Never did I dream about someday, one day, coming face-to-face with these three humans. Who are, for better or worse, entwined messily in my history.
I considered them dead and buried.
I moved on with my life without them.
No thought. No care.
Never even imagined what their fate was like. Never predicted what age they reached before a cold planet and misfortune stole their lives.
Why would I?
Meeting three humans who should’ve died on a Saltare planet that I should’ve called home was never in the cards.
Today wasn’t supposed to happen. How they managed to stay alive, how they even left Saltare-3—the least developed and most deficient Saltare planet of all five—is nothing short of a miracle. Or so the fleet admirals told me.
I don’t see the miracle in their survival.
I just see an undisputable testament to the human spirit.
But I reckon none of that matters. Not me being whiplashed and thrown figuratively overboard while I try to come to terms with two guys named Mykal and Court and a girl named Franny.
I have a job.
A bloody purpose, and there is no braking. No stopping or slowing down to gather my feelings. At the end of the day, what I feel is trivial.
Especially in comparison to the many human lives on the Lucretzia.
Once Court, Mykal, Franny, and I are off the ship and safely inside the silent docking bay, I turn to them, walking backward so I can see their faces. “I know what you’re thinking. Why’d this guy bring us to an eerily quiet docking bay?”
I mean, I can’t name a time where it’s been this quiet on the tarmac.
“I wasn’t thinking it, but now I am,” Court tells me sharply.
“Good,” I say, brushing off the coldness in his tone. “Because all you need to know is that it’s late here. Usually, there are more people around.”
The difference, for me at least, is startling. No rev of engines, no Catapult Officers in mustard-yellow tunics darting back and forth, signaling to pilots. No loud crash crew in red tunics, yelling at one another, or the even rowdier maintenance in purple.
Destroyers, battle cruisers, and combat jets are stationary. Noiseless, statuesque, and recently buffed like they’re on display in a spacefleet museum. Eerie. If I didn’t know where everyone was, maybe the hairs on my arms would be standing straight up.
Good thing I know what’s going on. They don’t. And I know what it may seem like, but I take zero pleasure in keeping information from them.
Franny scopes out her new surroundings. Black hair oily and unwashed, and face dirtied from weeks in the brig. She inhales the magnitude of the docking bay.
I skim her once and twice over, not able to tame my curiosity. A human raised as a Saltarian is a uniqueness that only these three share.
Bitterness twitches my lips.
I am a Saltarian raised as a human who has never stepped foot on a Saltare planet, and I share this in common with me, myself, and I. What I would’ve given for one to become three.
“Is that why no one is here?” Franny asks me, voice flaming like she’s constantly set on fire. “Everyone goes to sleep early?”
I pause, considering my choice of words. If I scare them, they could become overwhelmed and form an outrageous plan. Like stealing a ship and flying to a toxic or dangerous planet where they’ll die.
Humans are scrappy but they’re also startlingly dim when spooked.
“Some of the crew are sleeping,” I say, skirting around the answer. Evasiveness: some might say I’m a master at it.
Mykal cracks his neck and scrutinizes the roof. Staring at him too long is a bad idea. I start ruminating over a life forgotten, and I’d rather chew on a pack of nails and yank out another molar or five. Grenpale, my birthplace, and all my long-ago history is off-limits. I’m putting it there. For my own sanity.
Court has been eagle-eyeing me this entire time. Trying to excavate my intentions.
What I’d give to just look at him and say, we’re on the same side, mate, and for him to believe me without a second thought. But I’ve said those words too many times and to too many people to know that they carry little weight. I’ve come to realize many things on this ship. One being: actions mean more here. More than my words, at least.
Off to the right, the control window has been blacked out with dark linen. Just so Court, Mykal, and Franny are unable to spot any people behind the glass. Before docking, I was told that Captain Venita and a few lieutenants would be observing us from the control room’s camera monitors.
My orders were simple: rescue the humans and put them to bed.
Easy enough.
With the snap of my fingers and a curt wave, I gather their attention. “I’m about to bring you to the main deck.” I point out the spiral staircase several yards away. “You can’t gallivant around the ship tonight. You need water wings before you can jump into the deep end. Stay by my side. Don’t touch anything.”
“Water wings?” Franny makes a face.
I rub my mouth with a weak laugh. “You don’t know what water wings are.” I nod, remembering.
Terrific.
At five, ten, fourteen, and on—I was extensively trained in language, and I’d boast about being fluent in Saltarian to really everyone, classmates and superiors. Chuckling when C-Jays maimed the dialect. Smirking at captains who begrudgingly asked for my services.
And here I am, ironically only “somewhat” able to communicate with these three.
Even as a kid, I consumed every piece of literature and online text about Saltare-3 with an unrelenting ferocity. Knowing I was born there, I thought the knowledge would connect me to the faraway world. But no page, no word could bridge that distance.
So the next time I read about Saltare planets, it was with the purpose to defend Earth. And prepare for war.
It’s not like there are whole encyclopedias about Saltare-3. I’d be lucky to find a paragraph. In history, the planet has scarce documented information due to its regressive technology and detachment from its sister planets—no exports, few imports, almost solely autonomous.
What I know for a fact: Saltare-3 is a frozen planet. No one would swim in an iced lake. Assuming indoor pools exist, swimming could’ve easily been a luxury. Intended for the rich or Influentials only.
Plastic also isn’t a resource on Saltare-3. So water wings—definitely bad on me.
I tie my hair back with an elastic band, a small ponytail at my neck. “Forget the metaphor,” I say. “Let’s go.”
* * *
I warn them that the Lucretzia is unlike Saltarian ships.
Stepping off the staircase onto the main deck, I’m interested in what draws their eye first. These are the three people I heard about in stories, after all. Like fabled characters come to life. Abruptly, they roll to a stop.
The three of them are struck silent beneath the first towering archway, staring at the long length of a shallow pool. Steam skates across the calm surface, water murky green from a mix of perfumes.
No thyme and daffodil aroma can mask their stink.
Hours earlier, I pressed my body against Franny while holding a blade to her throat, and her pungent odor still clings to my skin.
I’ve almost grown used to the smell. No longer tingling my eyes or ransacking my nostrils.
Shockingly.
Court unfreezes and strolls warily along the walkways around the pool. Mykal and Franny close behind.
The domed glass ceiling reveals an expansive, boundless view of the star-speckled Dis Pater Galaxy. Looking up, I sometimes feel like I’m back home. Lying on the earth after fleet class and relishing in the crescent moon. Laughing as I spot the Big Dipper.
But we’re far from Earth’s galaxy.
Dis Pater is a tumultuous location where a quarter of the Earthen Fleet has remained for a decade. The Lucretzia is the most important ship here, residing in a threatening range to the Saltarian Fleet so we can prote
ct our civilians back home from possible invasion.
Earth is a honey pot to Saltarians, and humans are wingless, stinger-less bees defending their hard-earned home from undying bears.
As the crew always tells me, in this scenario, I am the undying bear willing to protect the bees.
“What is this room?” Court asks me.
I stay on the opposite side of the pool. Giving them space to explore this part, and I track their intrigue to the tile beneath their boots. Pieces of fine, lightweight artificial marble create an intricate mosaic, and oak benches hug the walls.
“The atrium,” I say. “Crew lounges here. Similar to your parlors.” I’m assuming.
Franny skims her fingers along the wispy midnight-blue curtains that drape along arched doors. “This is nothing like a parlor. It’s more like a common room.”
Close enough, I guess.
Our eyes meet across the pool, walking with unhurriedness. I motion to the closed rooms along each side. “Crew barracks are here.”
She stares too hard at the next towering archway. Silver flowing drapes sweep the floor and conceal the other side. Light streaks through little star-shaped holes in the fabric.
Put them to bed.
Yeah, I thought that would be easy.
“I’ll show you to your beds,” I continue, “you can wash—”
“What’s that noise?” Mykal cuts in and whips his head around, searching for the source of the faint croaks of bullfrogs and chirps of crickets.
I tip my head. “Lions, tigers, and bears.” I flash big mocking eyes at him, but I’m positive he won’t catch the joke. “Oh my.”
Franny notices, though, and shoots me a fiery scowl.
Mykal peers calmly at me. “Your lion sounds like it’s choking on your bear.”
I let out a short laugh. He’s not afraid of a lion or a tiger or a bear. I’m glued in surprise, and to unglue my bloody self I laugh again and say, “It was a joke.”
“A bad one,” Franny snaps.
I smile wryly and explain the bullfrog and cricket noises. Adding, “It’s electronic.”
Mykal groans. “Is anythin’ real?” He kicks the leg of a wooden bench that breaks.
“That was,” Court says plainly. He’s been quietly studying the stained-glass patterned walls, along with framed motion-picture portraits. Still examining the photos, he asks, “And these are?”
“Pictures. You have films on Saltare-3; these are similar. Think of them as tiny movies on one-minute loops.” I catch a glimpse of one nearest me.
Grayscale, the motion-picture portrait showcases three young guys and four girls in military skirts, seven jets parked behind them. Laughing, pride sparkling their eyes, they applaud each other and hug.
I read the etched inscription on the silver frame: CLASS OF 3017. Every portrait is of C-Jay academy graduations.
Mine is hung in the dining hall.
Quickening my pace, I cut off Franny from potentially racing through the silver-draped archway. She skids to a halt a few feet from me. Skepticism bunching her brows.
“Heya, I know this animal.”
Our heads turn.
Mykal gestures to the mosaic tiles. Brown and beige pieces depict a furry, tusked creature. “Woolly mammoths, aren’t they? I heard stories.”
“As did I,” Franny chimes in. “My mother used to say they went extinct on our planet because of the Great Freeze.”
Lord have mercy. I only realize Court is watching me after I’ve already made a face like these two are discussing flying pigs.
“Unlucky beasts.” Mykal bends and touches the marble. “Pelts woulda been nice during a blizzard.”
Court saunters closer to me. Noticing how I shield the archway.
I raise a hand. “Look, there’s no way to sugarcoat this. You three look and smell like shit.”
“No one asked you,” Franny slings back.
Desperately, I try not to smile. “You three need to wash. Fresh tunics are on your beds. Showers are in your barracks—” I cut myself off at their confusion.
They’ve never had a shower.
I have a feeling they’ll trust the showers even less than they’re trusting me. “Or you can bathe here.” I gesture to the pool. “No crew is around—”
“Why is that?” Court commands an answer more than asks, but his hand is planted on his hip. Sweat builds up on his brow. Clearly, he’s in the worst condition of the three. Mykal and Franny often turn to him, half out of respect and the other half out of worry.
I stand just as tall. “No one wants to overwhelm you three. They were ordered to stay in their barracks for your homecoming.”
“By who?” Court steps closer.
I cup my fingers, expecting a bottle to be in hand, but I have none at the current second. “By the fleet admirals.”
“Why can’t we see more of the ship?”
“Because you need rest. You’re emaciated. Starved.” I speak hushed but forcefully. “No one wants to add more stress on you.” I had orders to not take them on a Lucretzia Worldwide Ship Tour for this reason.
Franny pokes a finger toward the pool. “Does Earth look like this?”
I shift my weight. Opening my mouth, meaningful words are trapped violently in my lungs, and I can’t purge them.
I have orders.
A list of things that I cannot, under any circumstances, share with Court, Mykal, and Franny. Even if they’re on the brink of death, I’ve been told: let them die with the history they’ve understood to be theirs.
Only when Earth is safe can I immediately tell them what I know.
The fleet admirals’ wishes:
Do not describe Earth.
Do not speak of their parentage.
Do not explain how they arrived on Saltare-3.
They let me share my name and origin because they knew it’d be impossible to keep secret once onboard the Lucretzia.
There was no day, no second, where I believed I was human. I was told that I was Saltarian. I was given choices and freedom. Now I’m ordered to deny these three what I was rightfully handed—and there is no easy path around this bitter avenue.
If I mention my orders, they’ll blame the admirals for making them and then distrust the Republic of Gaia.
With every question they ask, I trek, head held high and fist in throat, through thorns and razored walls.
So that’s what I do now.
I sigh out this metaphorical sharp-edged thing that’s stabbing me in every direction. Raking my hair back, I laugh lightly. “New plan: forget about what Earth is or isn’t. Instead, clean under your arms, behind your ears, between your—”
“That’s the same plan,” Franny retorts.
She’s definitely cross with me. “Is it?” I tease and walk forward, causing Franny and Court to walk backward. Heels edging toward the pool. I gesture to the water. “One dip?”
Her brows spring. “You don’t even know what Earth looks like, do you? You’ve never been there, admit it.”
“I’ve lived on and off Earth, dove.” I stop once steam licks their feet, closing in on the lip of the pool.
“Dove,” she snaps hotly. “It’s soft but the way you say it, it sounds more like you’re caressing a bed of nails.”
Lord. I struggle not to laugh, not be completely enamored with what she thinks of me. Honestly, I don’t even know why I chose to use the term of endearment for her. On Earth, it can be mocking or sweet. I suppose I’ve landed somewhere between the two.
“It fits you,” is all I say to Franny.
Her brows furrow. Mykal is trying to pry a picture frame off its mount. Using all his strength, he braces his boot on the wall and heaves and grunts.
He’s definitely different.
I could mention how the picture is attached by talyglue, similar to cement, but Mykal being occupied frees me to deal with these two.
Court asks, “How did you end up here?”
“I was found on Earth in a small pod.” No Earth
details. No details. I lick my lips and add, “Under the Republic of Gaia, all lost kids must be turned over to the fleet.” Briefly, I explain how the fleet helps place these kids with their families. I had no family on Earth. So I was allowed to either join the military or be put in a foster household. I chose the military.
“Why didn’t they send you back to Saltare-3?” Franny asks like that’s the logical choice.
The question drills into my eardrums and pierces my brain in a million excruciating ways. I can’t answer. I offer her a half-smile and motion to the pool. “Scared of the water?”
“I see what you’re doing—”
I push Franny.
Her voice dies, breath jettisoning out of her lips as she falls backward—but Court is swift and his seamless movements catch me off guard. He clutches her wrist and tugs Franny back upright. In another split second, he shifts to the left.
And he grabs on to me and pulls forward. Hard.
Gravity propels me down and I splash into the warmth of the shallow pool. And I stand, dripping wet. Water stops at my knees, and I look Court over, seeing more of him than I had before.
We all breathe heavily.
Mykal bears a murderous expression. Like he could disembowel me and feed me to his pet wolf.
“You wart,” Franny sneers.
I smile, loving that insult more than any other. I wipe water off my face, beads rolling down my breastplate. And I nod to Court and guess, “You were a thief.”
He glares.
I laugh. I guessed right. Won’t be the last time. My laughter fades as Mykal completely angles toward his boyfriend. His kill-or-be-killed face changes to heart-pounding concern.
I don’t see what’s wrong.
“Court!” Mykal shouts, and then he charges for him.
Franny yells Court’s name, but only after his eyes flutter and his body slackens. His weight plunges toward the pool—I run through water. Franny seizes his wrist, too weakened to support him upright, and Court falls into my outstretched arms.
She doesn’t let go of him.
“I have him,” I assure her.
Mykal almost jumps into the pool, not thinking twice, but then he stumbles backward. Tripping over an unseen force, eyes heavy-lidded, he fights faintness and falls back onto the mosaic tile.
The Last Hope Page 7