war, Princess,” Volkov murmurs. “We have a real chance to create lasting peace, you and me. I am not your enemy here.”

  Not my enemy?

  I look up at him, my eyes focusing on his.

  He craves to be a hero, Lilyan Zhar had said. Here he is, torturing my friends, forcing me to make this terrible choice, casually igniting genocide. And even still, he wants to be the hero. He wants me to believe his way is the right way. Stars, he probably believes it himself. He’s totally bought into his own propaganda.

  But I see through him.

  This isn’t about ending the war.

  “You don’t care about peace,” I say. “All you want is the Firebird code. You want to use it to control the Prismata, so nobody can ever threaten your power. You’re just another tyrant.”

  He looks at me with those second eyes, those eyes like black holes. “I have no such intention. I don’t want your power or the Prismata. Humanity will not be ruled by gods, Anya Leonova.”

  I blink, my conviction faltering. “Then … then what is this about? What is all this for? If you don’t want control of the Prismata, then what do you want?”

  He spreads his hands, as if the answer should be simple. “I want to destroy it.”

  A pit opens in my stomach. “What?”

  Gasps echo from the Committee members, some of whom stare at Volkov with jaws hanging open. They seem as stunned as I am. The vityazes are unreadable behind their helmets, but several of them shift in place, their hands moving to their guns.

  As if unaware of the reaction he’s caused, Volkov just looks at me. We might as well be the only two in the room.

  “The Prisms cannot be allowed to exist,” he says. “They are the greatest threat in the galaxy, bombs just waiting to go off, just like they did on Emerault’s moon. As long as they power our worlds, and as long as the Prismata exists to turn that power against us, we will never be safe. We will never be free.”

  His eyes alight with fervor, even as behind him, the Committee members begin to murmur among themselves.

  “Give me the Firebird, Anya Leonova, so that I can do what should have been done centuries ago—rid our race of the Prisms for good.”

  Shouts of protest and anger rise from the Committee.

  “Here, now, Volkov,” says the Head of Defense, stepping forward. “What in the stars are you talking about, man? You said we would control the Prisms, not destroy them!”

  “Yes!” cries Commerce. “You can’t destroy the Prismata. It powers everything in the galaxy! Warp travel, every city and station in the Belt, all of it would be lost.”

  “The man’s gone mad!” says Education. “Every ship in the sky would fall, cities would shut down, hospitals and schools—millions would die!”

  Defense steps forward, his face red.

  “Stand down, Volkov. We never authorized this!”

  Their voices rise and blend, their faces contorting with anger. My heart rises, hope flickering.

  The Committee will never let Volkov carry out this madness. They might be ruthless in their rule of the Belt, likely each of them more deserving of a prison cell than an office in the Rezidencia, but even they see that he has gone over the edge. I don’t fully understand the Prismata, but if it’s the source of all Prismic energy, then even I can see how devastating its loss would be. I can’t imagine what Volkov’s motive is—unless he really has gone insane.

  The Committee shouts at the vityazes, calling for the direktor to be seized. In response, the soldiers draw their guns, falling into attack formations, calling commands to one another. They move like machines, precise and deadly. Pol, Riyan, and Mara huddle together, watching in shock, but the men guarding them are too attentive. No chance of them breaking free, even with the activity bubbling behind them.

  Then Volkov just shakes his head and raises his hand.

  And the vityazes all turn, weapons aimed—at the Grand Committee.

  The men and women fall silent, eyes wide. The wineglass falls from the Head of Commerce’s hand; it shatters on the floor, a pale pool of liquid spreading around her expensive shoes.

  “What’s the meaning of this, Alexei?” calls the Head of Defense, moving to shield her.

  “Friends, friends,” Volkov says, his hand still raised. “I know you are confused. But trust me. All of it, from the beginning, has been for the greater good. A cause that I would gladly sacrifice my life for. But until I’ve seen it to the end, I cannot let anything stand in the way. Humanity will not be ruled by gods, and so the gods must be slain.”

  The members of the Committee start to panic, some of them bolting for the doors only to find them blocked by soldiers, and I realize it a moment after they do: Volkov was ready for this. He wanted it. He had to know the Committee would never go along with his true plan, and he never intended for any of them to leave this room alive. That’s why he wanted them assembled in person. He’s been three steps ahead of us all this entire time, the way he always was when he forced me to play Triangulum. I keep underestimating him, but so does everyone else, it seems.

  “Volkov!” shouts the Head of Commerce, her dark curls slightly undone after the scuffle. “You wouldn’t dare—”

  He drops his hand, and deadly Prismic rays erupt from the vityazes’ guns.

  I quickly turn away, covering my eyes, but cannot block out the sound of two dozen bodies hitting the floor. It seems to last an eternity, the sickening thuds, the whine of the guns, the screams.

  And then it’s over.

  A terrible silence falls.

  I wait another moment before turning, horror bitter on my tongue.

  Unable to look directly at the carnage, I stare instead at Pol, and he stares back, his face pale, his eyes wide. He shakes his head slightly, as if he doesn’t know what to make of it. As if he’s asking me what to do.

  But I am utterly at a loss.

  This is so much worse than we could have ever imagined.

  The Grand Committee, the feared iron hand controlling the galaxy, is gone. Wiped out in moments by a madman with dark aspirations far greater than anything my cursed ancestors ever dreamed up. The only people who might have stopped him are dead, littering the floor of the Solariat, where the Leonov family also met their end. This room is soaked with the blood of the past and present, and all of it, all of it comes down to one man.

  In the midst of the bloodbath, Alexei Volkov stands with his head cocked, as if he were watching live theater. The vityazes wait in silence, guns lowered, their faces shadowed by their helmets.

  Volkov slowly lowers himself to a crouch and reaches out to touch the face of the Head of Press and Public Affairs; her curated smile will never again greet the citizens of the Belt on the morning news. Smoke rises from the holes riddling her body.

  I suddenly remember her name: Esfir, the Rubyati word for star.

  “Such is the burden of the visionary,” Volkov murmurs. “The masses never understand. They never see the long game, and inevitably turn on the hand that would save them.”

  “Save them?” I echo in a rasp. “Save them from what?”

  He’s the one killing people. He’s the one who would let millions die. He says he fears another tyrant will use the Prisms to target their own people, but can’t he see he is that tyrant? Nothing could justify all the blood he spills. It doesn’t make sense. How does killing the Committee and destroying the Prismata make him a hero?

  “You don’t understand yet,” he replies. “But you will soon, when the Firebird awakens and you learn what the Prismata really is.”
/>   “Why are you like this?” I whisper. “What is wrong with you?”

  He turns to me slowly. I flinch when his eyes settle on me, for in them I see the depths of his depravity.

  “All I want,” he says softly as he begins walking toward me, “all I have ever wanted, was to protect humanity. And to do that, Anya, dearest Anya, I need you.”

  “Stop!” I plead. “You’re mad! Don’t you see it? Don’t you see this is insane?”

  He stops by Pol, putting a hand on the aeyla’s shoulder. My stomach clenches.

  “Every moment that you hesitate, someone dies. These are the choices a ruler faces. These are the decisions your father had to make. And until you are strong enough to make that choice, you will never be granted the Firebird.”

  “The emperor knew what you intended to do, didn’t he?” I whisper. “The Leonovs all knew. And they chose to die, rather than let you destroy the Prismata. They really did poison themselves.”

  That must why he created the fake footage of him shooting the imperial family. The real recording would have exposed his true plan to the galaxy. Likely Emperor Pyotr died with the truth on his lips, cursing Volkov for his mad ideas. And the direktor knew he had to cover it up, or he’d be destroyed by his own followers. Nobody, Unionist or Loyalist, would stand for this plan.

  Volkov’s eye tics; I’ve angered him, bringing up that day. “You are weak, Anya. You are broken. And so I must fix you. Now, for the last time, will you accept your legacy?”

  All I wanted was to run away from this war, to save Clio and disappear. I was terrified of what I would become if I accepted the truth: an orphan. A girl cursed by madness. A girl who can’t walk away from this fight. Now, no matter what I do, I become as monstrous as he is. No matter which way I go, the cost is too high.

  I drop to my knees, my strength seeping away. I press my palms against the floor, the floor where sixteen years ago, the Leonov family sacrificed themselves to keep this man from destroying the galaxy.

  No, not the Leonov family.

  My family.

  Pyotr and Katarina, my parents. I force myself to think their names, to picture their faces. My sisters, Lena and Kira, and my brother, Yuri. They made this choice all those years ago, and they chose to die here, rather than to betray their people to this monstrous man.