I was told I could not attend school.
I could not be a person of influence.
I could not become old.
But I basked in the grandeur of stories. All sorts of whimsical tales. I don’t believe fairy tales are real. They live in the air after they’re told from ear to ear and on pages in old Influential storybooks.
My mom spoke of knights and queens. So regal, she said, they stand tall and proud, my little Franny. She’d brush my nose with her nose. I smiled as she whispered, All the people in the faraway lands revere the queen and her knights.
Why? I asked.
Because they’re good and just.
I can’t say the body I bumped into is good or just, but his posture is straight with purpose and pride. Stork Kickfall refuses to budge and let me through, a black leather satchel in his left hand and a squared bottle of amber liquor in his right.
I arch a brow at him, but a sweat breaks beneath my armpits. Since I barely sense Court or Mykal, this has to be real sweat building. My sweat.
Why am I hot? I try to subtly waft my putrid-smelling StarDust shirt.
All I know for sure is that I’m far from afraid, and I wish my eyes would stop traveling all around Stork and his knightly body—gods, I wish I wouldn’t call him knightly. My mom would be mortified. Namely if she found out he wasn’t good-hearted.
Hopefully her spirit has better things to do than watch me tumble face-first through the extra life I’ve been granted.
His pink lips hike up. My roaming gaze has triggered his amusement.
I simmer. Mad at myself, at first.
Curiosity glitters in his blue eyes. He dips his head, his breath warming my cheek. “My advice,” he tells me, “if you want to go on a scavenger hunt around the ship, bring a map. There are people who’ve lived here for five years, and they still get lost belowdecks.”
“Perfect,” I say in my finest Influential voice. “I’d like a map, please.” I outstretch a palm. “And thank you.” I expect a warty roll of the eyes. Like Court would do.
But he’s certainly not Court.
And he certainly doesn’t care whether I’m proper or not.
Stork smiles with a curt laugh. As though I’m an amusing child. He raises the bag and bottle. “My hands are full, dove. Perhaps later.” We lock eyes.
For a long beat.
He asks, “Are you moving?”
I’d much rather annoy him than entertain any of his irritating desires. But I also have plans of my own. Lofty plans that I refuse to botch. Like prying my way toward more answers.
I cross my arms. “Will you make me move?”
“Like I said before, my hands are full.”
“If they weren’t?”
“If they weren’t, I would’ve found you a map.” He tilts his head. “You’re not my prisoner. I’m not your captor. If you ever want to leave, you can walk out of your own accord. I’ll encourage you to stay. It’d be the smarter choice, but I’ll never force you to remain here.”
I like his words.
Maybe he knew I would, and that’s what concerns me and Court and Mykal most of all.
I reach out and grip the doorway again. Not letting him pass. “What’s in the satchel?” I ask.
Stork lowers the bag behind his back. “Are you always this forward?”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.”
A laugh sticks to his throat, followed by a briny smile.
“See how it feels when someone has too many answers and refuses to share? It’s not pleasant.”
He makes a noise that sounds cross, agitated, and haughty all at once. “This is going to be fun,” he states like it’ll be anything but fun. He suddenly wraps a powerful arm around my waist and hoists me like a storeowner adjusting a mannequin.
“Heya!” Mykal yells.
I kick Stork’s shins, but he’s already setting me down. Moving me only far enough so he could enter the sick bay.
I swat and spit flyaway hair out of my mouth. Wafting my shirt again, I adjust my stance to appear as dignified and knightly as any Fast-Tracker can be. “I’m no fan of etiquette—”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he quips, eyes dripping down my body.
I try not to unravel. “But that was rude.”
“Which part?” he asks, nearing the cushioned benches where Court and Mykal have sprung to their feet. Both spearing stormy threats into Stork.
He acknowledges them with a brisk nod.
“You, lifting me up without a warning.”
Stork tosses the satchel on a bench and mulls this over for half a second. “We were at a standstill.” He turns to me while I approach them. “If I didn’t move you, then you would’ve slipped between my legs. I cut to the chase.”
My face scrunches. “Who says I would’ve slipped between your legs? Maybe I would’ve moved you too.”
Stork swishes his bottle and appraises my outward ire that cinches my brows. “If you can pick me up off the floor for five seconds, I’ll answer any question you ask.”
Any question.
He’s dangling what I hunger after most of all, right in front of me.
Any question.
Any answer.
Please.
Court glares. “Don’t do this to her.”
Stork holds my gaze, waiting for my response. “She can say no if she wants.”
Their discourse confuses Mykal, who picks at the dried blood on his cheeks. Bruises blemish the skin beneath his eyes, but his nose looks no more crooked than before.
Court is trying to tell me not to do this. I could embarrass myself with the attempt. Clearly I see that Stork has given me an opportunity with no real chance to succeed.
And I know who I am.
I can do a lot of things terribly and a whole lot of things decently and then very few things miraculously.
There’s a great big chance that I botch this, but maybe Gem Soarcastle, the fearlessly prideful and confident Soarcastle sister, rubbed off on me at StarDust. Because as soon as Stork acts as though I can’t, I ache to prove him wrong.
Even knowing he’s probably right.
I clamp my hand around his wrist. He lets me.
He also lets me guide him to the end of the bench. More room here, I clear my throat and shake out my arms. Preparing.
Stork removes his sword and throws the sheathed weapon on the same bench as his satchel. And then he positions himself like a stone wall. Limbs hanging at his sides. “My sandals have to be off the floor.”
Sandals. We all eye his footwear. “They will be,” I say.
Mykal hollers out an encouragement between cupped hands, and Court stands gravely.
I think of all the questions I want answered. All the mysteries and uncertainties. Where was I born? Why am I human? And the one I can’t even ask Stork: how can we be linked together?
With a determined inhale, I curve my arms around his bare waist. Pushing my breasts up against his chest, I cling sturdily like I’m hugging a heavy chiseled statue.
Stork raises his arms a bit, elbows bent, all so I can have a better grip without his limbs flailing in my way.
One breath out, I heave upward. Imagining I’m lifting a Purple Coach off an icy patch. My arms shake madly, and my legs quiver beneath me. His body weight seeking to drag me down.
Lift him up, Franny.
Taking a peek, I see Stork is firmly grounded. Not dislodged one bit. His sandals might as well be stuck permanently to the mosaic tile.
Stork whispers with strange gentleness, “What were you saying about moving me?” Sounding less cocky, I hear his disappointment.
As though he’s wishing I could win this silly bet. And he can give me more.
Maybe he’s not in charge here. He hinted at the regimented military having a hierarchy. Maybe he’s just adhering to a command and shielding all of these answers from us because another person told him so—but what can be harder: knowing everything or knowing nothing at all?
I try again.
With all my might.
I grit down. Veins pumping hard with blood, heat exploding across my face, I scream between my teeth and try and try and try.
Squeezing him tightly, I pull up and his heels lift off the tiles for half a second. Not nearly long enough. I pull up and up and up but only frustrated, hells-bent tears threaten to rise.
All humor has evaporated, sucked brutally out of the room, and on my umpteenth try, Stork rests his hand atop my head. “It’s over.”
“Wait!” I exclaim in a short breath, hugging him harder. “Let me try again. Please.” I’m begging. I fykking hate that I’m begging, but the chance at knowing more is an uncontrollable high-speed force that can’t be stopped easily.
I think I spot remorse reddening his eyes. Sharpening his features. But I can’t be sure. He drops his head a fraction. “No, that’s it, dove.”
I detach from him swiftly this time, wiping at my face, but no tears have fallen. I shake my hands, clenching them into fists.
Roasting inside out.
I’m not sure where to look. I know I’ve unraveled a little. My throat closes, and I bite the inside of my mouth. Drifting silently until I plop down on a bench.
Botched it good.
Mykal is fast. He’s sitting next to me, and he sweeps his brawny arm around my shoulders. Tucking me to his chest. “You did your best, that’s what’ll be mattering tomorrow.” He messes my hair with a playful hand.
His compassion cloaks my being. Resting my cheek on his collar, I try to simmer down.
“Congratulations, you’re crueler than you realize,” Court tells Stork, both boys still standing.
Stork laughs lightly while strapping his sword to his back. “No, I’m very aware of how cruel I can be.”
ELEVEN
Franny
Before we start a stew with Stork, he does something less cruel and shows us to a new room just across from the sick bay. Not a single soul is here, but he calls it the “strategy room” and the way he says those words, we know it’s important. Court meanders around the room and scopes the surroundings, while Mykal hovers close.
I stand in the center, taking in the sights. A large squared table is illuminated with neon pieces like a game. Starcrafts and planets line the board. Stork already told us it’s a map of the galaxy that the Lucretzia currently resides in. Dis Pater. The admirals use the board to plot the fleet’s next movements.
It only takes a couple seconds to realize the true reason Stork brought us here. The back of the room has a long slender bar with deep-green cushioned stools. He goes directly for the glass cabinets behind the bar. His satchel, now hooked over his shoulder, bounces off his hip as he walks. Bottles of liquor sit prettily on the shelves, and Stork removes the slender emerald one. We all watch as he spins off the crystal top and takes a swig.
Before I truly start a stew for wasting our time, he unbuttons his leather satchel with his free hand. Digging, he procures three tiny discs the size of a thimble.
“What are those?” I ask and take a seat at the bar.
Like a bartender passing us ale, he slides each of us a single disc. “Translators called EonInterpreters, EI for short. Place the EIs behind your ear and you’ll be able to understand and communicate in all human languages. Tap the translator and an ocular function will engage and help you read.”
My mouth is on the floor. “Why?” Why is Stork offering this to us?
Mykal sinks down to the barstool beside mine and puts the disc up to his eyeball.
Court asks more skeptically, “Why wait until now? This could’ve been useful to us before we boarded the Lucretzia.”
Stork loosely grips the neck of the bottle. “You fainted only a few minutes into boarding the ship. Unless you dream in a human language, impressive but unlikely, an EI would’ve been useless to you.”
“On our way to the Lucretzia—”
“I didn’t bring any with me,” Stork interjects, and to me, he answers, “Like I said before, you’re not a prisoner—”
“I couldn’t even open the puzzle-door,” I admit.
His lip rises. “I’ll show you later. It’s not difficult.” His smirk fades quickly, and he drags his gaze along the ground before eyeing each of us. “The crew has nothing to hide, but of course, I do.” He downs a gulp of liquor, faster and harsher. Wiping his mouth with his forearm, he adds, “You need the EIs to communicate with the crew, and they want you to be able to understand them.”
Court inspects the tiny disc on his fingertip.
“If you want to have full conversations with more than just me and each other,” Stork says, “you’ll have to wear those. Only a handful of people on this ship can speak Saltarian, and the few linguistic specialists and two lieutenants who learned the language can barely string together four sentences.” He rounds the corner of the bar and leans against the wall, a silver-framed picture above his head.
Mykal spins a new, unlit cigarette between his fingers and mumbles something about the disc blowing our heads clean off our necks.
I try not to visualize that gore.
Court hesitates. “Why not have the crew wear EIs and understand Saltarian?”
Stork places his sandaled foot on a cushioned bench, balancing his forearm on his bent knee. “I can’t decide who asks more asinine questions, you or her.” He aims his bottle at me.
I flash a cringe at him.
He smiles into his next swig.
Court is all no-nonsense. “I’m starting to believe you call questions stupid just to avoid answering them.”
My face breaks into a grin.
Stork sighs, nearly smiling as he eyes me, and he drops his foot. “EIs are created by humans. As you three should know, the Saltarian language has a variety of dialects and slang, and it’s complex. There’s more inaccuracy when the translators try to interpret Saltarian languages than you trying to understand humans.”
I suddenly feel something behind my ear—not my ear. I turn to Mykal. He just placed the disc on his skin.
“Mykal.” Court glares.
“Better my head blown off than yours,” Mykal says with a cigarette between his lips. “Nothing’s changed. Must be broken.”
Stork speaks in a throaty language that has some flair and flourish. But his words make no sense to me.
Mykal feels the opposite of confused, and then he starts replying in the same language Stork used—Court rocks back. My mouth unhinges again.
Mykal must feel our shock. He swerves to us, frowning. He plucks his cigarette out of his mouth and says words that we can’t understand.
Court cuts him off. “You’re not speaking Saltarian.”
Mykal laughs heartily and gestures for us to try the EIs. He also offers me the cigarette, but I decline. Not as interested in smoking. At least not now.
I fumble with the disc, and I stick the device behind my ear. Court is faster than me, already putting his on.
“What’d you say to Mykal?” I ask Stork.
“That the discs are waterproof and can be worn at all times. If the adhesion wears off, spit and reapply.” His lips are moving oddly, but I understand each and every word now.
And what he said sounded like a fib. “Really?”
“That was a joke.” He laughs with a shake of his head and reaches back into his satchel, setting his bottle on the bar. “EIs are expensive. They take a big chunk out of the fleet’s budget, so treat them like they’re your favorite pet.”
I crane my neck to see into the satchel.
“No one has pets on Saltare-3,” Court tells Stork in a tone that very much says, you’re not as smart as you believe.
Stork glances back. “It was a figure of speech.” He snatches a book out of the bag and tosses the hardback to Court. “Here you go.”
Mykal slumps at the sight and curses under his breath. Grabbing his wood and knife from his pocket, he complains, “No one said this mission involved reading.”
“It doesn’t, but this book is the key to everythin
g,” Stork says.
We all tap the disc behind our ear so we can read the human language.
Court angles the worn hardback toward us. I mouth the words as I read: The Greatest True Myths of the 36th Century, by Sean Cavalletti.
“There is no such thing as a true myth,” Court says flatly.
Stork subconsciously touches his sapphire earring, shaped like some sort of bluebird. “There is, actually. Some myths that were believed to be false have been proven true.”
Court’s interest piques, but his features don’t change. I suppose he wants to keep Stork further than arm’s length and not be reeled in too easily.
As they face one another, both assertive, both domineering, and both dressed in Earthen clothes—military skirt for Stork and simple tunic for Court—at more than a glance, I’d think Court has belonged on the Lucretzia for years.
He’s good at seamlessly fitting into new environments. A skill that extends beyond our planet.
“What myths were proven true?” Court questions, disbelieving, but he silently thumbs through the book and begins to pace slowly around the strategy room.
“Just last month,” Stork says, “a new mineral was discovered on the planet Prydorium. A pliable powder-blue rock, which has become one of the universe’s first naturally occurring fertilizers in over a century. That book described the mineral in detail years before it was ever found.” He points at the hardback in Court’s hands. “And there are two other myths inside those pages that have come true.”
Fighting the urge to smile, I ask, “So Court is wrong?”
Court flips a page. “I’m not wrong.”
“Haven’t we just decided?” I wonder. “Myths can be true.” I lean my shoulder into Mykal while he whittles.
Court stops in place near the map that’s shaped like a game board. “I’m not having this argument.”
“Read up.” Stork nods to him. “You might enjoy what you find.”
Mykal wears a lopsided grin. “Hear that, Court? You might enjoy something.”
The Last Hope Page 9