Page 32 of Last of Her Name

Pol and I stare through the diamantglass roof to an unfamiliar pattern of stars, but there are no planets that we can make out. I tug in vain at my locked harness. My mouth feels like sandpaper, and I wish Riyan would show up and give us some more to drink. Thinking about that only exacerbates the pressure in my bladder. He better show up quick, or he’s going to have to gravity-magic more than just water off the floor.

As if hearing my thoughts, the tensor comes stumbling from his rear cabin, eyes red-rimmed and groggy.

“Hey!” I call. “I could really use a trip to your lavatory!”

He blinks at me, then looks up at the stars. “We stopped.” He leaps up the steps to the control deck and lets out a startled shout as he bends over the navigation system.

Pol grins. “What’s wrong?”

Riyan whirls, hands gripping the rail above us. “What did youdo, aeyla?”

“Tweaked our course. Now release us, and we might ask our friends to go easy on you for laying a finger on Anya Leonova.”

“AllegedlyAnya,” I amend. “I still haven’t seen any proof.”

Riyan works the controls, frantically entering commands that Pol’s data core must be overriding. He hasn’t yet realized that Pol switched them, and the only way to stop the ship would be to yank out the stick.

“I have to make this work!” Riyan says. There’s a catch in his voice, an edge of desperation. “What did you do? Tell me!”

His hand rises, and the air around Pol begins to crack. That horrible sound fills the cabin—crunching, grinding, shrieking, reality warping in ways it was never meant to bend, all at the tensor’s command. He’s gone off his head. Before, he looked in control when he used his power. But now he looks deranged, that black mask spreading until it reaches his temples.

Pol bends over, hands clasping his head. He cries out, and blood trickles from his ear. The air twists around him, space-time warping into a mosaic of glimmering shards.

“Riyan!” I buck against the harness. “Riyan, stop it! Stop it, you’re killing him!Please!”

But he doesn’t seem to hear me. His eyes flash silver, his jaw rigid.

I unsnap my multicuff and hurl it. It flies true and strikes Riyan squarely in the forehead.

With a shout, Riyan releases Pol. His eyes clear and he stumbles backward, panting.

Pol sags, whimpering and cradling his head. His entire frame shakes like paper. When I touch him, he recoils.

I look up at the tensor. “Let. Me.Go.”

Riyan stares at me, eyes wide, then he turns and punches a button. The harnesses retract.

Freed at last, I burst up and kneel in front of Pol, my hands on his knees.

“Look at me, Pol. Are you all right? Say something.”

“I’ll be fine,” he croaks, barely raising his head. “Once I’ve killed the witch.”

“No.” I push him back. “No more fighting. I’ve had enough! From both of you!”

Turning, I glare up at Riyan. “Get down here,now!”

To my surprise, he obeys. He looks almost as shaken as Pol. When he reaches the lower deck, he sinks into a chair, hands pressed to his temples. He murmurs something to himself over and over in another language. It sounds like“Imper su, imper fata, imper su, imper fata.”Then he says in a choked whisper, “I’ve lost her.”

“Lost who?” I demand.

He shakes his head, staring wide-eyed at the floor. “Natalya. My sister.”

Staring at the top of his smooth head, I feel a shift inside me as understanding settles in. “That’s what Volkov took. Your sister.”

He shuts his eyes, a shudder passing through him. The metallic tattoos on his scalp glint, their precise geometry reminding me of the pattern on a Triangulum board—or the way the air factures into hard shapes when he manipulates gravity.

Pol rises and goes to a cabinet, taking out a canteen of water and draining it. His back is turned to us, muscles taut and angry, and I can’t blame him—the tensor nearly crushed his skull. But I find I can’t quite blame Riyan, either.