The Last Hope

by Krista Ritchie

  Court licks his thumb and turns another page, but I catch his lip ticking upward.

  I’m about to ask Mykal if Court just smiled at his joke, but I sense Mykal: the sudden swell of his chest. He stares at Court for a long, long while, almost like he’s replaying the moment.

  Stork hops up on the countertop behind the bar and sits there. Right across from Mykal and me. “Saltarians want a fight,” he explains like we’re a little slow to catch on.

  “That part has been obvious,” I snap.

  “Well, let this sink in, dove. Humans can die. You can die.”

  I shiver, trying not to fear that uncertainty. Not again. Please, not again.

  “Saltarians fight without any shields,” Stork continues, “while you have humans walking into combat in full-metal armor.” Before I ask why he’d wear protective gear if he’s Saltarian, he tells me, “Armor is customary in the Earthen Fleet.”

  “But you don’t need it,” I state.

  “Accurate.” He nods and licks his lips. “Saltarians know that the Earthen Fleet has no real chance if we go to war. We can’t kill them, and so for the past decade, the majority of the fleet has been avoiding their ships and trying to devise alternative strategies.”

  He really loves Earth, but I don’t understand why the planet is so special besides being the motherland for humans. “Is Earth beautiful?” I wonder.

  Stork cocks his head, sloshes his liquor in its bottle. “What do you define as beauty?”

  I think about the Catherina Hotel. All the gold and grandeur. A kind of beauty I dreamed to die inside, but nothing compared to seeing the stars. “I find all sorts of things beautiful, I suppose.”

  “Trees,” Mykal pipes in. “There’s no better beauty than a sturdy tree.”

  Stork frosts, rubbing his knuckles, and he appraises Mykal without a word. Again, Stork has skipped over my answer. Not providing any detail about Earth.

  Mykal brushes wood shavings off his legs. Finished whittling, he displays a beautifully carved snow leopard between two fingers to Stork. “For you—”

  “No—”

  “Our pa—”

  “He’s dead,” Stork says with an uncaring shrug. “He died.”

  Mykal runs his tongue along his sharp molars. “Yeah, he died, but he’s still watching.”

  “I don’t believe in your gods,” Stork proclaims.

  Mykal grunts something and pulls at his hair, finding words. “Then believe that he’d want you to know about him, and this”—he chucks the snow leopard and Stork catches it quickly—“is somethin’ a pa crafts for his newborn. Supposed to represent the wild inside of his child.”

  I’ve heard this story before. How Mykal lost his wooden sculpture when he was nine and wandering the Free Lands. He accidentally dropped the white bear figurine in an ice fissure while fishing. Sunk to the bottom. When he realized he couldn’t retrieve the carving, he said he cried until he passed out.

  Stork brushes his thumb over the edges of the snow leopard. He inhales, then ejects a forceful sigh. “I don’t care about him.”

  He looks like he cares. “You’re lying?” I ask.

  “Am I?” An icy smile crosses his mouth, and I remember how he said he doesn’t lie.

  Maybe he’s lying to himself.

  Stork swigs another big gulp, and then holds the bottle limply. “You want to know something? If you and I”—he gestures to Mykal, then to himself—“if we hadn’t been swapped, if instead I grew up on Saltare-3 … then I still would’ve never known my father.” He tosses the snow leopard in his palm and then throws the statuette at Mykal’s chest. “So, really, this is yours. Not mine.”

  I’m confused, but Mykal isn’t.

  He scratches his neck. “You’re an Influential then.”

  Oh. I should’ve remembered. There are no Influentials in Grenpale. If Stork has a deathday that is later in life, he would’ve been sent to another country. Instantly. As a newborn.

  Stork nods.

  “What’s your deathday?” I ask.

  “Not for another one hundred and thirty-two years.”

  I try not to gawk. “You’re living to be … one hundred and fifty?” That’s one of the longer life expectancies. Anything past one-fifty-five is rare and starts feeling like tall tales. A girl at the orphanage said her brother would die at one-sixty, but I thought that was a bold-faced lie.

  “With certainty,” Stork says with an arrogant smile.

  Jealousy nips at me like a cold draft.

  Mykal is rolling the snow leopard in his palm. “He’s fallen into luck.” I hadn’t thought about that … how Mykal isn’t the lucky one since his ma never died giving birth to him. She died giving birth to someone else.

  Stork is the true Kickfall, blessed by the gods.

  He tosses the statuette back to Stork, and before he protests, Mykal says, “A pa still crafts one for his Influential newborn. It’s yours.”

  Stork opens his mouth to reply.

  “It’s the baby,” Court interrupts us. We all turn to look at him. He’s wandering back and flipping the last page in a hefty-sized book.

  “What?” Mykal and I say together.

  “There’s a myth about a baby.” Court reaches the bar and still scans the end of the hardback. “Said to be the first of her kind, neither human nor Saltarian. A new species. She carries the ability to both teleport and cloak items.” Court plants his sternness on Stork. “You want her to hide Earth. Your retrieval operation—you’re not planning to retrieve a something. You want to retrieve a someone.”

  A baby?

  Stork rubs his mouth, shock parting his lips.

  Mykal points his knife at Stork. “Never underestimate our Court. He’s smarter than the best of anyone on any damned planet.”

  Court doesn’t roll his eyes or say he’s not good. He breathes deeply, letting himself soak up the praise for once.

  Stork recovers by jumping off the countertop, his sandaled feet hitting the ground with a thud. “Yeah, that’s the mission. Because if we bring her to Earth, she’ll keep everyone out of a war that we can’t win.”

  Strained silence bleeds into the strategy room.

  He outstretches his arm. “This kid…” He pauses. “This child. She is Earth’s last hope. Otherwise, Saltarians will find us sooner than later and overrun the planet.”

  I slowly stand to my feet.

  Mykal follows. “I’m just going to come out and say it.” He smacks his lips. “What’s teleporting?”

  Court shuts the book hard. “It’s made up. Fictional. Like a fairy tale.”

  Stork laughs curtly. “We’ve been through this. Myths can be true. And teleporting is the ability to transport objects, including people, from one place to another.”

  Mykal shakes his head. “No, that doesn’t sound right. Seems made up.”

  Stork turns to me. “Do you think this is make-believe?” He’s asking because I’ve kept my mouth shut.

  Teleportation? I can barely picture a person with an ability to move objects, but if anyone asked me to imagine and believe our link—I’d call them mad.

  I exchange a look with Court and Mykal, and they must remember our strange, unreal connection because their skepticism begins to subside and their stressed shoulders drop.

  I shrug at Stork, keeping my thoughts close.

  Stork nods and then his eyes drift to each of us. “Look, there are certain species in this universe with abilities, but this baby is the only one I’ve heard of that can both cloak and teleport objects as large as an entire planet. And at the end of the day”—he shoves the book in the satchel, also slipping in the snow leopard—“I’m not asking for your permission. I’m telling you this is the op. You’re either in or out. It’s your choice, but if you choose not to do this, you don’t get the information you want.”

  Before any of us can answer, the door whooshes vertically open, and a young girl in a military skirt and armor emerges, panting and out of breath. Footsteps pound frantic
ally behind her, and I catch a glimpse of people running in the same direction.

  “Stork,” she says, face flushed. “It’s happening.”

  TWELVE

  Franny

  “Why are they gathering ’round like this?” Mykal asks.

  Stork leads our way, fisting a new bulbous bottle with darker liquor. “You’ll see.”

  We’ve followed the frantic footsteps inside the divine courtyard. Rivaling the unique splendor of the atrium, the courtyard is like being transported into an Influential storybook.

  Foliage and budding pink flowers spindle up humongous marble columns that pillar eight wraparound balconies. Upper observational decks, Stork called them, and we climb a spiral staircase to the fourth level.

  As we ascend, the gushing fountain hooks my attention. Right in the courtyard’s center, a lovely stone-carved woman gazes powerfully at the sky port, petal blossoms adrift in the pool at her sturdy feet. Continuous streams of water burst from her palm and trickle down her curves.

  With the lush greenery, fancy columns, a starry sky port, and midnight drapes blowing like wind exists indoors, I would’ve happily died in this beauty. At least back when I was preparing poorly for my deathday.

  Now my stomach lurches at the mere thought of dying.

  Don’t think about death.

  I try.

  We gather around a balcony railing, and I spy crew accumulating on each observational deck. Their wide eyes fix on the stone fountain down below. The rush of water and cool mist cuts into the uncomfortable air.

  Nothing is happening that I can see.

  Stork guzzles a mouthful of liquor. Drinking more than any Fast-Tracker friend I had, and most spent all of their bills on ale.

  Court braces his forearms on the banister, his intense focus pumping adrenaline more than I really like.

  Pacing back and forth, I try to free myself from the prickly energy. I rotate on my heels and stumble toward an anxious cluster of boys and girls my age. Pooling onto the fourth upper-deck, all sport military leather, armor, and archaic weapons like javelins and clubs.

  Their whispers fade and their probing eyes poke at my StarDust slacks and shirt. Most gawk but meander right on past. Going to another balcony section.

  But three stay put.

  I latch eyes with each. Trying to emphasize that I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of you.

  Stork mentioned that he’s the only Saltarian onboard.

  These must be humans.

  Real-life living, walking, talking humans, and I crave to hear what they have to say. With the translator behind my ear, I can finally understand them.

  The petite girl with tightly coiled curls—she drops her crossed dark-brown arms to her armored sides, battle-ax strapped to her back. Head turning fast, she plugs her nose. And cringes.

  A towering boy whiffs the air, a scar cut along his sculpted cheekbone. He has reddish-gold skin that complements his bronze shield, his woody-brown hair shaved on each side. A mop of curls on top. Silver bow and quiver slung over his shoulder.

  His face bunches up. “What’s that smell?”

  “Piss,” I say bluntly. “I took a piss on myself.” In the brig, I thought I could hold my pee until we were freed.

  I was wrong.

  Waiting for his snide remark, I try not to feel as pathetic as the Romulus cadets said we are.

  Mykal lounges against the railing beside Court, but he faces the military-clad people like me. His flexed muscles tensing mine.

  The towering boy looks to the third person, a steely-eyed one, who holds him dotingly around the waist. Coupling.

  Humans must couple too.

  The steely-eyed boy has cropped black hair and a rich blend of olive and copper skin, and like the others, his weapon, a spear, is situated on his back. He moves his hand in a variety of ways. Signing something to Stork.

  And strangely, I understand the gesticulation. The EonInterpreters must be translating his finger motions into words, and the answer just breezes to mind.

  He signs, “Why didn’t you bathe them?”

  Stork props his shoulder against a column. Cocking his head at me.

  I flush hot in remembrance of how he tried to shove me into the atrium pool. To clean me up.

  “See,” Stork tells me, “I told you, you stink like you’ve been sitting in your own shi—”

  “I can bathe myself,” I cut him off.

  Behind me, Mykal says huskily, “You tell them, Franny.”

  I nearly smile.

  The girl unplugs her nose. “It’s unsanitary to be in soiled linens. You’ll get sick.”

  “She knows,” Stork says to the girl but keeps his eyes on me, and then on Mykal. “They both do.”

  “Then why hasn’t she changed yet?” the girl asks, soon after pinpointing Mykal. “Why hasn’t he?”

  Court was sponge-bathed and dressed in a tunic. Though, he had no real choice. His wound needed to be properly cleaned.

  “Why do you care?” I ask, not too snippy.

  She frowns. “Why don’t you?”

  I do. I try not to take offense, but wordless sound scratches my throat.

  At the start, I didn’t. I had no desire to take care of myself. Not my cracked lips, not my aches and pains. Not my headaches or chills. But I’ve come far.

  I’m certain I have.

  I care.

  So deeply, so impossibly about my little life. I’ve done everything I can to stay alive. How is that not proof? Why do these dirty clothes tell a different story?

  Court rubs his face, attempting to soothe the fire that scorches me. His hand is my hand. His palm, marred with old scars, pauses on his mouth. He struggles against the impulse to peer over his shoulder at me.

  I find my voice. “I care.”

  I care.

  No one can tell me otherwise.

  The steely-eyed boy signs to the girl, “They don’t trust us enough to bathe here.”

  Sympathy lowers her shoulders. Realizing why we’ve risked our health and stayed in rancid clothes.

  “You can trust us,” the towering boy says, brows cinched like he can’t believe in a reality where we wouldn’t trust in them.

  I shift uneasily and shake my head. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  Stork pushes off the column. Sidling next to me, so near that I smell the sharp liquor off his breath, he introduces them with a casual point of a finger. First to the steely-eyed boy. “Barrett Daybreak.” Next to the towering boy. “Arden Shipwreck.” And then to the girl. “Nia Hopscotch.”

  Daybreak? Shipwreck? Hopscotch? “Are all human surnames that odd?”

  Hand over nose and mouth, Arden muffles out, “All Saltarians taking castle as a suffix is weirder.”

  Not to me. So it goes: we’re all one people, together—or I was once a part of those people. I still feel like a Franny Bluecastle. I don’t know who else I’m supposed to be.

  Barrett signs, “Those aren’t our surnames.”

  “What?”

  “Those are our C-Jay call signs,” Arden replies, still muffled.

  Stork pays little attention to them, checking more on the state of the balconies that are filling up rapidly.

  Nia puts the tiniest stick in her mouth. “We belong to the Knave Squadron.”

  The Knave Squadron.

  At StarDust, no one grouped off like that. We just had the Saga 5, which became the Saga 7, and I guess it’s now the Saga 4. Just Kinden, Zimmer, Padgett, and Gem. Off somewhere in space or docked on a new planet.

  Mykal eases forward to Nia. “Can I have a stick?”

  She quickly plugs her nose and tosses him a pack. “They’re toothpicks. Keep it.”

  He mumbles a tongue-tied thanks and starts chewing on a toothpick.

  I start to connect the military attire to C-Jays. So Stork must be one, and instead of asking outright, I jump ahead and question, “What’s your call sign?”

  Stork jerks in surprise, and his blue eyes sparkle down at
me. But he’s not answering. Of course.

  “Tight-Lipped?” I guess.

  He smirks. “Try again.”

  He’s too pleased. I shut this down. “It has to be that.”

  “It’s not.”

  “It is.”

  “It’s Knave.”

  Cold spurts up and ices my brain. This is his squadron?

  He mockingly lifts his brows as mine arch at him—I hate when he does that—and he brings the bottle to his lips.

  I see more than his cocky attitude. I see how there’s a chance to find information from new sources. No longer needing to rely on Stork, I ask the other three C-Jays, “What does the Knave Squadron do, exactly?”

  Each one turns to Stork.

  Un-fykking-believable.

  Stork nearly laughs, but the gathering crowds seem to preoccupy half his mind.

  “Are they not allowed to answer without your permission?” I question.

  “There’s a hierarchy, dove. Certain information is classified.” To the C-Jays, he adds, “The human rescues are being granted two-stripe clearance.” He explains that a two-stripe clearance is equivalent to a combat pilot, the same as Daybreak, Shipwreck, and Hopscotch.

  So if they want, they can tell me anything they know. He spoke true when he said that the crew had nothing to hide from us. I prod Stork for more. “How many people are above you, then? Fifty? A hundred?”

  “Four,” he says, a gloating smile on the rise. “Venus Squadron is a first-defender. Mine is second. I’m a rank below Captain Venita.”

  Still plugging her nose, Nia says nasally, “And the three admirals of the Earthen Fleet.”

  Stork takes the biggest swig yet.

  To save the C-Jays from my smell, I shuffle backward. Until my hip bumps into the railing next to Mykal, and I rotate to discover more and more bodies on balconies, fretful whispers and nervous eyes.

  No one is dressed in regal gowns or classic suits. Here, people either wear tunics, the military skirt and armor, or draped linens with an Earthen brooch: three concentric circles with a leaf in the middle.

  Stork approaches me.

  I think he has something to say, but he bypasses me with a knowing once-over and he clamps a hand on the railing. Dangerously, he hikes his leg over the banister and straddles it. One more swing of the other leg, and he faces forward, both limbs dangling carelessly off the observational deck.