The Last Hope

by Krista Ritchie

  “I said nothing wrong.” Mykal rubs blood from his nose. “We’re a couple, you and I.”

  Court looks like he could cry. “Please, stop.” He’s scared for his safety.

  Mykal is hurt, his shoulders dropping. He doesn’t understand that Court is trying to protect him.

  Gods, this is a big bad mess.

  Bludrader watches on with too much intrigue.

  “You shouldn’t stare at them so hard,” I tell Bludrader, attempting to steal his attention. When it works, I add, “It’s not kind.”

  He tips his head at me again. “Kindness is considered an uncommon trait for Saltarians.”

  My eyes glide across the sharp carve of his jaw and the glimmering sadness in his gaze. “So you are Saltarian.”

  He pauses, scrutinizing me in search of something. “You’re not scared of Saltarians.” He lets out a soft laugh. “No, I guess you wouldn’t be.”

  I’m about to question him for what feels like the hundredth time, but he speaks again.

  “A human who isn’t afraid of Saltarians is rare.”

  “So you are—”

  “I am Saltarian,” he affirms. And he sheathes the blade in its leather casing on his back. He pulls his weight off me and rotates to Court. “I threatened to cut her neck, not slit her throat. I would’ve only nicked her if it came to that. As for Mykal—”

  “You know our names?” Court questions.

  “You told the Romulus commander your names. Nearly everyone aboard this ship knows.”

  I sigh into a scowl.

  We’ve done a poor job at secrecy, but that part isn’t so much our fault. At least we’ve been able to hide our link from everyone. Even our friends from the Saga starcraft have no idea. Though I’m not so sure we’ll ever see them again.

  I try not to think about that.

  “As for me?” Mykal cuts in, pinching his nose to staunch the blood flow.

  “As for you,” Bludrader continues, “I was defending myself. From being knocked unconscious. I need to stay awake as much as you three need to stay alive.”

  I take a stronger breath.

  Trusting him more.

  Court sends me a strict look like, be cautious, Franny. It’s too soon.

  I think it’s almost too late. “We need to leave,” I tell Court, the band of his slacks cutting painfully into his wound. He’s been ignoring the anguish. “What if more cadets arrive and lock us back up?”

  And he’s dying.

  He can barely stand upright. Mykal has his arm around Court’s waist, supporting most of his body.

  Bludrader starts to notice his weak shape. “There’s a med kit on my ship.”

  Mykal perks up. “Court.”

  He’s afraid—I think Court is so afraid that he’ll send Mykal and me to our doom, that this could be a life-ending trap, but we’re not leaving without him. And we’re not letting him die.

  It’s a risk that Court would’ve taken for Mykal and for me.

  So we’re taking it for him.

  Court swallows hard, maybe feeling our concrete decision, but he turns to Bludrader. And he asks once more, “Who or what are you loyal to?”

  Bludrader clips a loose buckle of his chest armor. “I willingly serve the Republic of Gaia, which means nothing to you because you’ve never heard of it before. Honest to the grave, I’m going to help you leave, but you have to come with me.”

  Court lets out a breath of annoyance.

  “Look, I don’t like the Romulus any more than you do.”

  Court thinks and then asks, “How are we escaping?”

  “We’re walking out.”

  I snort. “We’re just walking out?”

  His brows rise as mine arch at him. “Yeah, I’m not joking,” he replies. “There’s been a trade, and you’ve been released into my custody. I know it’s difficult to answer to a stranger, but you need to follow my lead.”

  I know Court would rather die than have us all return to the place and people we escaped, but I want to believe that the gods are taking us where we should be.

  So I nod.

  Mykal nods, and we wait for Court.

  He blinks and blinks, as though he’s remembering his haunted past and the horrors that could await outside the brig, and Mykal whispers in his ear. I can feel the words on his lips.

  I’ll be keeping you safe. Until my very last breath.

  Court inhales, looks up at Bludrader, and he nods.

  Ready to live.

  FOUR

  Franny

  We dress in our black-and-gold rancid StarDust uniforms, and Bludrader ushers us down the sleek-gray empty corridor.

  Before we left the brig, Mykal rifled through the cloak of the unconscious, spiky-haired cadet. Searching for his confiscated hunting knife, something that the Romulus crew had taken on day three. When Mykal tried to cut the cadet’s finger off through the hatch.

  He found the weapon in the wart’s back pocket. Grenpale emblem still etched on the rosy hilt.

  With the knife tucked safely in his boot, Mykal trudges onward, and he keeps an arm around Court to brace him from stumbling. From sight, it’d be hard to tell that’s the reason he holds him. They just appear fond of one another.

  Which is true too.

  Though I hear Court and Mykal bickering about it behind me, they quiet as Bludrader instructs, “Stay calm, don’t fight anyone, and try not to look at their ugly mugs.”

  I make a scrunched face. “Why would we want to stare at their drinks?”

  Bludrader almost falters a step, and he peers over his shoulder to give me a look like I’m impossibly dumb. And he nearly laughs. I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or at the situation.

  I cross my arms.

  He may be helping us escape, but I’m beginning to dislike him very much.

  “A mug is a face,” he defines.

  “What do you drink out of then?” I snap back.

  His lip quirks in a semi-smile. “A mug.”

  Gods. “I loathe your slang.”

  “I find yours charming.”

  I frown, wondering if he heard me say mayday. “You’re a Fast-Tracker?” I wonder when he’ll die. He doesn’t look any older than twenty years of age.

  He turns a corner into another identical corridor. “I’m well-educated in Saltarian culture, especially language.”

  I hate how he didn’t really answer me.

  We all walk in silence now, and our muscles shriek at the first lengthy movement in days. I peruse our surroundings, most of which were a blur when we were first brought into the brig. Since we were dragged and half-conscious.

  The Romulus starcraft is similar to the Saga with metallic walls, dizzying hallways, and lit corridors. Bigger, more cavernous, it would’ve been harder to pass the StarDust starcraft exam if we were tested with this vessel.

  Court scans each passing door. “Are other prisoners held here?”

  I’ve forgotten our morbid theory. That Zimmer, Padgett, Gem, and Kinden were thrown in a brig too.

  Bludrader keeps the same pace. “No one is here you’d want to see.”

  Court clarifies, “The people we arrived with, do you know where they are?”

  Leather strips of his skirt flap as he rounds a corner, and we follow step-for-step. Foot-for-foot. “The four Saltarians who stole a ship from Saltare-3,” Bludrader says, sounding indifferent. “Yeah, I’ve heard of them and their fate.”

  Court jails his breath.

  I sense Mykal, the coil of his muscles as they tighten.

  We all nearly stop in place, but Bludrader adds, “The Romulus commander let them go the same day that you were put in the brig.”

  “Let them go,” Court repeats, blinking slowly.

  I picture Zimmer sighing a breath of relief, safely back on the Saga without us. Laughing at the beauty of the stars.

  It’s a better way to die than being stuck here.

  Yet sadness creeps up, clouding my eyes. I don’t think this emotion bel
ongs to me.

  Court drops his head while we walk.

  “They have no use for Saltarian traitors,” Bludrader explains. “The Romulus crew didn’t trust them enough to let them stay on their ship, so they let them go. They’re probably sunbathing on a far-away tropical planet by now.”

  Mykal growls a curse, mumbling, “They left us to rot.”

  I feel Court pushing against hurt. Attempting to thwart emotion from compounding.

  Should I be briny? Should I want to scream? But all I think … “They owed us nothing,” I mutter.

  Court says beneath his breath, “He’s my brother.”

  I don’t know what that means. Sure, I’ve seen siblings before, but brothers and sisters aren’t obligated to aid one another just because of their parentage. One of my Fast-Tracker friends had an Influential brother, a fancy engineer, and he didn’t give his sister a single bill for food or clothing.

  She resorted to thievery.

  But I can’t deny that Kinden’s fondness for Court—the lengths he went to seek out his brother—was beyond any kind of devotion I’d witnessed before.

  Bludrader pauses, causing us to halt in the middle of a corridor. He turns to Court. “Whoever you think is your brother learned that you’re human. You care about him because it’s in your nature. He couldn’t care less about you because it’s in his.”

  Court layers a dark glare. “You know nothing.”

  He lets out a fading laugh. “I know too much. Definitely more than you.” His odd footwear squeaks as he spins around and moves along. “Keep up, you three.”

  Court swallows his distaste.

  Another left turn and we approach a burgundy rectangular door. A Romulus cadet guards the entrance. She doesn’t speak, but when she recognizes Bludrader, she sets her hand on a screen.

  The door slinks open horizontally, and we breach what looks like the main crew quarters. Twelve levels rise with the vaulted, domed ceilings.

  My feet slow. At the sheer size of the room. At the sheer number of people.

  Thousands of bodies crowd the banisters, some people sitting on the railing, others hunched casually over. Almost like they knew we’d be passing through. Waiting to catch a glimpse of us, to point and stare.

  My back bumps into Mykal’s firm chest.

  Something hot wells in my eyes. Overwhelmed. Choked. I’m certain these are my emotions. Not Court’s. Not Mykal’s. The longer I see the loathing behind thousands of eyes, the more sickness rises and I want to puke.

  I’ve met disgust and animosity before. There are plenty of people on Saltare-3 who thought I wasn’t good for much because I was a Fast-Tracker.

  But I’ve never met this kind of universal hatred. Until now.

  Mykal leans down, his mouth brushing my ear. “Pay them no notice, Franny.”

  It’s difficult.

  Court reaches out and clasps my hand in his, and I breathe stronger.

  Bludrader braves a glance back at us. “Ignore them and move forward.”

  I can’t help it.

  I am looking. On the first floor where we walk, people stand too close. They’ve created a small path for us to pass through, but their breath blazes against the side of my cheek.

  Someone spits.

  But the aim isn’t for me or for Court or Mykal.

  The gross wad lands on Bludrader. Splat on his temple. He treks forward, not breaking speed. We head to another burgundy door.

  A short-haired girl sticks out her foot to trip him.

  He stumbles and then catches himself. Walking again like nothing happened.

  I look to Court, and he’s fixated on the same scene as me.

  “Be careful,” Court whispers to me and Mykal. He must think there’s a chance others will target us next.

  But the farther we go, every onslaught, every wad of spit and curse word is directed at him. From the balcony, someone tosses an empty can, and the metal bounces off his shoulder armor.

  “Bludrader!” a man sneers.

  “Bludrader.” A girl spits at his face.

  He wipes off the wad and says nothing. Does nothing but moves forward, as he instructed us to do.

  Another person launches a shoe but misses Bludrader and smacks Mykal in the jaw.

  Anger surges, his anger, and he whips harshly toward the crowd. Court lets go of my hand and clasps Mykal’s, pulling him back onto the path.

  “Stay with me,” he urges.

  Mykal looks every which way, hearing Bludrader! echoing around us, and confusion replaces his fury.

  As we approach the burgundy exit, I pick up my pace and ask Bludrader in a quiet breath, “How do they all know your name?”

  I don’t hear him answer over the cacophony. “What?” I ask, pushing so close that my arm skims the cold metal of his bronze breastplate.

  “I said that’s not my name.”

  I frown. “Then what are they calling you?”

  He peers over his shoulder.

  Meeting my eyes, he says, “Blood traitor.”

  FIVE

  Mykal

  A whole lot of fools allow us to leave the Romulus without any show of valor. We prance on out as though we hadn’t been sitting lazily in a room. As though we weren’t famished for so many wretched days with nothing to do or see.

  The man-boy guides us onto another starcraft: one much smaller than the Romulus, even tinier than the Saga, but wide enough to comfortably fit all four of us.

  We strap into jump chairs, and the man-boy settles his ass in the single-pilot cockpit. He flies us somewhere.

  None of us are liking that he’s in control of our destination. Of what we know, he’s Saltarian and loyal to some odd-sounding land.

  He’s given us nearly nothing, and we’re trusting him with our lives.

  But anything’s better than having Court die in a prison. I dunno much, but I do know that.

  Soaring through dark space, the starcraft begins to hum like the hush of winds sweeping coolly through a mountainside. As though letting us know it’s safe to move about.

  Court, Franny, and I leave our jump chairs and gather around a midnight-blue corner booth, located in the bridge along with the cockpit.

  We have our eyes on the man-boy.

  Even as I tend to Court’s stitches with the med kit. Even as we fill our bellies with packaged meals in tin trays. Looks like brown mush. Tastes like soured potatoes and dry mystery meat.

  The lack of freshness doesn’t bother me. I lick my thumb. Scarfing down the meal.

  Court is slower. Meticulous. Setting his fork down often and staring out the round window more than he eats. His head is churning with thoughts. Could be, he’s planning our next move.

  Next escape.

  I’m just glad he’s not shivering with a fever anymore.

  Franny shoves her food down as fast as I. But she scowls every now and again at the man-boy. Who has taken us for a ride, and I know she’d rather be in his seat.

  Once I lick my tray clean, I push the tin aside and stare hard at the cockpit.

  I lean into Court’s shoulder. “We outnumber him,” I whisper to them both. “I can take him from behind.”

  Franny, on the other side of Court, pops her spoon out of her mouth and angles toward me. Elbow to the round table, she says hushed, “He just rescued us.”

  I grunt. “You had the electro-whatcha-call-it. We were freeing ourselves no matter what.”

  Court reroutes his attention to us. “Can you take him out alone?” he asks me.

  “He’s no match for I,” I assure him, though my sore nose says otherwise. “Now that I’m fed,” I add.

  Court nods, urgency narrowing his eyes.

  Franny gapes. “You two can’t be serious.”

  I eat a bit of meat underneath my thumbnail. “Serious as a ram on a ridge-wall.” He’s far from a friend of ours. Our best bet is to aim this starcraft at a world we want to go to. And talking to the man-boy won’t be helping us achieve that.

  Anywa
y, I prefer not speaking to people.

  Court frowns. “Why wouldn’t we be serious?”

  Her eyes dart between us, and realization eases her bones. “You two have always run from people. For survival. Haven’t you? Your distrust for everyone stems from longer than I’ve been linked to either of you.” She stretches forward, more excitable. “But can’t you see that he could have answers?” She lowers her voice even more. “Like why we’re human. What that even means.”

  I don’t care much about that.

  I just want to find a safe place to settle down. Wake up before the light bathes the land, and hear the wind whistle through rustling trees. Hunt for a good feast. Warm my skin with a wood fire. Hold the boy I love in my arms. Go to bed.

  Fall to gentle sleep.

  I’m about to shrug, but Franny says passionately, “I’d like to know. I’d like to understand why we’re linked. Why we ended up on a planet that was never our home.”

  Her fraught need and plea for answers strikes me like ten quivers of arrows. Shot at my wild heart, and I rub my rough jaw and look to Court.

  He stares unblinkingly at the table, emotion too muddled to make sense of. I’m supposing he’s confused.

  “You’re bleeding,” Court says, not picking up his gaze.

  Since he feels me more strongly than Franny, I know he’s speaking about me. I run my coarse fingers over my crooked nose. Dried blood is flowing out of my nostrils again.

  “Gods bless.” I stand from the booth, turn to face the cushion, and kneel on the ground. Forearms set against the seat.

  Court and Franny let me be.

  I have no eyes on the man-boy, but I trust them to keep a lookout while I pray.

  When I was a boy of five years, a little lady fought me for a snow leopard that I had killed and lugged across my shoulders. She pushed me in knee-deep snow, and people in my village trickled out of their warmth to watch.

  I’d spent two days hunting that animal and had quiet pains that no man or lady could see.

  She punched. I clawed.

  She beat. I howled.

  And when I couldn’t stand up on my own two feet with my own two hands to help me, she proudly won my snow leopard.

  My eye bled badly for two straight nights. My pa told me to go to the village sanctuary. Losing the snow leopard dishonored the God of Victory, and so I knelt in front of the sorcerer. She performed a familiar ritual, and the next morning, blood finally dried.