Page 104 of Last of Her Name

Then he presses his gun to my temple and pulls the trigger.

I dream that I’m standing in the Solariat, surrounded by glass walls. The lights are off, the chamber dark but for the ambient light that flows through the windows. The others are all gone: Volkov, Pol, Riyan and Mara and Natalya, the dead Committee and the vityazes.

Am I dead?

If so, this is one crappy afterlife. I remember Volkov putting his gun to my head, and the burst of light before I blacked out. I decide he must have stunned me; he still needs my DNA, after all. I force myself to believe that he needs my DNAalive.

Outside, the indifferent stars burn. Alexandrine is a dark curve in the left window, visible only for its glittering cities, their lights outlining the continents where the people are living their distant lives. Falling into bed, watching holovision, stressing over school, scheming and laughing and whispering, completely unaware of one shattered girl in a broken sky.

Feeling the weight of eyes on my shoulder blades, I turn but see only swirling darkness. The sense of being watched doesn’t leave me, though; I know I am not alone. In the shadows, forms coalesce and then dissipate, playing tricks on my eyes.

So I close my eyes. I wait several moments, my hands folded against my chest, feeling my heart pound. I know this place isn’t real, and that I’m trapped in some sort of dream. But is it a good dream, or a nightmare? I can hear whispers at the edges of my perception.

When I look up again, I start.

A circle of figures surrounds me; this time, they don’t vanish when I look at them, though their forms waver like cloth in the wind. Solemn and indistinct, they watch with hollow eyes, and on each one’s brow, a golden bead of light burns. Row upon row of them wait in silence, and though my skin prickles and my heart races, I don’t sense malevolence in them. I’m not even sure whether they’re conscious or just phantasms of cybernetic code, less real than memories—the echoes of memories. They wear fine clothing, some of it centuries old in design, accented with jewels and gold; some wear crowns.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

But I already know, though I couldn’t say how I know it. I feel their names when I look at them: Vera and Ruslan, Galina and Zoya, Maksim and Fredek. There are scores of them. They stretch to infinity; I see a bit of myself in each of their ghostly faces. Emperors and the sons of emperors, empresses and the daughters of empresses. All of them Leonovs, with the Firebird pulsing in their genetic code, shining bright on their foreheads, their power and their curse.

This is my family.

I walk to the throne and stand before it, sensing my ancestors around me. The constant, pressingpresenceof so many—always at hand, always watching, always whispering. No wonder my ancestors all went mad.

I hold my hands to my ears, whimpering as I kneel before the Crescent Throne. I bend forward until my forehead touches the floor.

“I don’t want this,” I whisper.

I don’t expect an answer from them; they’re just blips in a stream of code. But then one separates from the others. She is tall and dark-haired, with a confident set to her shoulders. She steps forward and smiles at me. Unlike the others, who wear exquisite and elaborate garments, she’s dressed in a white lab coat.

“Anya.” She takes my hands. Her touch feels real, her skin warm. “Welcome. We’ve been waiting for you.”

I stare with open apprehension. Hers was the voice I heard when the code activated, but now her tone is warmer, more lifelike. “What are you?”

“I’m a message, the most important message you’ll ever receive. And I’ve been waiting for you for sixteen years.”

Is this what Clio was? Some string of code unfurling in my DNA? The woman’s skin is detailed enough that I can see the pores on her nose, the individual strands of her eyebrows, the green-blue depths of her irises.

“Am I dead?”

She shakes her head. “Asleep, but very much alive.”

“I can’t do this,” I whisper.

“Of course you can.” Something almost sympathetic shines in her eyes, but I’m reluctant to trust it. “The Firebird would not have activated if you were not ready. You have accepted who you are, and what’s more, you’ve shown that you control your own mind.” She steps back, pulling me to my feet. “And now it’s time you learned what every Leonova must, upon coming of age: Your origin. Your purpose. Your legacy.”

I pull away, shaking my head. “You’re not real. I’m just going crazy.”

She smiles. “Oh, Anya, you are many things. But you’re not crazy.”

I fall back into the throne, pressing myself into it like a cornered animal. “I dreamed up my own best friend. I’m delusional. I chased a lie across the stars, and look where it’s got me. No family, no hope, no Clio.”

“Come with me, and I’ll tell you about Clio.”

I look up at her. My heart stands still. “What?”

“I can tell you the truth,” she says. “But are you ready to listen?”