The Last Hope

by Krista Ritchie

  Franny shakes her hand out, feeling Mykal’s pain too.

  I need him and her to survive. They must. So I dig into my last reserves of energy, and I reach for the heap of clothing. I grab my black slacks. Slowly rising, I brace most of my weight against the wall. Creeping upward.

  Mykal drops his arm and spins on me. “What are you doing? What—have you gone mad? You—”

  “I’m fine,” I interject and force my leg into one of the slack holes.

  Mykal tenses, boiling hot. He bows toward me, putting a callused palm on the ceiling. “Then tell me you aren’t dyin’ right in front of me.”

  They can sense when I lie.

  I fight back tears. Stomping on emotion. But I’m afraid. I’m angry. I’m wading in despair. I’m so many things at once, and all I want to be is at peace with them. And it’s over.

  It’s over for me.

  I run the heel of my palm beneath my watering eyes. Shivering.

  Mykal steps forward. “Court—”

  “I’m not dying,” I retort.

  A burning tear scalds his cheek. He wipes it roughly away. “My pa is rollin’ in his grave, the one that I dug, just hearing the boy that I’ve been loving lie to my crooked-nosed face.”

  My chest tightens in a different kind of agony, and I struggle to step into my slacks. Teeth chattering and clanking. Hands vibrating.

  “How are you cold?” Franny questions.

  “I have a fever.”

  “A what?” Mykal asks.

  I don’t answer. Gently, I lift the hem of my slacks to my waist. The fabric brushes harshly against my inflamed wound. I inhale a sharp breath. Blood rushes out of my head. Light bursts in my vision. Faint, I start to slide down the wall.

  Mykal instantly catches me beneath my arm and supports me upright.

  I place my hand to his chest. And I try to push him back.

  His hurt flares in me. “What are you doin’?” He sways slightly, even with my weak force. Clearly he’s depleted too. More than I’ve ever seen him.

  Mykal.

  I have to hang on to his shoulder to stand. He lets me, and he brushes my dark hair out of my lashes with an aggressive hand. Rarely gentle, on any occasion.

  Our eyes meet.

  “I’m fine,” I protest.

  “You know you’re not,” Mykal growls. “I know you’re not. Franny knows. We all damned well know. So stop pushing me away, Court.”

  I suck in emotion, but water pricks my eyes. I shudder. “You don’t deserve to feel what I feel. Like Franny said, you both deserve a better ending—”

  “We,” Franny spits back. “I said we. That includes you.”

  I hang my head. “Just let me die,” I mumble.

  Mykal’s chest rises and falls heavily, and his palm encases my jaw, clasping my face. “What was that?” he asks.

  But Mykal can read my lips from any distance, anyplace, after doing it so often at StarDust. They both can.

  He knows what I said.

  Franny screams at the locked hatch, “Help us! Anybody out there!! Please, gods, help!”

  No one has been able to hear our pleas. We don’t know where the Romulus crew took our friends from the Saga starcraft. Including my older brother.

  Kinden, the Soarcastle sisters, and Zimmer have been missing ever since we were thrown into the brig. The last we saw of them was on the observation deck. When we learned we’re human.

  If we want to escape, we have to do it ourselves.

  I’m going to die.

  Tears threaten to well again.

  Mykal taps my cheek. Twice. Trying to show affection and get me to lift my head.

  I don’t.

  “Court.”

  My throat almost swells closed. Finally, I look up at Mykal. And I choke out, “I’m afraid to die.” I don’t know how both sentiments can be true. I don’t understand what I’m feeling. Death is more complex than it’s supposed to be.

  Only love makes sense.

  Forcefully, Mykal says, “You won’t be dyin’ anytime soon.”

  I blink and tears fall. “You and your fantasies.”

  He cries, “I promise you.”

  Both of us hunching, I tug him closer, gripping his bicep for dear life. His bare chest pushes up against mine, an electric spark zipping through my veins.

  We inhale.

  “I promise you,” he repeats, wrapping his burly arms around my shivering body.

  Warmth kisses my flesh. I hold on to him, and the more Franny calls for help, the more I think of Kinden.

  “Mykal,” I whisper. “If you see my brother again, tell Kinden I’m sorry…” I take a second. “I’m sorry … I couldn’t give him longer.”

  All my brother wanted was more time with me.

  And I’ve lost him again.

  Mykal pulls back and stares deep in my eyes. “You’ll be telling him yourself.”

  I doubt. “I have one day left. If that.”

  He pats my cheek again. “Today is the day of freedom then.” Mykal wears a halfhearted smile.

  I’m about to mention how every day our plan of escape wields the same desolate result, but Franny speaks first.

  “It’s different now,” she says, voice raspy from shouting. But she’s settled back into a crouch, ear to the door.

  “How so?” I wonder.

  Purpose locks her shoulders. And lights her eyes on fire. “We’re more desperate than ever before.”

  TWO

  Franny

  Court will not die here.

  We will not die here. Gods, do you hear me? I scorch from the inside out, not just from the fykking heat of this bare-bones room that smells like piss. A fiery scream scratches my throat, aching to be freed.

  Because I’m so tired of fearing death, and I’ve started replacing those grand, overwhelming fears with one of Court’s big words.

  Indignation.

  A noun. In-dig-na-tion. Defined as anger provoked by a special something that is unjust, warty, or downright mean.

  I may’ve added some flair to that, but my definition still carries the same meaning.

  I keep my ear pressed to the pink metal door. With no time left to dwell, I focus on our plan. Every few days, a cadet has been giving us a small portion of bread and an even smaller canister of water.

  So I listen for footsteps.

  Mykal and Court separate behind me. Hands lowering from each other, Court fishes his slacks’ button through a loop and carefully takes a seat on the cot. His bones wail at every little movement, and mine start aching badly if I concentrate too long and hard on him.

  So I train my mind elsewhere.

  The door.

  The door.

  The door.

  “Ready, little love?” Mykal pants and sweats, crouching down on the other side of our soon-to-be exit. Hopefully. He looks graver than Court, and that’s saying something.

  I nod, and while we wait in silence, I only break the quiet to whisper, “Do you think the gods are on our side?” Sometimes I think they’ve abandoned us.

  Maybe because we’re human. They hate what we are as much as the Saltarians do.

  Mykal grinds down like he was chewing dry root. He has none here. “My pa used to say that the gods will be believing in you if you just believe in them, and that’s all there is to it.”

  I tuck more belief close to my chest. Back home in Bartholo, maybe I’d be called a chump for questioning such certain things. Death and gods. Or maybe I’d still be a no one to most everybody.

  Just the girl behind the wheel of a battered Purple Coach. Driving people to wherever they need to be.

  I don’t care what I’m called. All I know is that I’m not ready to let Court die, and I’m not ready to give up on the gods. I pray and hope that they’re not ready to give up on me.

  Clap.

  Mykal and I exchange a readied look at the sudden noise.

  Clap, clap …

  Our pulses speed in sync. Court freezes on the cot, his con
cern an undercurrent to our anticipation.

  Untroubled footsteps grow louder and louder.

  And then they fall quiet again. He or she is right up against the door. I ease back from the squared hatch and hear a brutish snicker.

  “Day thirty-one, vermin.”

  I bite my tongue as hard as Mykal bites his. We’ve spat back nasty insults before, but for Court’s sake, we’re doing our best not to lash out.

  The hatch screeches. About to open.

  I bristle and breathe heavier. Don’t botch this, Franny. Don’t botch this.

  And I watch the hatch slide to the right. I don’t peek through the sudden opening. Quickly, I reach my bony arm through the slot and try to grab the cadet. His wrist. His shirt.

  Anything.

  Not able to see, I feel around for his body. Snatching air and air. And more air.

  Come on.

  Come on—the sharpest zap sears my arm. I cringe as the shock spindles through my veins like I rolled in hot casia. My body cramps up and rattles.

  Mayday.

  I fall backward on my bottom. Shaking. I’ve felt this painful jolt time and time again, and it always hurts. Always burns like heat I’ve never known.

  “Heya!” Mykal roars at the cadet.

  He laughs. “Pathetic little weaklings.”

  I brace myself on my elbows, and the cadet bends and peers at us through the hatch. Spiky brown hair, a smug snarl that I’d like to tear off with Mykal, and a red birthmark shaped like an eye patch—I’ve never seen this cadet until now, but it doesn’t make a difference.

  I still don’t like him.

  Not one bit.

  Mykal spits. “You snot-nosed goat! I’ll be tearing you limb from limb and then we’ll see who’ll be laughing—”

  “Oh shut up—”

  “We did nothing to you!” I scream, a blaze bursting inside my chest. I push back up to my knees. “Let us out!” I stick my arm through the hatch again.

  I desperately grab at anything, but I only close my fingers over air.

  His cruel laughter echoes shrilly.

  Mykal growls in frustration. “I hate people.”

  “Likewise, human,” the cadet snarls.

  “He’s toying with you … both,” Court whispers with clattering teeth.

  My fingers graze something.

  I think I feel … the metal of the canteen. It slips out of reach—a second zap sends me flying backward. Fyke. I land hard on my back and wince through my teeth.

  My body contracts in agonizing positions. I heave for breath, and Mykal rushes forward, his blond hair matted back with sweat. He almost hesitates, wanting to help me, but he knows he can’t waste time.

  This is our last chance. And so he takes my place at the hatch and shoves his arm through the opening.

  I gasp for air.

  Court—Court is suddenly hovering over me. Pieces of his dark brown hair fall to his lashes. Knelt above my writhing body, he looks down at me.

  I look up at him.

  He shouldn’t have left the cot. I try expressing that in my eyes, but I choke.

  Court places his clammy hand … on my forehead.

  I don’t understand until his senses race toward me, more powerful with touch, and an abrupt wave of pain radiates around my hip.

  His pain.

  His hip.

  I inhale a lung full, and my body slackens. So sluggish and heavy and cold. I wonder how he can even move if he feels like solid ice.

  As I battle to breathe normally, he scrutinizes my rib cage that moves up and down. I can count each rib bone by sight. Starving. But my hunger can’t be resolved now. He should know that, being a doctor and a good planner of plans.

  I wish he’d stop staring at my bones. I snap at him, “I’m fine.”

  Sternness narrows his eyes. “You realize you’re lying like I was.” Court’s worry washes over my body like warm bathwater.

  A part of me is surprised that he cares about me. The other part is sad that I’m surprised at all.

  “I’m not the one dying,” I say with less bite and roll away from him. Nearing the door. I appreciate his help, but we can’t bicker. Not now.

  I kneel and train my concentration on Mykal. Heightening the link, I soon lose sense of the sting in my hip and feel the quickened thump thump of Mykal’s heart in my chest. Beads of sweat pouring down his pale skin.

  His strength is my strength.

  My hand is his hand.

  I’m no longer afraid of feeling his unrestrained, furious fortitude that could injure and maim any foe.

  His enemies are my enemies.

  And we owe this cadet nothing.

  “I can see your arm wailing around.” The cadet chuckles. “You’re pitiful.”

  Mykal grunts, stretching his arm farther out and pressing his cheek up against the metal door. He fists clothing.

  The cadet jerks back. “Too slow—”

  Mykal seizes a bony wrist. His fingers wrap tightly around the cadet’s limb.

  “You don’t want to do that,” the cadet warns.

  “Yeah, I fucking do.” Mykal squeezes his wrist—I squeeze in violent desperation.

  Mykal never lets go.

  I never let go.

  The cadet zaps Mykal twice. We all breathe through our noses. Don’t fall. Don’t fall, Mykal. The shock scalds Court and me.

  We rattle.

  Another zap.

  Mykal screams through the pain. Spit flying. Muscles twitching.

  His scream rumbles inside my lungs, and suddenly, all of our anger explodes to the surface. Thirty-one days of confinement and punishment. For no good or justifiable reason.

  I yell with snot and blistering tears. Court yells with the last of his breath. And Mykal wrenches the cadet forcefully against the door. Thwack!

  It sounds like skull hitting metal.

  The cadet lets out a guttural groan.

  Mykal pulls back and yanks again and again. Slamming the cadet into the door that imprisons us.

  “Stop,” the cadet moans.

  I can’t see any of this. I can only hear it and feel what Mykal feels.

  I stumble to my feet, standing, and lean on the door while the cadet zaps Mykal repeatedly. Until Mykal involuntarily releases his clutch. He trips backward. Falling down next to Court.

  Me again.

  I stick my arm through the hatch and immediately clasp a rod. The zapper thing. I fight with the woozy cadet. “We did nothing wrong!” I scream, wrenching the rod with everything I have in me.

  We did nothing to deserve this.

  Sizzling maddened tears prickle my eyes, and I yell and yank and I must press a button because I hear another zap and his garbled voice.

  What sounds like a body hits the floor with a loud, echoing thump.

  My brows spike.

  I stay very still.

  Waiting.

  And the cadet goes completely quiet.

  “Franny, bring it inside,” Court says quickly, referring to the weapon. He slowly rises with Mykal, both hunching with the low ceiling.

  I maneuver the rod long-ways and carefully slip it into the brig. I cradle the sleek light weapon that appears more like a blue broomstick with no bristles. Each end is flat and identical.

  Mykal sidles next to me. “What in three hells is that?” He tilts his head and inspects the zapper thing.

  “I haven’t seen anything like it before.” I pant, still catching my breath. I run my fingers down the smooth rod. I can’t find the button that I pressed. “Maybe it’s an Influential weapon.” I look to Court, who’d know best about Influential business.

  Court wipes his damp forehead. “Most likely, it’s a Saltare-1 weapon.”

  I nod. Our icy home planet, Saltare-3, wasn’t as technologically advanced as our sister planets. While we lived in perpetual winter, others in our galaxy had better climates. Especially the largest planet of all: Saltare-1.

  I never needed to think much of our four sister planets
. Not when I thought I’d die at seventeen. But in StarDust, I learned to read and I did discover a bit more than the tales I heard.

  I discovered that Saltare-1 has the most technology and sent our planet aerospace training machines, holograms, and the Saga starcraft. All in hopes that Saltare-3 would join Saltarians in a war against Andola. Earth.

  For Court, Mykal, and I—all we wanted was to find peace. And safety.

  “So Saltare-1 may have more of these zappy things?” I ask Court.

  He cringes. “Why must you use slang?”

  That’s what he’s so worried about? Really? “What harm is there in talking how I like? We’re not pretending to be Influentials anymore. They know our real names.”

  We told Commander Theron who we are. I didn’t bother saying that I’m Wilafran Elcastle when I could be Franny Bluecastle. Court didn’t chide me either. We all believed it’d help free us.

  Obviously, we were wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Before Court responds, Mykal nods at the rod. “Let me see the funny-looking stick.” He reaches for the weapon, and I tuck the rod to my chest.

  “I think I should hold on to the funny-looking stick,” I say.

  Court tells Mykal, “You’ll break it.”

  He scratches the light stubble along his hard jaw. “You’re telling me these wondrous ladies and men from this forward-thinking planet didn’t think to make an unbreakable stick?”

  My brows pinch. Could the Romulus crew possess unbreakable, undefeatable weapons? I guess I wouldn’t know. But at least we have one to use against them.

  Court takes a measured breath. “We don’t know what any weapon is capable of.” More sweat trickles down his temple, and another shiver disrupts his no-nonsense posture.

  Mykal hangs a heavy arm over Court’s taut shoulders and draws him close. Warming him. They share a look of longing before Court turns his head and stares gravely upon me. His back and neck are irritatingly sore.

  I wouldn’t be able to tell this if we weren’t linked, and I crave to stretch my arms and spine. Just to stretch his. But it wouldn’t help much. It’d just drive me mad.

  “What?” I ask Court.

  “We don’t know who we need to pretend to be in order to survive,” he says with great severity.

  My lips part. Court wants to survive. I think it a hundred times. Because it means that he believes an escape is possible.