Page 16 of Last of Her Name

Their favorite point to bring up, over and over again, is the Leonovs’ notorious “curse”: insanity ran in their genes. They couldn’t be trusted, because sooner or later, they all went crazy. The stories about that vary. Some say they suffered from delusions. Others think it was extreme paranoia and fits of senseless violence against those around them. But everyone agrees that the Leonovs were not at all sane. And an unstable mind wielding great power is guaranteed to inflict only suffering and disaster. All the lives lost on Emerault’s moon are a sad testimony to that.

With a shudder, I close the photos and pull up a game of Triangulum instead, trying to distract myself with complex strategy. The board is a hologram, shining neon lines tracing out a geometrical map, all arcing lines and grids. The pieces flicker; the ship is old and the hologram projector glitches. I have to knock the controls a few times before the game is even playable. Then I direct my pieces with hand gestures, rushing a little, forgoing strategy in favor of a crude frontal assault on the enemy position. As usual, the computer wins. Frustrated, I swipe my hand across the hologram, knocking the pieces aside. They dissolve into shimmering bursts of light, then fade.

“You’re never going to win, playing like that,” Pol comments.

I stiffen, then turn to see him leaning in the doorway to the bunkroom. “How long have you been there?”

“A minute or two. Long enough to see you still keep forgetting the first rule of Triangulum.”

I roll my eyes. “You sound like my dad.”

I can’t count how many rainy evenings Dad trapped Pol and me at the kitchen table, to lecture us about Triangulum strategy, making us play for hours and critiquing our every move. It always frustrated me, when I’d rather have been fooling around in the garage or watching movies with Clio, but now the memory brings a pang of longing to my chest. What I wouldn’t give to be back in our kitchen, listening to Dad drone on about the importance of capturing the outer spheres before worrying about the middle ones.

“Your dad is the best player I’ve ever known.” Pol takes the captain’s chair next to mine. “Remember what he told us? Triangulum isn’t about focusing on your own pieces. It’s about controlling your opponent’s strategy, forcing them to make decisions that benefityou.”

I sigh. “I know, I know. When you can’t beat them—”

“—make them play byyourrules,” he finishes.

Pol tilts his head, studying me while I shut down the game and bring up the navigation system. TheLaikaappears as a blip on the galactic charts, continually vanishing and reappearing farther along, since we’re traveling by warp.

“How are you holding up?” Pol asks.

With a shrug, I click open my multicuff and fiddle with the tools, using the pincers to scrape engine grease from beneath my nails.

“You’re afraid it might be true,” Pol says. “That you’re Anya Leonova.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“I know when you’ve got a problem on your mind, you tinker until you solve it. And you’ve been taking apart this whole ship screw by screw. Though honestly, Stace, when the only thing keeping you alive is a metal can, you don’t go popping open the lid to see how the hinges work.”

“Ido.”

“Yes,” he sighs. He stares through the window at the foggy expanse, eyes weary, and his fingers rub the fabric of his father’s scarf.

“When I was twelve, my dad and your dad and a few other Afkans, including the mayor, showed me the secret bunker beneath the Kephts’ house.”

I tense, my eyes hardening on the navigation screen as I flick the multicuff’s tools open and shut, open and shut, with raspy little hisses of steel. So after days of us both avoiding this conversation, it’s Pol who’s going to crack first. I turn to stone in my seat, knees against my chest, my injured leg starting to throb.

He sinks into the other chair and rests his hands on the control panel. “They showed me this ship and how to operate it if we ever had to get offworld in a hurry. Then they … told me about you.”

Now his eyes flicker to me. They seem grayer than they did last week, back when our lives were still normal.

Well, whenmylife was normal, or seemed that way. I realize now that I know very little about Pol or what his life was really like, butnormalis definitely the wrong word.

“You were barely a year old when they smuggled you out of the palace,” he says.

I start shaking my head.

I want to tell him how wrong he is, but my throat is so dry I can barely breathe.

“Your parents and mine, they fought together during the siege of Alexandrine. Your dad—or the man youknowas your dad—was the emperor’s bodyguard, and your mother was a court physician.”

Elena?I remember the flash of recognition in Volkov’s eyes when he saw my mother. Her name on his lips.

Pol continues. “My parents were pilots, tasked with flying the ship that took you across the galaxy. They and a dozen other Loyalists were charged with your safety and took vows of fealty to the Leonov heiress.You.”

“Stop.”