The Last Hope

by Krista Ritchie

  Ignoring that, I swig from the bottle, the sharp liquor scalding my throat on its vicious descent. I cough a little bit but choke down the whiskey.

  Far away, I faintly sense Mykal rubbing at his neck. Disgust lingers, but not as potently as when I eat fruit. I detest the bitter flavor of whiskey much more than they do.

  I stifle another cough.

  Stork looks less amused.

  Zimmer sidles to me and sniffs the bottle. Grimacing. “It smells worse than the piss-water ale they sell on Fowler Street Ave.”

  “I liked that ale,” I defend. “I don’t like this.”

  Stork steals the bottle back. “Don’t drink it then.”

  “I’m doing what I’m doing,” I say, not so poetically. But I never had lofty poetic dreams. My eyes roam his cut cheekbones, his dangling earring, and his slicked-back snow-white hair, tied with an elastic band. I’m not just looking because he’s handsome. Sometimes I try to see who he is. The Saltarian boy who was raised eighteen years strong on Earth.

  The picture is hazy with an unknown landscape and unknown parents, and I only understand more of what he missed.

  He was meant to grow up in an Influential city on Saltare-3. He was meant to combat the snow and ice and understand what piss-water ale on Fowler Street Ave. tastes like.

  And I was meant to see the world he lived inside.

  “Who named you?” I ask.

  Stork inhales a sharp breath, as though readying himself to answer. And then he winces into a forced smile. “A person.” He swigs.

  I jerk the bottle out of his hands when he finishes. “You want to tell us more; I know you do.” I barely take a sip before he wrenches the whiskey from my clutches.

  “I’d love to tell you more about who I am, but how am I supposed to share the little things when everything is connected?” He mockingly widens his eyes, but sadness flashes in them. “The answer is that there is no answer. I wait. I wait for when this all bloody ends so maybe you can know me then.” He shrugs tensely and downs a larger gulp, staring at the ceiling.

  “What’s the harm in telling us now?” I ask.

  Zimmer adds, “We’ll all still do the mission no matter what—”

  “It’s not about the op,” Stork interjects. “The admirals had one dying wish, and I swore to them—I looked them in the eye, knowing they were about to sacrifice their lives; something I can never do—and I promised that I’d wait to tell you.”

  I blister. “If their dying wish is to keep secrets from us then their dying wish is cruel.” I steal the bottle.

  He watches me sip the drink. “It’s complicated.” He lets me hang on to the whiskey and he waves me onward.

  Maybe he’s hoping if I’m sloshed, I’ll stop harping on about the admirals.

  Zimmer snatches the bottle from me, takes a gulp, and passes the liquor back to Stork.

  “Who named you?” I ask again. “What if I die on Saltare-1 and I never learn these things about you? What if no one ever knows these things?”

  While he studies my indignation, a strand of his hair slips out of the tie and brushes his temple. “You think no one on this ship knows who named me?”

  Did I assume wrong? He seems lonely, like he’s been yearning to share more about his life for eons of time, and with us, he finally has that chance.

  But he has to wait.

  “Does anyone living know?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Only me.” One sip of liquor and he asks, “Who raised you?”

  “My mom,” I say without pause. Taking a risk by lowering my guards. I pry the bottle out of his hand. “Just her, and she was beautiful and kind, and I watched her die when I was six. Her death was just as glorious as she was.” Lungs on fire, I pant like I’m running up a monstrous hill.

  He stares into me like he’s excavating more of who I am, and he reaches for the bottle—I tuck the liquor to my breast. “I haven’t sipped yet.” I add, “Who named you?”

  “The woman who found me in a pod.” He breathes deeper. “On Earth, there’s a myth that a bird delivers newborn babies to parents, and she thought the name fit.” Before I ask, Stork clarifies, “The bird is called a stork.” He grins at my growing smile. “You appreciate that?”

  “Very much.” The air unwinds, but unleashing more is as grueling as scaling Grenpale mountains. “Did you always want to be a C-Jay?”

  “Sip and pass back.” He motions for the bottle.

  Lips to the rim, I wince before I even swallow, the fierce sting growing worse as we go on.

  Once I push the whiskey into his hand, he tells me, “I played with plastic toy spaceships as a kid. I wanted to fly and protect Earth. I thought it was my destiny.”

  I hang on to his use of past tense. “You don’t anymore?”

  He drinks and licks liquor off his lips. “I reckon I do, but I believe a hell of a lot less in destinies. People have choices, and some screw with the lives of others and some help. That’s it.” He shakes the whiskey at me. “What was your job on Saltare-3?”

  I clasp the neck of the bottle. I’ve held on to this answer for a month, but he’s begun to divulge more about his life, so it feels only fair that I do the same. “I was a Purple Coach employee.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific.” He has no knowledge of the shuttle service.

  I almost laugh at a thought. Of what information exists on file about Saltare-3; Purple Coach never made the history books. My job must not have been important to historians, not enough to grace any page or any computer.

  “I was a driver,” I say, a bit apprehensive to share. “Whoever had bills to spend, I drove them across cities and countries.”

  “Bad tips, hostile passengers, dangerous roads,” Zimmer chimes in, giving Stork a fuller picture of Purple Coach. “Most FTs never apply for that job. They just take it for the Fast-Tracker benefits.”

  Stork locks eyes with me, processing.

  “I never wanted to be anything else,” I say with short breath. “I liked being behind the wheel and having the chance to go places and take people where they needed to be.”

  I was important.

  I was necessary.

  I can be left out of history books, but I know my place in that world.

  Stork frowns more. “You actually drove?”

  “Every day since I was eight.” Up until I was required to retire for the six-week decline. I chug harshly while amusement glitters in his eyes, and then I shove the bottle into his chest. “It’s not funny.”

  “No, it’s incredible.” He smiles into a laugh. “If only you knew how weird it’d be for an eight-year-old human to drive a car, let alone on the terrain you managed. Does Saltare-3 even have automatic gears?”

  My lips part. “There are cars on Earth?” He’s talking like vehicles exist, and he’s seen people drive.

  He swishes the liquor, thinking. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You said something—”

  “I can’t talk about Earth,” he says gently. “We’ve been through this, dove.”

  I groan into a sigh. “You can caress those words but they’re still aggravating.”

  He grins while he swigs.

  “Why is knave your call sign?” I question and tug the bottle midsip. Liquid spills down his chest, and he waits for me to apologize but I just take a showy gulp and cough.

  His lip quirks. “How does that whiskey taste?”

  “Divine,” I snap.

  “Must be why you keep choking.”

  Zimmer grabs the bottle before I stubbornly chug half the liquor, and I sway a little bit into his side. Woozy, I blow out a measured breath.

  My shoulders throb, and I only realize now that Court is sitting achingly straight, more cautious than before.

  “You never answered,” Zimmer tells Stork.

  He pauses for a while and rests his shoulder blades against the cabinet. “Knave is the human equivalent of what Saltarians call bludraders.”

  His call sign means tr
aitor.

  I rock back. “But you fight for humans.”

  Zimmer cringes. “You let them nickname you that?”

  He rolls his eyes in a dramatic arch. “See, I’m what they’re afraid of, and I understood growing up that they’re just scared of who I am.” He smiles more sadly, running his tongue over his teeth. “Honestly, I prayed to be human because it’d be easier.”

  I can’t detach my gaze from his. And again, I notice his use of the past tense. “You don’t pray for that anymore?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “The man who raised me sat me down and said not to hate who I am because that’s a surefire way to die before you’re dead.” He pulls the bottle out of Zimmer’s hands. “Some kids and teenagers called me knave out of spite, and I let the word roll off my back. Sooner or later, people kept calling me knave, but out of respect. I like it because it fits. I’m not human, and the Earthen Fleet loves me, not despite being a Saltarian, but because I am Saltarian and I still chose them.”

  My chest heavies. “You’re good and just,” I realize.

  He smiles painfully. “I’m following an order that is extremely unfair to you, Court, and Mykal, and I’m doing it anyway”—he raises the bottle to his mouth—“because if we fail, you get no answers. You get nothing. I wouldn’t say that’s good or just.” So he’ll comply with those terrible orders until the bitter end, and I hate that he will. But I see that it’s already hurting him.

  Or else he wouldn’t be guzzling the liquor right now.

  We only talk for a little bit longer, and I stop drinking before I stumble or slur. Back on the bed, I unbuckle my sandals.

  Stork shuts the cabinets and then takes a pillow off the bed for the floor. He’s slept on the ground all month.

  “Would you rather sleep in the bed tonight?” I surprise myself with the question, but he’s shared things that he’s tried to keep quiet. We both have. And him sleeping on the floor suddenly feels wildly unfair.

  Stork frowns and glances at Zimmer.

  “It’s up to Franny,” Zimmer says, already claiming one side of the bed. If it were up to him, he’d be fine with five more bodies all crammed onto the mattress.

  I kick off my footwear and crawl back to the headboard.

  Stork eyes me curiously. “Why tonight?”

  “You’ve been less of a wart,” I say strongly.

  Light touches his eyes like he’s smiling before his lips do. “I’ll sleep on the bed.” He sheds his military skirt and wraps linen around his waist. “But not if you’re scared.”

  I swelter, a glistening sheen on my beige skin, and my tunic already clings to my frame. “I’m not scared.”

  He approaches, skimming me, and I scoot to the middle of the bed. As Stork rests a knee on the other side, my abdomen cramps like a fist rammed into my stomach.

  I grit through a wince and roll onto my belly. What’s happening? I try to focus on Court or Mykal, but our senses are muddled in razor-sharp panic. Rage. Anguish.

  “Franny?” Zimmer calls, voice pitching. He hovers over me while I bury my face in a pillow and death-grip the sheets.

  Court is yelling, his throat burning raw.

  “Franny!” Stork is on the bed, rattling my shoulder. “Franny.”

  I need to go.

  I need to help them. “I need to go,” I choke out. Mykal cradles his arm around his sore stomach, spitting out nasty curses. He must’ve been punched. And Court fights hot tears, shouting … I concentrate on the movement of his lips that feel like my lips.

  He’s shouting, He’s not to blame!

  And …

  I love him!

  Water squeezes out of my eyes.

  “Maybe it’s her bleeding,” Zimmer tells Stork.

  I had my bleeding last week. I mutter under my breath, “It’s not me.” My mind is pulled in different directions.

  Quietly, Stork asks, “Is it Mykal or Court?”

  I freeze.

  Why would he ask whether it’s them?

  Does he know about…?

  Gods …

  He knows about our link. I gasp on cold fear.

  Mykal and Court go absolutely still. Sensing my abrupt panic, they turn, and their feet are my feet. Running toward me.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Mykal

  I’m running with no care to glance back at what I’ve left behind: a riled Kinden Valcastle. He wanted to wish his brother a good night, and what he saw was a watery-eyed Court, despondent from our uncoupling and exhaustion—and Kinden spun on me.

  He used some foul words first, and I provoked him before he socked me in the gut. Ever since he knocked Franny unconscious at StarDust, I’ve been craving to lay a hand on him. But out of my feelings for Court, I didn’t touch his brother.

  What’s happening in Stork’s barracks is a different story.

  Franny is on a bed with them. Her fear rakes down my bones, and hands touch her hip, her shoulder—my blood boils and my legs pump more forcefully beneath my urgent gait.

  Court reaches Stork’s barracks, quickly unlocking the puzzle, and I blow past him and barrel inside.

  “Get off her!” I growl through gritted teeth, two paces into the room.

  Franny hurls herself off the bed and races right into my arms.

  I hold her tight, my concern stomping on my anger and banging questions at my head. Skin-to-skin, I sense her more clearly: thumping pulse, apprehensions squeezing her lungs.

  She speaks with ragged breath, stumbling over words. “Who hurt you? Are you all right? He knows—he’s known all along.”

  Which one knows what? I lose my chance to ask.

  I’m rushing forward—no. I’m not the one truly movin’. Franny and I look up. Court is the slingshot, aimed for Stork, who steps confidently off the bed.

  He’s taking my place, what I’d do if Franny hadn’t flown into my arms. With a lot more grace than I, Court glides across the room in a blink and thrusts Stork against the frosted bath door, rattling the glass.

  “Heya!” Zimmer extends his gangly arms between us. “Last I checked, we’re on the same side. No need to start a stew.”

  Boiling inside out with a curdling wrath, Court bears a rigid forearm to Stork’s windpipe. Muscle pressing on neck bones, Stork clears his throat in discomfort. Nothing but a tint of bitter sorrow behind iced blue eyes.

  “If you hurt her,” Court sneers, “you are our enemies.”

  Her pulse pierces the sky. Franny whips around in my arms, her back to my chest. “Stork didn’t hurt me. Zimmer didn’t hurt me—”

  “I wouldn’t fykking dare,” Zimmer interjects heatedly, surly that we’d believe differently, but this damned link shares no intentions. Just emotions, senses, and all of that combined with the horrors we’ve been through has made us jump to the worst. We’re left assuming too much off only a morsel.

  Court narrows his gaze. “Then why?” Why is she fretting?

  “Stork knows we’re linked,” Franny professes.

  My mind whirls, and I dunno what to think or grasp onto. Court is solid stone, imprisoning breath in his lungs. I wish I could wrap an arm around him. I wish I could whisper in his ear, assuring him, even if nothing is making much sense to me.

  Zimmer gawks. “Linked?” He must know less than us.

  Stork tries to answer, his voice wheezy. Choked. Court releases some weight off his throat, and then Stork coughs once and says, “We don’t … call it that—linked, linking.”

  Court is nearly nose-to-nose with Stork. “I don’t give a damn what you call it,” Court seethes. “You’ve known about our connection all this time, and yet you said nothing.”

  “And you’d still know nothing if I hadn’t slipped up,” Stork retorts with raised brows. “Lord have mercy, I should’ve kept my mouth shut.” He lets out a painful laugh. “But I bloody cared about you and him.” His icy gaze daggers me. “During Franny’s distress, I thought you two were hurt and needed help, and I slipped up.” He’s kicking himself all right
.

  My mouth almost curves upward.

  I’m glad my baby brother cared about us.

  I’m glad he tripped up for once, and I’m thinking maybe there is good coming from Kinden’s anger toward me after all.

  Court leans back off him, just a bit. “Did the dead admirals tell you not to discuss linking with us?”

  Stork rests his head solemnly against the frosted door. “No.”

  Inflamed shock punches my gut, and Franny sways backward into my chest. I must be sensing her surprise. I wrap a comforting arm around her collar, and air fills her lungs. Helping us both breathe better.

  Stork meets her blistering gaze. “It wasn’t their order. It was my choice.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Franny snaps.

  His chest falls.

  Zimmer is floating mindlessly on a hover-ma-board or whatever the hells it’s called, and his head swings back and forth, listening to this unfolding argument.

  “This truth,” Stork says to Franny, “it’s not one I’ve been dying to tell you. It’s not happy. It’s not comforting. It pains humans to remember.”

  “It pains humans to remember? So humans know about the link,” Franny realizes, voice trembling. “I asked you a month ago.” Her fingers curl into fists, containing her temper. “I asked you what happens when humans are tested for deathdays. I asked what that date means on a Death Reader, and you didn’t answer me. But you knew then, didn’t you?”

  Stork nods.

  I jump in, “Why didn’t we find any of this in the books?” All right, I didn’t do much reading, but Court did enough for the whole world and then some.

  “What you’re looking for was a long time ago, and it’d take more than a month to find the right book,” Stork says, having trouble not looking at Franny. “You could’ve done an advanced search in the database, but none of you know how to work our computers that well.”

  Zimmer rocks from side to side on the hover-ma-board. “Someone care to clue a wise FT in?”

  Franny scowls. “You’re more of a chump if you need to be clued in.” She mutters, “Like the rest of us.”

  He touches his heart. “Beg your pardon, I meant a wiseass.”