Page 48 of Last of Her Name

I stand and wipe my greasy hands on my leggings. “Only one way to find out.”

She shrugs and climbs into the cockpit, flipping a switch inside. I step back and hold my breath as I snap my multicuff back on my wrist—and release it when the battler’s engine begins to hum. Mara gives it a few bursts of power and the booster flashes blue, burning up the Prismic energy stored inside the power cells.

She shuts down the engine and leans out of the cockpit, her eyes wide. “What did you do?”

I shrug. “Nothing fancy. Just redirected a few lines, bypassing some stuff and getting energy directly to the reactor. I think you’ll find she’s a little bit faster now too.”

Mara shakes her head, her lips curling into a grin as she jumps back to the ground. “Okay, so you’ve got some tricks up your sleeve. Literally. That’s a neat gadget.”

I twist my cuff. “It was a gift from my dad, after I graduated from my mechanical training.”

“Well, I’m impressed. And I don’t impress easy. Maybe you’ll fix this galaxy after all, Princess.”

I manage a sickly laugh.

Mara circles the battler, inspecting every inch of it the way Pol would study one of his mantibu after a race. The thought leaves me cold, like a hole’s been blown through my chest, and it takes me a moment to find my breath.

Pushing away the clawing grief that surges from my gut, I follow Mara. She’s wholly absorbed in her ship and is now peering into the engine to see how I rearranged the wires.

I study the girl thoughtfully.

She’s my age, she’s tough, and she’s a pilot. And unlike a lot of the other soldiers here, she’s willing to talk to me.

If things go sideways with Zhar, I will need an ally on this rock, and Mara might be the perfect place to start. But I’ll have to be careful how I go about it.

“You know,” I begin, “my best friend is in a Committee gulag. All I want is to save her.” I weigh my words cautiously before continuing. “Do you think Zhar cares about that stuff? About our families and homes? She seems focused on just taking out the Committee, not caring who she has to destroy to do it.”

Mara shrugs and closes the engine. “Zhar is doing what has to be done. The path to victory is paved with sacrifice.”

“Then maybe that’s the wrong path. Did you ever think of striking out on your own? Returning to Alexandrine and maybe seeing if that magic pill’s someplace else?”

She stiffens and faces me, her dark eyes suddenly hard. “Look, I’d love to chat more, but I’ve got work to do.” She starts toward the hangar doors, then pauses to add over her shoulder, “Be careful, Princess. If Zhar knew you were trying to turn us against her, she’d lock you up.”

I sigh as she walks away, her braids swinging. “She already has.”

Three days pass, and when I’m not scouring the holopalace, I check on Riyan to find him still deep in his meditation. How much longer can he possibly last? He looks weaker and weaker, shriveling before my eyes. I notice someone—Dr. Luka, probably—has set up an IV in his arm, so at least he’s getting fluid. But he can’t possibly hold out much longer.

Sometimes I just sit and stare at him, willing him to wake up and declare that he’s somehow cured himself. I clutch the vial of antidote around my neck until I fear I’ll break it. The guards watch me but say nothing, and are deaf to my pleas that they open the door.

The third night, I ignore my room with its soft bed and instead curl up in front of Riyan’s cell. When Zhar orders I be forcibly removed, I fight them, but they just drug me and dump me back in my room, anyway.

Instead of going back to sleep, I stand in the shower and watch the purple dye run from my hair and vanish into the drain.

I can hear Pol as if he were whispering in my ear.

You can’t save me by saving him.

“I can try,” I whisper, pressing my hand to the glass. Is that what this is, my desperation to save Riyan? I could save a hundred of him and never be free of the guilt I feel for Pol’s death. But I won’t give up on the tensor. I’ll save him, and together we’ll rescue Clio and his sister and everyone else we love. I won’t let Pol’s death have been for nothing.

These are the lies I tell myself to keep from shattering.

After five straight hours of combing the holopalace and coming no closer to finding what Zhar wants, I growl in frustration and sling the tabletka across the floor. I huddle for a moment, arms around my knees, my chest like a cage full of angry, thrashing snapteeth.

Finally, I shoot to my feet and storm out of the room. I roam the corridors, itching for a fight, feeling like I’m about to explode. It must show in my face, because everyone I pass scurries out of the way.

On the bottom floor, I find a shooting range. There’s no one there, and Zhar never said I couldn’t use it. So I go in and pick a gun off the wall, noting sourly that it’s tagged; if I tried to steal it, alarms would go off and it might self-destruct or something. I pull off my multicuff and study the tag, then decide it’s not worth it. These things are usually tamperproof, even against my skills.

An open stone room is spread before me, wired with projectors. I power up the control panel on the wall and pick a simulation. The projectors whir and then spit out beams of light that coalesce into faceless human forms.