Page 83 of Last of Her Name
“What are you saying?” Despite myself, I take a step downward. “Are you saying she’sdead? Because we have no way of knowing—”
“She’s not dead. She— Stars, Stacia. How do I say this? How do I say what I’ve spent my whole life keeping secret? How do I tell you the truth, knowing it will destroy you?”
My heart climbs into my throat. His words fill me with inexplicable dread. They make no sense. I know he’s just trying to stop me from turning myself over to the Committee. But still, fear seeps through me, wet and cold as the snow.
“Stop,” I whisper. “Whatever you’re trying to do, juststop.”
I’ve never seen him with such pain in his eyes. His hands curl into fists until the veins in his arms stand rigid. Distantly, behind him, I hear voices. The tensors are on their way up, probably to the hangar.
I’m out of time.
“I’m sorry, Pol,” I whisper.
His eyes grow wide. “Stacia, don’t—”
He flinches when the gun’s pulse hits him. I hurry forward, catching him as he topples into the stairs, nearly collapsing under his weight.
I ease him to the ground and lay the gun on the floor beside him. My hands find his face, brushing back his hair. Raising his hand, I check for his pulse, breathing in relief when I find it steady as ever. Then I lean over and kiss his forehead.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper into his hair. “Stars, I wish there were another way.”
Then I back away, pressing shaking hands to my face. I shot my own friend, laid him out cold, and now I’m turning my back on him. Possibly for good.
We become the monsters so the ones we love don’t have to.
The voices are getting louder. I turn and run up the steps, reaching for my oxygen. I press it to my face as I tumble out into the hangar, running across the smooth floor toward the smallest ships, little interplanetary couriers lined up like sleek silver birds.
The one I choose doesn’t operate much differently from a dory. There’s no Prism to activate, because this is no warp ship; its power is stored in cells, and I turn them on one by one. The buttons flash, and a screen prompts me when it’s ready for launch.
Tensors spill into the hangar at the same moment that I lift off, their robes swirling as they run. I’m spotted at once, hands and voices raised in my direction. I punch the thrusters, shooting out into the sky before they have a chance to pull me back down.
The little courier swoops through the dusty snow, aiming for the Union ships hanging in the upper atmosphere. I lean back, letting the autopilot lock on my destination, and release a long breath.
Then I double over and let the tears fall into my shaking hands.
An impassive general leads me through the sleek corridors of the astronika, with ten vityazes trailing behind. I walk rigidly, my heart in my throat, wondering if I’ve made a fatal mistake. My hands are shackled behind me, the plastic cuffs chafing my wrists, even though I docked with the great ship of my own volition. I haven’t said a single word since setting foot on the astronika, and neither have my captors, except to tell me to follow.
This is the same ship that landed in Afka ages ago. I remember how excited I was to see it, and how eager I was to get a closer look.
How naive I was.
Still, it’s an impressive vessel, probably the most luxuriously outfitted ship in the Belt. All glass and light and high-end tech, it’s like a flying city, part battleship, part palace. Military decks are tucked between floors devoted to art galleries and ballrooms, but for the most part, the soldiers keep separate from the dignitaries who occupy the astronika’s more gilded spaces.
When we reach what appears to be the command deck—every soldier we pass here seems to rank colonel or above—I ask, “How did you get through the gravity wall?”
The only reply I get is a severe look from the general escorting me. I wasn’t expecting much of an answer, anyway. But it’s been bothering me. Diamin was supposed to be the safest bit of space in the galaxy. If I’d known the Committee could breach the wall, I’d never have invited them to the tensors’ doorstep.
Finally, we come to the bow of the ship, and here the general stops and nods to the two vityazes guarding a plain white door. They step aside, allowing him to open the door and wave me in. Apparently I’m meant to go in alone. I do so feeling like I’m plunging into a snaptooth-infested pool.
Inside, the direktor Eminent is waiting.
The room is some sort of lounge area, its clear walls made of translucent material, so they shift with subtle color, like they’re made of ice. Two crescent sofas face each other over a table engraved with a Triangulum board; it has metal playing pieces on it, instead of the usual holo setup.
Alexei Volkov is dressed in a Union red vest that sweeps the floor over a plain black shirt and trousers, a stiff collar hugging his neck. He looks much the same as he did the first time I saw him, but now the sight of him fills me with a rush of violent memories: his cold order to the vityazes to pull us girls from our parents’ arms, his passionless murder of Ilya Kepht’s mother, the way his eyes settled on me when I was exposed as the princess.
The first time I saw him, I feared what he might do. Now I fear him because I know what he’s done.
“Princess Anya Leonova,” Volkov says, his voice soft, warm. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Let’s get you out of those.”