Page 30 of Last of Her Name

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, almost pleadingly. “You have to understand, I don’t have a choice.”

“Just sit,” I say to Pol. I settle onto a seat and pull a harness around my chest. Pol, looking furious but surely realizing that attacking the tensor is futile, sits beside me. The ship accelerates, and the crumpled gun rolls past us with a clatter.

I stare at it, my mind seizing on the way the metal is bent.

“Youcrushed our gravity generator,” I say to the tensor.

He sucks in a breath, as if about to deny it, but then nods.

“We almost died!”

“I’d planned to rescue you, but the effort of taking out your generator knocked me out. By the time I woke, you’d already entered Sapphine’s atmo. I’ve been looking for you ever since.”

“It was you who scanned us back at Amethyne,” Pol says. “Youfollowedus here. Do you work for the Committee?”

A look of anger flashes across the tensor’s face. “Of course not.”

“Then why are you after us?” I ask. “What’s all this for?”

He turns back to the controls. The metallic silver tattoos on his scalp glint when he moves. “Volkov. I was trying to get to him on Amethyne, but there were too many Reds around. When I intercepted a military bulletin, saying a small caravel had escaped the planet and that it had to be brought in at any cost, I decided to go after you myself.” Glancing back at us, he adds, “Volkov has something I want. I intend to trade you for it. Considering the expense he went to to go after you, I figure you might be the only thing valuable enough for him to make the deal.”

My stomach drops, partly from his confession, and partly from the ship’s Takhimir drive engaging. The stars outside blur and then seem to turn to mist as the hazy glow of warp surrounds us. Stillness overtakes theValentina.

Pol unclicks his harness, but the straps remain in place. I try mine, but it’s also stuck.

“Forgive me,” says the tensor, cool as ice. “I’ve overridden your locks. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay put until we reach our destination. But I thought you’d be more comfortable out here than in the brig. I have snacks, if you’re hungry.”

Snacks! What does he think this is, a blazing pleasure cruise?

“You don’t understand!” I shout. “I have to save my friend! She’s a prisoner on Alexandrine.”

“In these skies, everyone’s trying to save someone.” He opens a cabinet and pulls out waters. Crossing to us, he offers us each a bottle. Pol refuses, but I take mine, drink it, then spit it on the floor.

Even in the worst of circumstances I still have a petty streak as wide as the Belt.

The tensor sighs and holds out a hand. The water rises, weightless, and he holds out the bottle. This time, only a few spidery black lines creep from his eyes. When he releases the liquid, it falls gracefully inside. “You could have just said ‘no, thank you.’ ”

He opens a few ration bars, and my hunger wins out. I break off cube by cube, savoring each bite. They taste wonderfully of grainy mush, not a fleck of seaweed to be found.

“My name is Riyan, by the way. It’s only fair you know it, since I know yours.”

“What do you know about us?” I ask.

“I installed a vityaze scanner a while back, so I can eavesdrop on some of their comms. For the past fifteen hours, all they’ve talked about is the pair of you. You’re quite the notorious duo. ‘Dangers to the freedom of every Jewel in the Belt,’ they’re saying. Impressive.” The tensor sits on the couch across from us, watching me curiously. “You don’t look like a princess, or a terrorist.”

“That’s because I’m neither.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. The Committee often defaces their enemies, branding dissenters as violent psychopaths or insurrectionist spies, just so they can shoot them without public outcry.”

He unclasps his cloak and folds it neatly, setting it on the cushion beside him. Underneath it, he wears all black, some sort of armored cloth that accentuates his lean form. He’s of a height with Pol, but perhaps half his weight, sinewy and long. When he sits, he caves into himself, arms crossed and one ankle propped on the opposite knee. His shaven scalp makes him look older than he is, and I can’t help but study his silver tattoos with curiosity. They’re perfectly symmetrical and stand out in sharp contrast to his dark brown skin, circles and lines and arcs stamped in a complex geometric pattern. They march down the back of his neck, and I wonder if they continue down his spine.

I realize he’s staring at me, fully aware of my wandering eyes. Heat rising to my cheeks, I look down, locking my jaw.

“We could work together, you know,” I say.

At that, Pol snorts and Riyan just sighs.

“What?” I look between them. “We all hate the Committee, right? I want Clio back, Pol wants a revolution or something, and you …” I wave a hand at Rian. “What do they have, exactly, that you’re after?”