The Last Hope

by Krista Ritchie

  Toothpick between my teeth, I smile lopsidedly at him.

  He’s not looking. But his breath hitches. So he feels me as strongly as I do him.

  Shirtless, we’re both only in linen night skirts. Too hot for much else. Ink on his thighs and an Altian star tattoo tangled in the thick scars over his heart—he already looks like he’s been through war. And I’m not excited to let him face another.

  But I vow to protect him. To protect both of them from death. No matter where we go together.

  For Court, he’s put more pressure on himself with the where part. He’s worried about leading us in a nasty direction.

  It’s why I can’t steal his gaze from those damned pages.

  “How’s the book going?” I ask, shreds of fabric on my lap. I ripped up one of the blankets earlier and found a sewing kit with the cigarettes, and I’ve been stitching a pair of slacks.

  Tunics look silly as can be. Like potato sacks.

  Court skims a page. “It’s two parts ridiculous, one part intriguing.”

  “A book you don’t like.” I grin. “I’m liking this book already.”

  Light passes through his grim eyes. “Aren’t you busy sewing something hideous?”

  I laugh. “Yeh, and you’re gonna love this hideous thing on me.” I chew a toothpick and eye the line of his squared jaw. Moodiness in his grave features and feelings, a constant companion that I like greeting.

  “Probably,” he whispers, his gaze stroking my mouth.

  Fire flames my muscles, my yearning, and I toss my toothpick aside. His hand slides up my neck, tugging my hair—I feel the strands gliding between his fingers.

  I lean in, untamed eagerness pounding our hearts.

  “Mykal.” He breathes against my lips.

  Court. Not afraid, not hesitant. Not anymore.

  I bridge the gap. Mouths melding, we pull together as fast and powerfully as a gun blast. Hands gripping. Kissing, a hunger awakens. Trembling my bones. Aching closer.

  Closer.

  More.

  Our knees knock, and I roll on top of Court, my coarse hand to the headboard. Hips to hips, mouths not breaking apart. My other palm slides down his chest. A satisfied noise tickles his throat, but he says deeply, “Wait, Mykal.” His pulse spikes.

  “Court?” I draw back, panting for breath. Our lips stinging.

  His face is all hard lines. All worries.

  Gods bless. I sit on my ass between his spread legs while he pulls himself up. Rigid, jaw tensed. If someone’s been halting and hesitating recently, it’s been him.

  I don’t see why. Other than he fears the link is growing stronger, but he didn’t mind as much as I did about that.

  “Is it ’cause I smell?” I ask. I haven’t bathed yet.

  He rolls his eyes. “No.” He finds his book entwined in the shredded blanket that I’d been sewing.

  I rest my forearms on my bent knees. “Is it your brother?”

  “What?” Court frowns.

  I shrug and stick another toothpick in my mouth. “Kinden didn’t like me much. Maybe that’s stuck with you.”

  Hurt clenches his lungs. And I feel that I’m wrong. “I’d never stop kissing you because of Kinden,” he confirms, but he stares off at the wall. “And the likelihood that I’ll see him again is small.”

  “You may,” I say hopefully.

  He doubts. “If there’s a future war, maybe I will. And we’ll be against one another.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. Saltarians versus humans, and Kinden would be on the opposite side.

  Pain grips Court’s throat. He swallows a rock. “I don’t wish to fight my brother.” He’s expressed how he feels empty for Saltarians and for humans. I understand that coldness in him. After all he’s been through, I know why it’s there. Self-preservation is what he’s best at.

  But he’s not all cold.

  Court clings to what he loves because what he loves makes him feel more and more alive.

  And he loves Kinden.

  A world where he has to go head-to-head with his brother, again, will chip more of Court away. I can’t have that happen.

  “We’re not going to war,” I say certainly. “We’ll be finding this magical baby and all will be right.”

  He drops his gaze. “We could fail, and as certain as I am that we can run from war and the Lucretzia, I don’t think she’ll desert the fleet. Not after the admirals died to save us.”

  We both know Franny well. Guilt will be eating at her spirit if she doesn’t repay them somehow.

  “I won’t be able to stop her,” Court whispers, “but I also can’t fight for them.” He grinds his teeth, pained at that scenario.

  Queasiness roils my insides. “Don’t go predicting the future, Court,” I tell him. “It’ll be making you even more miserable.”

  He lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Retrieve a baby. Hide Earth,” he muses. “Sounds more impossible than entering StarDust and flying to space.”

  I chew on the flavorless toothpick. “You’re the one always chasing impossible things. I’m just along for the ride.”

  Court almost, almost smiles. He taps his fingers to the Myths book. Weight bearing on his chest.

  I scratch at my neck. “You gonna tell me why you pulled away from me or should I keep guessing?”

  His head lowers, hair brushing his lashes.

  All right, I’ll be guessing. Not minding talking when he’s quiet. I think on how I’m rough. Bedding in Grenpale wasn’t about tender hands, and he’s been hurt in the past.

  “I’ll be trying my toughest to be gentle with you,” I tell him.

  Something bright flutters in his chest. He lifts his head. “I know you will.”

  “It’s not that?” I realize. “The link, then?”

  He stiffens.

  It has to do with the link.

  Court holds my gaze. “On Saltare-3,” he starts explaining, “I was never too concerned that people would learn about our link. No one would draw that conclusion. It’d be so far-fetched and illogical. But the Saltare sister planets and Earth—we have no idea the extent of their knowledge yet.”

  I rub my temple. “Wouldn’t they think it’s just as strange? I’ve heard no one on the Lucretzia or Romulus talk about any sort of bond like we have.”

  Court thumbs the myth pages. “When Stork gave me this book, he said abilities aren’t unheard of, so we can’t be certain of anything.”

  My hand rests on my hot neck. “Can’t we just ask Stork if linking exists?”

  “No,” he says. “It’ll give us away, and if someone knows the three of us share emotions and senses, that information can be so easily used against us. Against you.”

  Understanding rushes at me, swaying me backward. “Which is why you’ve been drawing away.”

  He nods. “I know no one is around right now, but to be on the safe side, we should be more careful.”

  I’m not opposing that precaution. Anyone using our link against us would be a sort of torment I don’t want to meet. I’m not always good at hiding the frustrations that come with linking, and I never thought someone might catch on till now.

  Truth being, I’m not happy about any of this.

  I glance at the book in his hand. “What if they have history books on this starcraft? Maybe there’s something about linking in them.”

  Court solidifies at a sudden thought. “That device in the office … I think it was a computer. On the way to our barracks, I saw a girl searching some sort of database. It could be a catalogue with information.”

  I smile. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go look—”

  A banging crash resounds from the bathroom. Our heads swerve. Franny. Her senses are too faint to feel while I’m close to Court.

  Something’s wrong.

  No talking, no lingering, we scramble off the bed and bolt toward the bathroom. Pulses in our throats.

  “Franny!” Court calls.

  I whip the frosty door to the si
de. Dark-blue tiles are wet and the showerhead is still spewing water. Franny lies naked beneath the spigot, conked out. Frailer than when I first picked her off the snow.

  I squat near her, water soaking me. “Franny.” I lightly jostle her arm.

  Her eyes flutter.

  In response, wooziness tries to pull at my lids. Hurriedly, Court shuts off the shower and then hands me a fuzzy towel. I wrap Franny up and lift her in my arms.

  Sensing her better now, a bump throbs at the back of her head. “She must’ve fallen,” I say, carrying her quickly to our room. “You can slip in those damned showers.”

  Court rebuts, “You can drown in a bathtub.”

  I set Franny gently on the bed and take a knee at her side. “Franny?” I peel a wet piece of hair off her face.

  She fights to open her eyes.

  Court is quiet for a second, concentrating on her senses. Heightening the link between them. “I don’t think she slipped.”

  My muscles burn. “Someone pushed her?”

  Court rolls his eyes. “Can you jump to a conclusion that makes more sense?”

  I say a nasty Grenpalish word, never using it before with him.

  His grays narrow. “That sounded vulgar.”

  “It was.”

  “Don’t … fight,” Franny whispers, stealing our attention tenfold. We shut our mouths, but only speak to ask if she’s okay, what happened, and to tell her not to sit up too fast.

  She rolls onto her back, towel tucked around her gaunt frame. “One second I was lathering soap in my hands … and then the next, I’m groggily hearing you call my name while I’m … on the ground.”

  “You fainted,” Court says, nodding. “You need more food and rest.”

  Exhausted, uncontrollable tears spill from the corners of her eyes. “Fyke,” she curses. “I was doing good at the whole taking care of myself thing, wasn’t I? It’s not my fault. I care. You know I care—”

  “Heya, we know,” I cut in. “We know.” My eyes burn, and I turn to Court. Because his words will be having a greater effect. His opinion means a lot to us both.

  “You’re not to blame,” Court says in his strict voice. “We were in a prison, Franny.”

  She wipes at her watery eyes but they keep watering.

  A knot is in my chest.

  “Just rest here.” I comb her wet hair back and then stand. “Court and I will be grabbing some food, and we’re going to look into a database thing.” We explain the link, all that we need to learn and all that we decided.

  She nods in understanding. “Go find some answers.”

  FOURTEEN

  Franny

  No luck. We’ve had no luck in snooping for answers. Court and Mykal snuck to the computer without anyone noticing, but it took an hour for them to figure out how to use the machine and access its database system. Finally, when they broadly searched for “linking” or “bonds” between humans, nothing arose.

  Even worse, Court tried to find information about Earth, but every time he typed anything related to the planet, an alert popped on the screen that said, password protected.

  Either the Earthen Fleet always keeps these details secret, or they’re just hiding this knowledge from us.

  Court is on edge, but we go where we’re told in the morning. First to the dining hall where kitchen staff hand the crew copper bowls. People eat somberly on benches, heads hung. Voices morose. After we collect our bowls, Stork says we’re having breakfast in the library.

  He ushers us into the courtyard, balconies largely empty, and he works on opening one of the arched puzzle-locked doors. More sullen faces pass us. Crew lingering in the divine space that now feels haunted with sorrow and tears.

  Two girls in military skirts are sitting slumped on the edge of the gurgling fountain. I recognize the red-braided girl as Captain Venita. Eyes bloodshot and hands clasped together, Venita wipes the other’s wet cheek and then presses a loving kiss to her lips.

  I ask Stork why everyone is so solemn.

  The door to the library clicks, but he pauses and gives me a curious look. “It’s not apparent to you?”

  Embarrassed heat roasts my face. “Should it be…?” My voice travels—suddenly, I taste sweetness on my tongue and notice a faint gag.

  Court just ate a spoonful of the yellowish breakfast food beside me. And Mykal is no champion of fruits.

  I try not to dry-heave or glance at either of them.

  I bake twice-over and plant a scowl on Stork.

  He looks knowingly at my flush, but I’m still holding down the theory that he doesn’t know about our link. So the joke is on him.

  Stork skims the length of me. Nearly smirking with boastful eyes that say, what a naïve little dove. “I guess you wouldn’t know.” He sticks his spoon in his mouth and somehow speaks clearly. “Saltarians don’t grieve death like humans do.” Pushing the door open with his back, he also adds, “The crew is in mourning. They watched their admirals die yesterday.”

  Mourning.

  I wonder how long their sadness lasts. If it’ll end soon or persist. Death is morbid here, I realize. But I see love in their tears as they weep for those they wished could’ve lived longer.

  Yet Stork isn’t grieving like them.

  “Where are your tears for the dead?” I ask outright.

  He’s a bit taken aback. “You’re a blunt girl.”

  “You’re a cagey boy.”

  His smile is briny. And then he proves me right. Not answering back, he pushes into the grand library.

  Instantly, Court, Mykal, and I halt, looking down at the squishy ground beneath our feet. Springy green-green grass. Dewy like it’s just been watered.

  I never thought this could exist on a starcraft. Glittering silver-cushioned benches are clustered in circles so crew can read or study together.

  Stork walks backward and studies my awed reaction most of all. “You’ve never seen grass?”

  “Not without snow,” Court says austerely, his commanding presence carrying no ounce of naivety, despite us being new to this place.

  I’m glad we have Court on our side.

  Mykal scuffs a chunk with his heel, but the grass is lodged to the ground. “And our grass isn’t fake.”

  Turning his back to us, Stork saunters farther inside. “The roots are hooked into a floor trap so the grass stays alive. Mine is as real as yours.”

  I cup my copper bowl and look wide and far. Musty-smelling old hardbacks of every size and color stack up high to the domed ceiling. More shelved books curve around the oval room.

  One other person is here.

  Nia rides a hovering platform, big enough for each sandaled foot. Hardbacks teetering in her arms, she zips to the left shelf with perfect balance. Curls bouncing on her shoulders.

  Stork drops his spoon in his bowl and sticks two fingers in his mouth. Whistling. She doesn’t hear, so he shouts, “Hopscotch!”

  She peeks at us, eyes reddened, and the platform descends to the grass. Gloomily, she slogs the hardbacks over and dumps them onto the nearest bench.

  We caused a stew yesterday when Mykal clapped for the dead, and while some crew are still miffed, most seem to aim their hurt toward the Romulus.

  Nia is the same.

  She nods kindly in greeting and comments on our clean state. Though her cheeks crinkle at Mykal, who chose to go bare-chested and dress in patched slacks.

  “Hopscotch,” Stork says. “Make sure the crew knows the library is off-limits for the week.”

  She huffs. “I hate reading on the digital tablets.” But she nods. “You aren’t going to the ceremony today?”

  I haven’t heard about any ceremony. I pretend not to listen and just push around the yellowish food. Already tasting the gritty substance and sweet bursts.

  Court is eating in quiet contemplation.

  “No,” Stork says, unperturbed. “I’m training these three.” He waves his spoon toward us.

  Nia marches to a device that resembles an upsc
ale vending machine. “You know, when I agreed to run collections, I didn’t think it’d mean becoming a book overlord.”

  He takes a casual bite of food. “What a burden.”

  She types on the machine’s screen and a flat handheld tablet pops out. “Thanks for nothing, Knave.”

  “Cheers,” he calls while eyeing my bowl and spoon, breakfast uneaten. Mykal shovels food into his mouth with his fingers, avoiding all the dark-orange berries.

  Nia waves back as she leaves, and we congregate around the books she left.

  “What ceremony are you not attending?” Court asks and exchanges his bowl for a hardback. We all tap our translators to read the title: Galactic Encyclopedia: Dis Pater.

  Stork sidles close to me, as though this is the most natural place to stand. When he could literally park his feet anywhere. His blue gaze flits to me even more than it does to Court.

  Sweat builds under my pits. But I don’t break our gaze. “He asked you a question.”

  “The new admirals are being sworn in today,” Stork answers, and before anyone can jump in, he asks me, “Not hungry?” His tone and gradually rising smile indicate that he knows I truly am famished. He has this big-headed air that rubs me hotly.

  I lift my chin. “How are the new admirals chosen?”

  “Public vote.” He watches me not eat. “You think I poisoned your food?”

  No. “Maybe you did.”

  He turns fully to me, pauses while our eyes catch, and then he scoops my sludge with his spoon. Taking a large bite, he swallows and smiles. “See, not poisoned.”

  Mykal and Court are very tense, their breaths caged. Watching Stork and me. My jaw aches as they clench their teeth.

  They shouldn’t be so vexed and pissy. Stork unnerves me in such aggravatingly hot strides. I feel the exact same as them.

  I scoop a spoonful. “What is this anyway?”

  “Cornmeal, bonnaberries, pecans, and mashed banana. Affectionately called fleet grub.”

  Chewing slowly, I’m not surprised by the taste or grittiness, but the consistency of fleet grub will take time to grow used to.

  “You’re not in line to be an admiral?” Court asks him.