Page 8 of Last of Her Name

When I realize who he is, I gasp.

Heads turn; whispered conversations are cut short. It isn’t long before every eye in the room is trained on the man. The same mask of shock and fear on my parents’ faces is reflected on everyone else in the hall; the silence deepens until you could hear a pin drop. No one dares move. No one dares breathe.

And at the center of it all, as if the gravity of his presence were enough to stop the stars in their tracks, stands Alexei Volkov.

The direktor Eminent himself.

Head of the Grand Committee, effective ruler of all the Belt.

He led the Unionists to triumph over the Empire years ago. But perhaps most famously, he’s the man we’ve all seen in that horrible recording, shooting the emperor, empress, and their little children point-blank. I can still picture his eyes as they look into the camera after the murders are done. He wears an almost sheepish smile as he declares us “free.” Alexei Volkov is more legend than man, and not the good kind, either. He’s an improbable figure here in Afka, a startling intrusion into our quiet existence.

He wears a deceptively simple uniform, red coat and trousers and polished black boots. No hat, no decorative insignias or medals, like some of the other vityaze officers. And yet looking at him, it’s obvious he is in charge. He has a “propaganda” face, as Dad has told me so many times, in a low voice soured with hate. The man possesses the sort of natural charm and pearly teeth that make people unwittingly prone to believe and obey. He looks almost boyish, his cheeks round and soft, his thick yellow hair parted down the center of his skull, but looking closer, I see wrinkles starting at the corners of his eyes.

Volkov swirls a glass of violet Amethyne wine in a white-gloved hand, looking absorbed in thought, as if completely unaware that there are dozens of us waiting and trembling before him. He wears absolutely no expression, betraying nothing of his thoughts or mood; you’d find more emotion in a metal plank.

“Why is he here?” Clio whispers in my ear. “What havewedone?”

I give a small shake of my head, wishing I had an answer for her.

How many times have I seen Volkov on the government channels? Giving speeches, smiling and waving, pinning medals onto soldiers’ chests, signing laws into effect? His picture hangs in this very hall’s lobby, above the mayor’s and the Amethynian governor’s. His is the most recognizable face in the galaxy.

I don’t think Alexei Volkov has ever even set foot on Amethyne until today.

At last, he looks up, blinking as if a bit surprised to see us all there. Now he drinks the wine, the muscles of his throat clenching and unclenching, like my dad’s fist beside me. We can do nothing but wait in strained silence, and he makes us wait until the glass is empty.

When he finishes, he licks his lips and nods to himself, eyes thoughtful as he regards us.

“An excellent red,” he says, lips lifting into a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “My commendation to you, people of Afka. I was told your vineyards were good, but this is truly sublime.”

He speaks so quietly I find myself leaning forward to hear better. His words are carefully enunciated, every consonant crisp, as if he takes his voice out of a silver box each morning and irons it smooth before swallowing it.

Volkov flicks a finger at one of the officers, handing him the empty glass. “Place an order for me, General. I’d like to take a case back to Alexandrine. The rest of the Committee will no doubt appreciate it as much as I do. This one taste was well worth the trip.”

He gives us another smile, but it does nothing to hide the calculating sharpness of his eyes, which probe us restlessly.

I’m not about to believe the direktor Eminent is here just to sample our wine. And judging by their faces, neither are Mom and Dad or anyone else. As much as I dread therealreason behind his surprise visit, I wish he’d just blurt it out and get it over with. The suspense is eating at me like acid.

“Now,” Volkov says, his smile fading quickly, as if it pained him to hold it this long, “I apologize for interrupting your day. I’m sure you are anxious and confused, and I understand. I do. But put yourselves at ease. My men and I are, as always,yourservants.”

I think of Pol outside, in terrible pain. I think of the little Leonov prince and princesses dropping to the floor as Alexei Volkov shot them. I glance at the bristling vityazes waiting to shoot or shock anyone who flinches in the wrong direction, and wonder if anyone could possibly seemlessservile. Behind me, my parents radiate silent alarm; I can feel it in Dad’s grip on my arm and hear it in the thin, rapid breaths Mom is taking.

Volkov presses his hand to his chest. “When the citizens of the Belt begged me to take up this office years ago, I swore that I would root out every enemy to our safety and freedom, and that I would crush them. I made that promise toyou, and I’m here to keep it. Though it breaks my spirit to say it, there are some among you, Afka, who hide treason in their hearts. We’ve received a report that renegades, dangerous enemies of our glorious Galactic Union, are harbored among you. Perhaps for many years, hiding in plain sight.”

Murmurs rustle through the crowd; a few eyes shift, confusion morphing into suspicion. I shake my head, lips pressing together. My family has no love for the Committee or Volkov, but neither do most of the people in Afka, or the rest of the Belt, for that matter. But that doesn’t make ustraitors. If Volkov wants to round up everyone who’s ever uttered a word against the Union, he’ll need a whole planet just to put us all on.

My parents fled Alexandrine during the war, after their homes were destroyed, like most of the people in Afka. It’s a town of refugees and offworlders, now putting down fresh roots. We found a new life here, away from the chaos and aftershocks of the revolution. I was a baby then, so I don’t remember what it was like. But my dad rants about it when he’s had a bit of wine, cursing the Committee for promising freedom from the Empire but only bringing tyranny to the galaxy. My mom never speaks of it, but when Dad goes off, she gets a faraway, angry look in her eyes, and she’ll nod at all his words.

I’ve heard nearly everyone in this hall—parents and kids alike—complain about the Committee’s censoring of broadcasts, the military draft, the strict travel and trade restrictions, the stripping of rights from the aeyla. But that doesn’t make us all traitors. That doesn’t mean we wantwar.

We’re not like the infamous Loyalists I hear about on the news, starting riots and attacking government buildings, still clinging to the glory of the fallen empire like things were any better when we had an emperor on a throne. Those are the sort of people who get arrested and thrown into gulags, or executed outright.

“Daughters of Afka,” Volkov says, lifting his hand. “No doubt you’ve guessed we called you here for a reason. So come forward now. Don’t be afraid.”

My stomach drops.

The most powerful man in the galaxy crossed thousands of light-years, spent weeks in transit, leaving behind stars know what sorts of pressing galactic crises—to find a teenaged girl in Afka? He thinks one ofusis this dangerous outlaw? Glancing around, I imagine petite Ilya holding a gun or wide-eyed Honora smuggling Union secrets to Loyalist rebels. I would laugh, if I wasn’t focusing so much on simply breathing through the terror that grips my throat.

Dad holds me in place, preventing me from going forward even if I wanted to. I grip Clio’s hand, wishing I’d never suggested coming to town. If we’d stayed home, we might be hiding in the cellar now with Mom and Dad and Pol. Safe from this man’s cold, probing gaze.