The Last Hope

by Krista Ritchie

  “Then how?” Court questions.

  Stork pauses, but then nods and ends up sharing. “Saltare-1 uses Intergalactic Garbage Disposal. IGD. Their trash is robotically shuttled to Rosaline, the closest moon. There are no checkpoints or scans for the bins in or out, and Nia has already hacked the cameras on the shuttles.”

  “Wait.” Kinden holds up a hand. “We’re traveling across planets … in a trash can?”

  I make a disgruntled noise. Wondering how this is safe for anyone.

  Stork tries not to smile. “You’ll have a full body suit and mask to protect yourself from the atmosphere.”

  “Mayday,” Franny mutters.

  Gem clears her throat. “What if an asteroid or projectile hits the trash bins? Debris drifts everywhere in space.”

  Stork gestures to the door. “Nia did the calculations. There’s only a fifty-one percent chance one of us could be hit, but see, half of us can’t die.” He flashes a smile. “And the ones who can will be protected by the body suit.”

  “We’re just floating around in space,” Padgett says while she pulls her silky hair back with a ribbon. “Sounds like a stellar plan.”

  “There’s no other opening into Saltare-1. This is it.” He shrugs. “Honest, you shouldn’t worry about reaching the planet. Being caught as a bludrader or a human on Saltare-1 is a capital punishment, and you’ll meet a fate worse than death.”

  He goes on to explain how all the Saltare planets work congruently with identical governments and laws and caste systems: Babes, Fast-Trackers, and Influentials. Which will make pretending to be Saltarian on a new planet a bit easier on us.

  Instead of Vorkter, their prison is called Onakar, and capital punishments are the same: serving life inside a cell.

  A chill snakes down Court.

  I’m trying not to shiver, but more than anything, I’d like to hug him and whisper coarsely that he’ll never be seeing the inside of a prison. He needn’t fear.

  I’d promise him until I’m blue in the face.

  “If the social structure is the same as Saltare-3,” Court says to Stork, “then who are we pretending to be? We can’t be Babes. We’d already be dead.”

  No Babe is older than thirteen years, and since Fast-Trackers live to be twenty-nine, we all could pass as an FT or an Influential.

  Stork explains, “While we search for the baby in Montbay, we need to be able to walk around without suspicion.”

  I already know where he’s heading. Influentials are nosy. While we were pretending to be them at StarDust, too many ladies and men asked about my knowledge and dealings.

  They pay no notice to Fast-Trackers. Ask them nothing about their past or present. Really, most steer clear, and that’s exactly what we’ll be needing.

  “You want us to be Fast-Trackers,” Court realizes too.

  Stork nods. “Fast-Trackers are basically invisible to most Influentials.”

  Zimmer lifts one shoulder. “We’re wallpaper to their world.”

  “Cogs in a wheel,” Franny says easily. No bitterness. Just stating facts, it seems.

  Gem balks. “We’re all pretending to be Fast-Trackers?”

  “Yeah, that’s the plan,” Stork says.

  Zimmer bursts out laughing and points at Kinden on his left. “You really want him to be a Fast-Tracker?” He snickers again.

  Kinden looks unaffected. “It’s not that fykking hard, Zimmer. I just talk like a chump and say the word fyke every second while drinking ale and popping Hibiscus.”

  “Good one,” Zimmer says, “you drink and take Hibiscus, and we won’t be seeing your egotistical ass for three months because you’ll be passed out facedown.”

  Padgett flips her hair off her shoulder. “I’d flip him over on his back.”

  “Pardon,” Zimmer says. “I meant passed out faceup.”

  Kinden faces him, not appearing offended. “You’re just hurt because you know being a common Fast-Tracker means we act in foolish excess.”

  Franny boils silently and mutters something. I feel her lips form the words: that’s not a bad thing.

  He presses onward, “That means taking irresponsible drugs, smoking beyond limitations, and then there’s running around unclothed—”

  Something snaps in Zimmer, and he shoves Kinden. He slips back, falling toward the pond, and he fists Zimmer’s shirt as they both splash into the deep waters.

  Only Zimmer flails, struggling to keep his head above the surface. He gurgles water, and then Kinden easily scoops Zimmer beneath his arm and swims them both to the mossy edge.

  Before they climb out, Stork quickly says, “Everyone has to jump in. That’s why you’re here. You all need to know how to swim.”

  There are no hot springs or indoor pools in Grenpale or the Free Lands, and unless I wanted to be frostbitten and lose a foot or toe, I wouldn’t risk sticking a limb beneath a frozen lake.

  Stork asks who can’t swim.

  I raise my hand, and besides me, only two go up: Franny and Zimmer.

  Influentials can afford to swim in warm pools, and even though Court was a Fast-Tracker, he was a Wonder. Raised more like an Influential.

  If I panic in that water, I’ll be dragging Franny and Court down, and our link could be discovered. But I hang on to one thought: this isn’t about smarts.

  I know my body well. I’m not gonna be frightened.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Franny

  Before bed, I wring out my wet black hair. Twisting the long strands while I slouch on the edge of the mattress. I’m too sullen to care about creating wet puddles on Stork’s floor.

  I can’t swim.

  I can’t swim.

  Why, gods, can’t I swim?

  Not even after one month of practice. Day and night, I train in the garden pond, and my pulse spirals like a Purple Coach spinning out on slick city ice. I fear death.

  No matter how hard I tell myself, I don’t want to fear death. I shouldn’t fear death. I still fear—and I’m mad at myself. Most of all. I thought I’d conquered this terror, and it reared its monstrous head again.

  So easily our link could’ve been discovered as I coughed on water and panicked, but Court and Mykal always hid their distress by pulling me to land. In the splashing chaos, no one could really tell that they were coughing because of our bond.

  “You have a ton of time. An entire month left to practice,” Stork says while skillfully riding a hoverboard from one side of his barracks to the other. I believe he’s doing it just to infuriate me. The constant swooshing sound as he rides past is enough to drive anyone mad.

  Despite my irritations, his words ring in my ears.

  One month has passed.

  One month is left.

  I can’t see how I’ll succeed. In the atrium’s shallow pool, I could easily float on my back. I’d done so before in Bartholo’s communal bathhouses, but I never tried to swim there. And those waters surely weren’t as dark or deep as the pond.

  Mykal swam with magnificent, powerful strides the very first day he tried. The link will help me, I thought. If I channeled his movements, maybe I could keep my head above the water.

  I tried.

  Fear capsized me again and again and again.

  Mykal’s optimism and Court’s pushiness haven’t helped either.

  “That’s what Mykal keeps telling me,” I mutter. “I have a month left.” He’ll nudge my shoulder and then knock on my head like I’ve lost my senses.

  Gods, I hate that I’m wallowing. Letting my hair soak my shoulders, I stand and wander over to the bookshelf. I skim the spines with the soft brush of my fingers.

  “And you seem to think that’s not long enough,” Stork says. I can feel his hot gaze on my back as he watches me from across the room, but I make an effort not to turn around and look.

  “It isn’t.”

  “And I’d say that’s a little odd coming from you.”

  I snort. Okay, this time, I do turn to face him. “And why is that?” My voice sou
nds accusatory, like he’s called me a wart and a toad all at once.

  He’s smiling. “Because you lived most of your life like a Fast-Tracker. I’d think that someone who thought they’d die at seventeen would believe a month is a long time.”

  I open my mouth to combat, but shut it fast.

  He’s right.

  That clever wart is right.

  A month is an awfully long time for Fast-Trackers. Zimmer would agree. We’ve both discussed our time in Bartholo, trying to unearth any familiar acquaintances. There was Wyton Farcastle. A boy of fifteen years who built an entire ice fort in two weeks before he died.

  Thoughts of Zimmer remind me that his deathday could be any upcoming week or month. He said he’d rather not share the date of his impending death, and I’ve found myself, on more than one occasion, wishing he’d live to be twenty-nine: the oldest age of a Fast-Tracker.

  It’d give him ten more long years ahead.

  Zimmer would believe I could swim an entire ocean by the end of a month.

  But I’m just not so sure.

  “A month is a long time,” I end up saying aloud, agreeing with this fact at least.

  Stork rides his hoverboard over to me, and as the board slows to a standstill, he spreads his feet. “Try with me, Franny.”

  I open my mouth, my pulse racing ahead of my thoughts. Dread coats my skin in a filmy layer of sweat. I’m unsurprised by his request, seeing as how he’s already attempted to curb my fear during training.

  Back in the garden, Stork tried to coax me into climbing the ivy up the wall. He ascended the greenery, and only gripping the vines with one hand, he hung perilously off and waved me forward. “Climb up.” Stork smirked and made a come hither motion.

  I faltered and inhaled jagged breaths like I do now. Irate at myself, I stormed out. Reckless impulsions used to be a part of me. It used to be easy, and I envy his carelessness. Able to shimmy up a vine without thinking, I will fall and die!

  “Is riding the hoverboard for training purposes?” I outright ask.

  “Maybe.” Stork rolls back on the hoverboard, and then scoots forward again as if to demonstrate how simple it is.

  Maybe.

  Maybe could mean a lot of different things. I’m not about to theorize what’s floating around in Stork’s head. He’s a riddle that refuses to be solved.

  Gliding closer, he holds out a hand. “On the board.”

  “I want to,” I admit, scrutinizing the floating platform beneath his bare feet. “It just looks…”

  “Fun, exciting, thrilling—”

  “Terrifying.” I swallow my speeding pulse. “You know you can’t die, but I could fall, hit my head, and be gone.”

  His brows rise. “Or you could just do it. And worry about what happens later.”

  “There is no later if I’m dead.”

  “And you wouldn’t even think that if your feet were on this board.” He grins. “And anyway, pressed up against me, I’m positive dying would be the very last thing on your mind.”

  I laugh. “How can you be sure I wouldn’t want to fling myself off and die and go meet the gods instead? Being pressed up against you might have that effect on me.”

  He smiles wider. “It might. Should we test it, then?” He holds out his hand again.

  I take it this time, and he guides me forward.

  I sense Court.

  Body stiff, his rigid grip tightens on the Myths book. I can imagine his stern narrowed eyes. Reading in bed, he pauses on a page. I can’t control our link or where my mind wanders, but I shouldn’t be dwelling on their disapproval or approval. I’m my own person.

  This is my body. Not theirs, but these are just words. Whatever I do, they’ll experience faintly.

  Court tries to blink, and his breathing deepens and emotions grow determined in a way that tells me he’s trying to focus on his book, less on me. But he must still sense me in a frozen standstill because he mouths, Franny.

  I know.

  This past month, I’ve struggled with letting myself desire anything outside of training. Who would’ve thought Court, of all people, would chastise me for working hard?

  Mykal said I was scared of confronting what I’ve been feeling.

  I laughed too loud at him and ended up snorting. And then shrugging. Maybe he’s right, and as my mind fixates on Mykal, I sense him more strongly.

  He whittles a flute, his thumb pressed hard to the dull side of the blade while he chips wood. His nose flares, battling warmth and desires that veer toward Court. Since uncoupling, they haven’t slept in the same bed. The powerful urge to crawl to each other and embrace keeps them wide-awake at night.

  They’ve slept terribly. Just when Court had been sleeping well on the Lucretzia too, barely tossing and turning. Even without medicine.

  “Your feet go here.” Stork’s voice brings me back to the moment, and I try to forget the lurch of my stomach and my spiraling pulse.

  Stork helps me balance while I plant one foot inside his. He holds my hip and places his other palm on the small of my back. “One more step,” he tells me.

  And then I’m off the ground. Where I could die—I shut my eyes, knocking myself for thinking too much. Bad thoughts be gone.

  Clutching onto his back, I put my other foot outside of his. Our legs interlace, and before I can speak—we shoot across the room. Zipping at rapid speed to the door, my lungs catapult to my throat.

  “Wait.” I panic, my body screaming abort. My grip tightens on him, cheek smashing into his chest. Pressed up against him most certainly.

  “Relax, dove—”

  I shift my weight, and the hoverboard screeches, jerking forward and back.

  No, no, no.

  Stork holds me harder against his chest. “Relax, I have you—” He cuts himself off as the board tilts backward and slips out from under our feet. His spine thuds to the ground, and I crash on top of him.

  He erupts in full-bodied laughs, the noise thundering against my belly. My lips upturn as my Fast-Tracker heart sings forgotten songs of thrill and joy. Stork may have never stepped foot on a Saltarian planet, but he’s somehow reminding me of home. Of the Franny Bluecastle who delighted in simple pleasures, who never wasted time on fear.

  And he’s a reminder that I’ve changed.

  I’m different. Court once said that I can still be a Fast-Tracker, but I’m more. I’m my good-natured mother. I’m my long-lost friends, and I know I’m human too—but gods, what does that even mean?

  My lips fall. “I wish I were Saltarian.” I whisper a sad truth while lying along his muscular build. I’m about to sit up, but his arm curves around my lower back.

  “Don’t wish that,” he says softly, almost achingly. “Your humanity is one of the best parts of you.”

  My breath slows. Overwhelming feelings bear against me.

  The door suddenly whooshes open.

  Zimmer emerges and then skids to a halt. He smiles wryly like he caught Stork and me lip-locked. But I’m chastely on top of Stork, and quickly, I slide from beneath his arm and fumble to my knees.

  Zimmer is still grinning.

  “What?” I snap.

  Stork is not making a move up off the ground.

  “Should I come back later?” he asks, his gaze pinging from me to Stork and then back to me. “So you two can finish properly.”

  My nose flares. “There is nothing to finish. I fell off the hoverboard.” Announcing my failure to ride it seems better than declaring some sort of affection toward Stork. We weren’t about to declare any love. We weren’t about to kiss. Nothing was happening. And that wart does not need to think that I like him in any way, shape, or sensual fykking form.

  And I don’t.

  I don’t.

  “If you say so.” Zimmer steps farther into the barracks, and he shares a knowing look with Stork. After all the nights Zimmer and I have spent in Stork’s barracks, I’ve noticed Zimmer’s and Stork’s carefree demeanors seem to mesh well and they rarely, if
ever, butt heads like I butt heads with them.

  But they’re not the same. The deceased admirals strapped too many responsibilities onto Stork, and in life, Zimmer carries close to none.

  And if Zimmer hadn’t come into the room, nothing would have happened between Stork and me. I’m sure of that.

  My stomach keeps clenching like I’m lying. I’m not lying.

  Stork climbs to his feet and abandons the hoverboard on the ground. He walks through puddles from my hair like nothing is amiss, and his sandals track wet footprints on the mosaic tile. “Besides falling off the hoverboard, did you enjoy the ride?”

  Yes. The answer sits on my tongue. I know I’ll be thinking back to more than just the feeling of flying through the air. I did, very much, enjoy being pressed up against him. But those words will never leave my lips.

  Stork unlatches the cabinet next to the one Zimmer leans casually against.

  In my silence, both boys look to me for an answer.

  I shrug, unable to give Stork the satisfaction of a proper response, and then I plop on the edge of the bed.

  Stork lifts his brows at me. “Cat got your tongue?” He uncorks an opaque black bottle and swigs.

  I scowl. “I don’t know what that means.”

  He ponders for half a second. “You’re being unusually quiet.”

  “I didn’t enjoy the ride,” I say bluntly. My stomach betrays me and twists, but only two boys can feel the lie and it’s not the ones I face. “And a million cats must’ve eaten your tongue because you’re quiet on just about everything.” I shoot to my feet and approach him.

  I’m not afraid of you.

  I hold his enthralled gaze, and I snatch the bottle out of his hands.

  He lets me. “It’s strong whiskey.”

  “For every sip you take, I take,” I tell him, because a sloshed Stork hasn’t been forthcoming this whole month, so maybe a sober Stork will be.

  He tilts his head. “I’ll drink you under the table.”

  “Then drink less.”

  Stork laughs hard, like I’m jesting.

  “I’m serious,” I snap.

  “I know, that’s why it’s funny.” He flashes a cocky smile. “You’re not much of a gambler if you’re telling me to lose.”