He’s not shaking or wide-eyed or frightened like a lamb. Even though his eye is puffed and reddened, mouth split from my earlier fist. Jaw swollen.
I close in on him, my hand to his collar. Trapping him.
And he takes a better look at my features. At the blood I drew along my cheeks and lips and neck.
“I know what dim means all right,” I growl. “You aren’t the first boy who’s ever called me dim-witted and dumb. But you still make no damned sense. My ma died giving birth to me.”
I’m Mykal Kickfall for that very reason. Unlike Court and Franny, I was never adopted and I always knew who my birth parents were.
“No, see, you’re human,” Stork says plainly. “Briana Kickcastle can’t be your mother.”
“Briana could’ve been human.”
“She was Saltarian,” he emphasizes. “I have her ID card in my barracks on the Lucretzia.”
My world is overturning. I feel like I’m falling face-first in three hells.
I lick blood off my lips. “No…”
No.
“My pa,” I say slowly, “he said a villager stole her identification after she died.”
This near, I eye Stork as he eyes me, and I meet his bitter sorrow. Lifting the corner of his lip, almost rolling and glassing his gaze. No link needed to spot the icy rawness.
“He was my father,” Stork says, “and he probably believed whatever he told you. He couldn’t have known the truth any more than you could’ve.”
I release my hand off his chest. “And what’s the truth?”
“His baby was taken—I was taken, and a human baby of the same age was swapped in place of me. You were swapped…” He loses his voice while staring at my worn face, nicked with scars and cragged from blizzards.
I sense Court shaking his head, and he asks, “Why would anyone put a human baby on a Saltare planet in a Saltarian galaxy?”
Stork looks away from me and then bends down to collect the glass at our feet. “That’s enough answers for the day.”
Does he know who birthed me? Who would’ve raised me if we hadn’t been swapped? But I know, well and good, that my pa is still my pa. No blood relation and dead—he will always be my pa.
He raised me. Taught me most of what I know. How to spear, how to shoot an arrow off a bow. How to whittle and how to respect the gods. How to howl at the wild so the wild will be howling back.
But he’s not just my pa now.
He’s someone else’s.
I squat and help pick up glass with Stork. Looking at him, mostly. “Do you want to hear about our pa?”
Stork just places more large shards, dripping in liquor, in his palm. “Why would I want to hear about the life you lived that could’ve been mine?”
I hear his nasty tone, but I press onward. “He would’ve wanted you to know him. That’s why.”
Stork blinks a few times, then slams a fist into the cabinet. The silver metal pops open. Sliding far out to reveal a bin, and as he rises, he dumps broken glass in the squared compartment.
I do the same, though fumbling a lot more, and I watch him ignore me. He seizes his armor and then treks to the cockpit.
Can’t be too surprised that didn’t go right. I’m bad with words and with people.
SEVEN
Court
The starcraft rattles from passing space debris, and we strap into our jump seats for the duration of our travel. I stare out at the vast darkness of space through the bridge window. And obsess over the pieces of information I’ve gathered:
We were released from a brig because we were traded for something.
The Earthen Fleet is planning a retrieval operation on Saltare-1.
Which they need us for.
Stork willingly serves the Republic of Gaia.
Mykal and Stork were swapped as babies.
And we fly toward the Lucretzia, a starcraft of the Earthen Fleet.
I want to stay ten steps ahead of Stork, but I’m at a great disadvantage. Earth and humanity couldn’t be more foreign to me. The best I can do is remain alert and steadfast. So if he ever tries to pull wool over our eyes, I’ll notice the ruse before he even starts.
Mykal and Franny try to stay awake, both weary-eyed from the hours-long voyage. They shove each other’s arms every time slumber sweeps them.
My brain won’t sleep.
I can’t sleep.
Stork is sharp—I see how he observes Mykal and Franny and me every chance he can. He takes notice of how I’m unblinkingly studying him and our journey while Mykal and Franny grow comfortable enough to shut their eyes.
“You’re an Icecastle,” Stork says to me while he reaches up into a compartment above his pilot seat, “a Saltare-3 criminal.” He’s showing me how much he knows. “What’d you do, mate?” He tethers a headset to an outlet. “Steal a snow cone?”
I can touch the memories of Vorkter more than I used to, but I’m not diving deep and retrieving them for Stork.
I simply reply, “Snow cones don’t exist on Saltare-3.” Whatever those are. “You want us for a Saltare-1 retrieval operation, but do you even know that the five Saltare planets are very different from one another?”
“I studied all five from the moment I could read,” Stork says, his brows lifting in challenge at me. “I’m aware.”
I can’t say I’ve read the same. Very few books mentioned our sister planets. We had a map of our galaxy and vague atmospheric conditions, enough to cause resentment. Our frozen planet could never thaw after the Great Freeze, and Saltare-1 was always said to have the “perfect” temperate climate.
Holding my tongue, I say nothing in reply.
So Stork faces the bridge window and fits on his headset, the comms comparable to Saltare starcrafts. I’ve noticed many similarities between this vessel and the Romulus and Saga, which only makes me believe that the technology between Earth and Saltare can’t be too different.
I raise my voice. “Is Earth’s technology comparable to Saltare?”
“Yes and no,” Stork says. “It depends on which Saltare planet you’re referencing.” He grips a joystick and talks into a microphone at his lips. Speaking a foreign language.
I stop asking questions as we approach the massive hull and gray shell of the Lucretzia. Shaped like a dart with wings, the durable body stretches infinitely. In comparison, what we’re currently flying is the size of a transport vessel.
I start to lean forward, but the leather buckle digs into my hip. My inflamed wound, cleaned and bandaged, wails in protest.
“We’re here?” Franny asks, rubbing her eyes and pushing Mykal awake, both having dozed off for a minute.
“We’re here,” I confirm. Nerves flip my stomach. Tripled senses, all three of us feeling the onslaught of anxiety as the Lucretzia opens its hull for us to enter.
Scratches, divots, and dings mar the Lucretzia’s exterior shell, and more than just robust engines sit beneath the wings.
Weaponry.
Cylindrical artillery is mounted to the starcraft. “Is the Lucretzia a battlecraft?”
Stork pulls his headset to his neck. “What did you ask?”
I repeat my question.
“Not exactly.” He flicks a switch and releases the joystick. Our transport starcraft begins insertion into the larger vessel. On autopilot. “The Lucretzia is a carrier ship,” he explains, unbuckling. “It houses the fleet’s combat jets. You’ll notice that most of the crew onboard are C-Jays.” He stands. “Also known as combat pilots.”
Franny smooths her lips together. I can only assume she’s trying not to proudly state she’s a driver and a pilot. I’m certain she would if our circumstances were different. But her skill set behind any wheel could benefit us more if it’s kept secret.
She knows this.
I don’t need to remind her.
Mykal mutters something about senseless technology, and then Franny stares bright-eyed at the sheer enormity of the Lucretzia. Which swallows our transport starcraft.
Wheels retract, and we land on what Stork says is a tarmac. Rows and rows of various-sized vessels line the docking bay. As far as the eye can reach, and some are only outfitted for two seats.
The hull shuts, enclosing us inside the Lucretzia.
Stork is turned toward our jump seats, and with the cock of his head and carefree wave of his hand, he tells us, “Welcome home.”
And I recognize that I am human on a human starcraft.
So many times I’ve felt out of place and wrong and I’ve begged for a world where people can be saved and not left to die. And I know this is the world I never thought possible. Never believed could exist.
You belong here, Court.
Yet everything feels foreign to me.
EIGHT
Stork
Eighteen years alive, and not a single one went by without being reminded that I’m Saltarian living among humans. Raised by humans. Raised like a human.
I should be bitter, maybe. Or resentful.
But I’m not a prisoner. I’m not chained here or coerced. I serve the Republic of Gaia, Earth’s government, by my own free will. It hasn’t been all sunshine and kittens. I’m the only Saltarian to ever step foot on the Lucretzia. My presence on this ship is a grisly reminder of why humans fight. Why they’re sitting in a different galaxy light-years away from their home.
It took years to gain the respect of some of the crew. Admiral Moura says I would have earned it faster if it weren’t for my lack of charisma. On the contrary, I am very charismatic.
At seven years old, I played with children my age in the galley of a first-class starcraft. Pots and metal bowls on our heads, we pretended we were C-Jays. Chasing one another like we flew combat jets, I grinned and laughed.
“Have at me!” I roared. “If you think you can catch me!”
I was a boastful kid.
Still am. Though now I’m more of a man.
We’d aim our cooking utensils at the enemy starcraft: an enormous icebox that stored the fleet’s poultry.
“On the count of three!” a child shouted. “One!”
I raced ahead. Unafraid.
Thrill inside of me burst vividly. And I thought: nothing in this universe could truly hurt me.
The people who raised me from infancy—they often said that I have a choice, and the choices I make will ultimately define who I’ll come to be.
So when a pair of harsh hands shoved my shoulders—not for the first time, not for the last time—I had a choice to make. I tripped from the force, soup ladle spilling out of my palms, and I landed on my knees.
Right then, I chose to turn my head, knowing what I’d meet.
A hateful fist slammed in my soft cheek, and the boy screamed, “Go back to where you came from, knave!”
Blood pooled in my mouth, and I smiled with a soft laugh, ignoring the pang of hurt. Honest to the grave, I didn’t need to be admired or revered or liked by anyone, but I was seven. I didn’t exactly love the wads of spit in my hair and on my face.
Years would pass, and I’d be pushed down again and again.
At eleven years old, I was on my knees in the dining hall. Tray of beans, apples, and chicken thighs spilled onto mosaic tile.
I staggered to my feet, brushed the beans off my kneecaps, and I gestured the older boy toward me. “Come here, then.” I sported another wily grin. “You want at me; I’m all yours.”
He yelled between his teeth and shoved forcefully.
I fell again, and I stood once more.
His anger burned through two narrowed eyes and tried to impale me hot.
He couldn’t kill me, and he knew it. The next time he tried to push me down, I caught his wrist and whispered, “We’re on the same side, mate.”
At fourteen years old, I thought I knew everything there was to know and learn.
Naïve. Probably. Cocky. Most definitely.
I stood on the training deck inside an Earthen starcraft and finished buckling my bronze breastplate and metal armguards. The lightweight bronze was an alien metal mined off the planet of Gigadon and one of Earth’s major imports, and even though I didn’t really need protection from fatal injuries, I chose to wear it to seem more like them.
More like humans.
Inside the docking bay, fifty sleek combat jets were parked. One would become mine after academy graduation. The pretty one—I’d hoped.
A drill sergeant cautioned me, “Head down, guards up.”
Standing tall, I pushed my blond hair back and said, “Or better yet: head up, guards down.”
She rolled her eyes and stepped to the side. “Turn on your mic and listen for instructions, knave. Unfortunately for me, I’ll be in your ear.”
I whispered under my breath, “The misfortune is all mine.” I fit on my bronze helmet, metal plates shielding my nose and jawline.
After adjusting the small microphone that brushed my pink lips, I began to climb into the cockpit. I wore the customary fleet skirt: made of midnight-blue leather strips.
Unconstricting, weightless. I could easily move. And as I hiked up the jet, the leather skimmed the gray metal shell, and I settled in my seat.
Strapping in, I listened to the crackling voice in my ear. “Drill 508: abandonment protocol. Trainee, do you copy?”
“Copy,” I replied. Normally I’d reach for the thrusters, but to pass this specific drill and become a C-Jay, I wasn’t supposed to fly the jet.
She started describing the simulation. “You’ve been attacked by a Saltarian starcraft. It doubles the size of your jet. Your command functions are disabled. The enemy starcraft is pulling your jet aboard. You are their prisoner. What is human protocol? Begin.”
Quickly, I unstrapped myself from the seat. Jumping out of the cockpit, I slid down the body of the jet and landed on the training floor.
The thump of my leather boots echoed in the cavernous docking bay, and I watched three men march forward to apprehend me. Their wool cloaks billowed behind hurried feet, and their triangular StarDust brooches gleamed at their throats.
Pulse pounding, I reached behind my armored chest and gripped a rigid hilt. Unsheathing a long two-edged sword with a tapered point, I braced myself and twirled the weapon. More flourish than purpose, I could already picture the points being deducted for my bravado.
As the cloaked men reached me, I instantly ducked and sliced their Achilles tendons. Blood spewed, and each body fell.
I stabbed them in the gut for precaution. But heavy footsteps resounded, and I spun to find seven more Saltarians running toward me.
This time, they were armed.
I clutched my weapon with two hands and chased down the barrel of seven guns. Sprinting, alert, and ready.
I knew my strengths.
I couldn’t tackle seven people. I wasn’t a muscular fourteen-year-old. Hell, I probably weighed a buck-fifteen back then, but I was fearless, especially.
Some would say careless.
Whatever the truth, I still moved toward danger. I could wield a sword better than they could aim their firearms, but humans have an archaic joke that I had read in too many books.
Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.
And yet, blades are a better defense against Saltarians.
Guns jam.
So I ran straight for them.
“Follow protocol!” the drill sergeant shouted in my ear.
“I have them,” I assured, more than confident.
Triggers were pulled, and guns blasted with a violent pop of bullets. The hot metal whizzed past me; some struck my armor with a powerful thunk.
I rocked back twice and then plowed ahead. Two more purposeful strides and I came upon them, gracefully swinging my blade. I slashed the arms off four Saltarians.
Limbs and weapons greeted the floor with a sickening noise. My nose flared, and I reminded myself, this is the only way.
I had an overarching purpose to protect the human race.
And no matter if I cut a hand off or took a leg, t
hese people that I fought would still survive. In training for war, we’re taught there’d be casualties.
But the death toll only rises on one side.
Humans die.
Saltarians live.
I bent low and sliced two calves, and as I rose, a bullet pierced the pale flesh of my neck. Suddenly every enemy and gun flickered out like a technological glitch.
I breathed hard, the holograms gone. I cursed beneath my breath, sweat dripping down my temples inside the stuffy helmet.
The drill shouldn’t have ended that abruptly. I slid my sword into its sheath on my back.
As the drill sergeant neared, I removed my helmet and said with hot, panting breath, “I could’ve gone on longer. I had them overrun—”
“The task was to follow the abandonment protocol.”
I let out a short laugh and wiped sweat off my face. “I know the protocol. Never aim for their heads.” It’d be a waste to try to slit a Saltarian’s throat. It would, at best, cause a paper cut. It would, at worst, break a blade in half.
Aim for their vulnerabilities: spots that can cause injury but not death. Saltarians can’t die unless it’s their deathday, which renders them nearly invincible to attacks.
“And when you find yourself outnumbered?” she rebutted. “What is the protocol then, knave?”
Radio for help.
Or surrender.
Communications were disabled, so the only answer had been to surrender myself for capture.
“I’m no one’s prisoner,” I said plainly. “I’ll take my chances. They’re bound to be light-years better than yours.”
She grunted, “Arrogant bastard,” and made me retake the drill the next month and then the next month after. Every time, I refused to surrender. I only graduated the academy because the admirals signed off my paperwork, despite the fact that I never completed Drill 508.
Admiral Moura sat me down after graduation and she said, “Your training will never quite end, Stork. Every so often, you’ll find yourself in situations you aren’t ready for, and you’ll feel like you’ve returned to the beginning again.”
Four years have passed since that day, and now I feel like I’m at the beginning again.
The Last Hope Page 6