Page 45 of Last of Her Name

Dismissing Alexandrine itself, I spread my hands and widen the floating city until it’s all around me. The Autumn Palace is composed of hundreds of buildings, all locked together in a vast network of struts, like a complex molecule. Two white rings, one vertical, one horizontal, encompass the array, enclosing it in an artificial atmosphere.

Once, the palace was home to the Emperor’s Court, thousands of people who ran the Empire, overseeing every aspect of life in the Belt. Now the orbital city serves much the same purpose, except it’s the Committee and their people who occupy it. This holomap must have been constructed before the war, because I can see tiny imperial emblems emblazoned on the buildings.

After studying the array a moment, I turn my focus to the large structure at the hub of the compound. The Rezidencia is an elegant construct, long and sleek and white, a wide, round center tapering to two long arms from the top and bottom, one extended toward the planet, the other pointing outward to the vault of space. I dismiss all the other buildings that float around it, until only it remains. The heart of the palace. The imperial family’s headquarters. I’ve seen it many times in history classes, but now I look at it closer. Will it spark some memory? Will it feel familiar?

But no matter what angle I study it from, the slender structure holds no epiphanies, at least from the exterior.

Time to go inside.

With a swipe of my hand, I go into the palace’s heart: a conservatory featuring plants from all across the Belt. There I pause to stare at a small Amethyne slinke tree in a pot, its tubular leaves swaying slightly, always in motion, just the way I remember them. I run my hand through the leaves but feel nothing. They reflect over my skin, just particles of empty light.

The holo is breathtakingly detailed; though every surface is partly transparent, I can make out the tiny patterns engraved around the doorways, the seams in the wall panels, even the details on the clothing of the people who walk past me and through me, beings of light from a lost era. Dressed in elegant robes, hair sleek and shining, they seem lifelike enough that at first I flinch. I float through like a ghost, navigating with small hand gestures, so the walls and corridors flow around me.

I can’t deny that the Leonovs had taste. The Rezidencia is stunning: a sprawling, fluid hive of halls, balconies, and incredible vistas of Alexandrine below or the galaxy beyond.

I follow a curving hallway that winds around and around. Windows look out to the stars and the other palace buildings, moving in slow parallax.

I’m so caught up in exploring I nearly forget my purpose here: to find the device Lilyan Zhar is after, this Firebird that will supposedly turn the war in her favor. Maybe if I can find it, she’ll release me and Riyan. I can save Clio. We can go … well, not home. If what Zhar said is true, then Amethyne is cut off, a war zone. Is there anywhere in the galaxy we can disappear to? Stars, how will I tell Clio about Pol?

I shake my head. That’s a problem for another time. And I can’t think about Pol right now or I’ll crumble.

The winding corridor brings me at last to a network of rooms. These must be the imperial family’s chambers. Elegant bedrooms and sitting rooms and libraries all connect together, a sprawling, luxuriant residence. Game rooms show signs of children at play—toy ships and soldiers scattered on the floor, a Triangulum board set up as if the players were interrupted mid-game, a large screen covered with messy drawings of people and planets and animals with too many limbs. Of the children themselves, I see nothing.

Then I find a nursery, and here I freeze.

There they stand: emperor and empress. Pyotr and Katarina. Just steps away from me, so stunningly realistic that I instinctively pull back, as if they might see me spying on them.

The empress is holding a baby. The emperor is leaning over, smiling, a tiny hand wrapped around his pinkie. Swallowing, I step closer, studying them with fascination.

When I looked at their photo after Pol and I fled Afka, the image was small and grainy. Now I see them in exquisite detail. The holo makes them life-sized, nearly as real as if they were truly standing in front of me.

The emperor had a broad, easy smile and brown eyes, with thick eyebrows over dark lashes. When he smiled, his chin dimpled. The empress had a petite, almost feline beauty, large eyes and a pert nose, but with a smattering of freckles that make her seem a little more human, a little less sculpture. Him with dark hair, hers light red, worn in an elegant twist of curls. The baby has no hair at all but her eyes are wide and fixed adoringly on her father.

I stare at the child, heart hammering.

Is this me?

Is this my real family? Was this a real moment in my life? Were these toys mine, this crib mine, these peoplemine?

I step close and peer into the woman’s face, searching for myself in it. And at the moment, her head turns slightly and her eyes seem to connect with mine.

I recoil from the room, and the holo repeats its loop. The imperial couple coos over their baby, and I leave them to it, feeling dirty, like I’ve violated their privacy.

I don’t belong here. I’m not one of them. Maybe I started life here, I don’t know, but this place is not my home and these people are not my family. Shame heats my face, as if by even looking at them, I’ve betrayed myrealparents, who are suffering on Amethyne right now, likely prisoners or worse. I should be with them, not buried on an asteroid in a dead system, searching for something that might not even exist, working for the woman who killed one of my dearest friends.

I shut down the holo. The palace vanishes, and with it, my hope of getting off this rock. There was nothing there that I recognized, nothing that might be a clue to the Firebird’s nature or location. I feel like I’ve been exploring a crypt, treading on forbidden ground.

Hurling the tabletka into the corner, I retreat onto the bed and let out a long breath. My hands are shaking. I grab the pillow and squeeze it against my chest, careful not to crush the vial of antidote. I think of Pol, and my chest caves in and the tears come in a rush.

Dinner is brought to my room, but after I push it around my plate a while, I decide to go exploring. If I get the chance to make a run for it, I’ll need knowledge of the base’s layout. Besides, sitting trapped in here with my thoughts and my memories is a torture I’m desperate to escape.

I move quietly through the corridors, fearing I’ll be locked in my room if anyone catches me wandering. The base isn’t as big as it seemed at first. There are three levels, one for mechanical engineering, the cells, the mess hall, and the hangar. The second floor is all barracks for the five hundred or so Loyalist soldiers. The third floor is operations, where they run their comm systems, strategy meetings, and other business.

I stop by Riyan’s cell first. A bored guard stands watch, eyeing me as I approach. I raise my hands and try not to stare. The man is a paryan, the adapted race native to Emerault. I’ve never seen one in person before. He is very thin and tall, with a birdlike skeleton. Emerault’s atmosphere is so dense and moist, and its gravity so low, that 90 percent of its life is found in the sky, in floating kelp forests. The paryans, with their light frames, navigate their airborne world like birds, riding on the backs of great sky whales. I’ve heard they even have wings of delicate skin and bone that they keep folded on their backs, when not using them to glide around their dense, algae-filled skies.

“I just want to see him,” I say. “Please?”

The guard shrugs his thin shoulders but doesn’t take his eyes off me. They’re the color of green Emerault itself.