Page 107 of Last of Her Name

“Volkov,” I whisper, my eyes going round with realization. “Volkov knows.”

Humanity will not be ruled by gods, he said.

He wasn’t talking about the Committee or the Leonovs.

He was talking about thePrismata.

And now the only thing standing between him and it … is me.

“If the Prismata is threatenened, Anya, then you are the only one who can defend it,” says Danica. “The Prismata needs you just ashumanityneeds you. For you see, our fates are bound together.”

I blink at her.

I’m seventeen years old and barely old enough to pilot a dory. But now they want me to defend an ancient alien consciousness on the edge of space, in the midst of a galactic power struggle, all because I’m the only person who happens to have a cybernetic telepathic code fused to my DNA?

Oh, sure. No problem, ancestors.

Panic spikes through me, followed by black despair.

But then I think:This is Clio.

All my life, I’ve protected her. Even when I didn’t know why, the instinct was driving me. Guarding her isn’t just integrated into my DNA—it’s in mysoul.

No matter what form she takes, no matter how deep in the sky she burns, she will always be a part of me.

And for her, I would do anything.

After Danica and the ship vanish, I struggle to wake, to even find my body. I am a million particles of light, shooting through wires and circuits, bouncing between rooms, tracing the small hidden spaces of the Rezidencia. I am a drop in the tide of Prismic energy that flows through the imperial infrastructure. I am nowhere and everywhere.

Danica explained the link between me and the Prisms is a telepathic one, so I’m not just connecting to the flow of energy—I’m communicating with it, absorbing information through its senses. As I fight to disconnect, I am barraged with images and sounds that filter through cameras, recording devices, even the vibrations of footsteps that cause ripples in the Prismic energy flowing under the floors. It’s a whole new way of seeing, and it overwhelms my brain.

The images come in hazy glimpses: vityazes playing Triangulum in the barracks, mechanics arguing over how to repair an engine in the docks, guards recording the daily prisoner log in the gulag.

And it’s there that I “see” Pol and Riyan and Mara, locked in separate cells. I feel a surge of relief that they’re safe. I try to think of a way to communicate with them—but then a twinge of pain jolts through my head. I realize how little I know about what I’m doing. How far can I stretch my consciousness until it snaps? I retreat, pulling myself back as quickly as I can, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

I wake with a start, to find myself lying on the examination table in the laboratory.

Holos of my DNA spin all around the lab, with scientists poring over them. I lie still, tasting blood that must have run from my nose. My head aches terribly; the pain pounds in my temples, blurring my vision.

“Well?” Holos play over Alexei Volkov’s skin as he crosses the room. Glowing strands of DNA curl over his face. I pretend to still be unconscious as dread opens a pit in my stomach. “What’s the status? Did you copy everything?”

Dr. Luka looks up from his work. “It’s finished. Now that we have it, it’s only a matter of time before we translate it.”

Streams of data fall like holographic rain around the two men, symbols flitting too fast for my eyes to follow. Through slitted eyes, I can recognize one of the words as it flashes and then vanishes, tucked in the reams of letters:Firebird, just like in the tensor code.

“And the coordinates for the Prismata?” asks Volkov.

“We should have them soon. There’s a huge amount of data to sequence, so it could take a day or two. All the best people are on it, direktor. It won’t be long now.”

“Good,” says Volkov. His face softens, and he reaches out to clutch Dr. Luka’s shoulder. “You’ve been an invaluable asset, Doctor. I always admired you, you know, even as a boy.”

The doctor looks up at him, his face tight, as if he’s holding back words. Then he looks down again, hunched over a screen. His hand absently scratches the metal collar clamped around his neck.

I see Volkov’s hand reach inside his coat and realization bursts in my mind. “NO!”

I lunge upright, but it’s too late; the shot is quick and neatly placed, and the sound it makes is an earsplitting crack. Volkov doesn’t even flinch as he does it; he is as passionless and cool as he was the day he shot Ilya Kepht’s mother back in Afka. He kills as if he is picking a crumb from between his teeth.

Dr. Luka slides to the floor, dead before he can say a word. He sprawls below me, eyes wide, mouth slack, a trail of blood oozing from the hole between his eyes. The tabletka he was holding lies beside him, the screen cracked.