Page 90 of Last of Her Name
After dinner, Volkov finally takes me before the rest of the Committee. Twenty-three men and women sit in a round room, chairs against the walls, holodisplays flickering over their armrests. Natalya stands guard at the door.
The Committee stare at me with probing, curious eyes. Like Volkov, they’re dressed in deceptive simplicity, structured military robes in Union colors. They all appear to be Alexandrians; there are certainly no eeda or aeyla or any other adapted races among them. To my eye, they blur together: silent, hungry faces. A few I vaguely recognize—the Head of Education, whose visage often appears before my math or civics lessons, and the Head of Press and Public Affairs, who gives official announcements over the newscasts. But it’s clear where the power in this room lies; I wonder if they are even aware of how they adjust themselves around Alexei Volkov’s presence, shifting slightly in their seats so they are facing him more directly, their eyes glancing at him even though I am apparently the focus of this meeting, as if they are gauging his reactions before deciding on their own.
There is another face there, though, a familiar one: Dr. Faran Luka, alive and whole. He is standing against the wall, clutching a tabletka, looking thinner and grayer than he was when I last saw him. He catches my eye and gives me the slightest of nods.
My moment’s relief turns to anger, thinking he must have betrayed Zhar by joining the enemy. But then I see the metal collar around his neck, indicating he’s a prisoner.
“So this is her, Volkov?” asks the Head of Press and Public Affairs, leaning forward in her seat. I can’t recall her name, though I must have heard it a thousand times. Her hair is dyed white, contrasting with her black eyes. She has very long nails, and they click on her armrest.
The direktor Eminent nods. He has me stand in the middle of the room, his hand against the center of my back. “Esteemed members of the Grand Committee, this is indeed Anya Petrovna Leonova, the youngest child of the late Emperor Pyotr and Empress Katarina.”
“Not much to look at, is she?” laughs a large man seated behind me. I believe he’s the Head of Defense. “To think, this little mouse had the Union’s finest chasing their tails for weeks.”
“Well?” Press and Public Affairs peers at me; she looks much older than she does on the newscasts. They must edit out her wrinkles. “This genetic code that contains the coordinates of the Prismata—does she have it or not? Was all this expense we’ve gone to worth it?”
Volkov raises a hand to Dr. Luka. “That is what we will now find out.”
“Princess,” the doctor murmurs as he approaches to prick my finger, drawing a blood sample. He keeps his eyes lowered.
I take the chance to whisper, “What happened to you?”
“The base fell,” he replies. “I was arrested by the vityazes when they took the asteroid. How is Mara?”
“Fine, she—”
“Doctor,” Volkov says, in a warning tone. Dr. Luka’s eyes flicker down, and he backs away with the sample. The Committee watch like hungry dogs.
Dr. Luka runs the blood sample though a small device, then holds up his tabletka to project a hologram in the center of the room: a helix of DNA. It rotates from floor to ceiling, shimmering bands of blue slowly twisting around each other. The doctor presses a button, and a portion of the strands lights up red and flashes.
“The Firebird code,” Dr. Luka says. “It’s inactive, but it’s there. She is assuredly a Leonov.”
I stare at the DNA molecules rotating above me. The whole time I was at the Loyalist base, he knew that the code was hidden in my genes. He didn’t trust Zhar with it, but I suppose when he realized Volkov already knew the truth, there wasn’t a point in denying it. How deep in the direktor’s pocket is he? He helped me once before. Do I dare hope in him again?
“Here,” he says, dismissing all the DNA except for the bright red section, which he magnifies until it fills the room, scrolling over the faces of the Committee. “This is where the cybernetic code begins, but it’s waiting for the right stimulus to awaken it from its dormancy.”
“So how do we activate it?” asks a pretty, dark-haired woman, who I think may be the Head of Commerce.
“That,” Volkov says, “is the question upon which the fate of our galaxy rests. Thankfully, we have the mind of Faran Luka on our side.” He smiles and places a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “He is the preeminent authority on the Leonovs and their genetic research. I trust him fully.”
Dr. Luka’s gaze flickers to me, racked with guilt. If I could get close, I’d whisper to him that I don’t blame him for anything. That I’ll get him out of here too, if I can, with the Afkan prisoners and Natalya. Now that I know he’s alive, I have to try to return him to Mara.
My list of people to save is getting so long I’m going to have to start writing it on the back of my hand.
The meeting concludes, and Volkov walks me to my room. It’s a luxurious suite that seems familiar, with a window open to the rest of the palace compound. Buildings and ships drift by like boats on a river, lights softly strobing. Beyond them, the stars shine, dimmed by the veil of the security shield. A bench sits under the window, and several small, clear crystals dangle in front of the glass, refracting beads of light across the room. Not Prisms, but similar in shape and color. I run my hands through them, watching the flecks of light dance in response.
“Do these accommodations suit you?” asks Volkov. “I thought you might be most comfortable in your old room.”
I freeze, my hand resting on the window.
That’s why the room felt familiar. This is Anya Leonova’s nursery.
This is where, in the holo version of the palace, I saw the emperor and empress holding a baby. The crib stood where the bed is now.
I back away from the window, my hand dropping to my side. This is just like the trick with my father’s wine. The direktor is trying to keep me off balance. He’stoyingwith me.
“Oh, I nearly forgot.” He turns back from the door. “My people looked into the records of Afka-on-Amethyne. They looked at everything—school logs, medical histories, residential listings. There’s not a person on that planet we don’t have a file on.”
I turn to face him. “And? Did you find Clio?”