The Last Hope

by Krista Ritchie

  The Fast-Tracker on our left emerges from the darkness. He’s older than us. Maybe by five years or so. Bald-headed, dirt and grime smudges along most of his pale skin. He reeks fouler than the sewage.

  Holding my breath, I watch him grin, a few front teeth missing, and he twirls his long metal pole.

  He sidesteps around us to join his friend and frees one side of the tunnel.

  Can we run for it?

  I try and take a step back—

  “Ah ah ah.” He wags a finger at me in disapproval.

  I glower. “Who made you king of the fykking tunnels?”

  Court stiffens more than he should as an FT.

  The bald-headed boy snickers and he unpockets a glowing orb, the soft light illuminating his equally dirty and sniveling friend. He has spiky pink hair and a half-bitten ear, but Court and I are more focused on what he holds.

  A rusted … mechanical device, something more suited for Saltare-3. A screwdriver, maybe?

  “I know, she’s a beauty.” The pink-haired boy grins. He raises the rusted object and kisses the metal edge. “Bought her on Saltare-4. They call it a nail gun over there.”

  They both laugh shrilly again.

  I shoot them a scowl. “Do I look like I care about your nail gun?” Court’s pulse hammers harder in my veins, but I continue, “I’m not into pain. I’m into pleasure. Like my friend said, we’re headed to the Lulencrest—”

  “Only chumps would use the tunnels to get to Lulencrest,” the bald boy tells me. “Everyone knows that it’s only accessible by boat.”

  Court grinds his teeth into a grimace.

  The pink-haired boy snickers louder. “Freddie must’ve given you the wrong directions. He does that sometimes.”

  The bald one spins his pole and retraces his steps. Blocking us in again on the other side. “He knows we have a tally to reach before we die.”

  I cringe.

  “We’re at one hundred and thirteen,” the pink-haired boy adds. “You two will make it one hundred and fifteen.”

  “We can count,” Court says flatly. “What do you want?”

  He lifts his nail gun. “Pay the toll for walking through our tunnels. One in the hand for each of you.”

  My stomach somersaults.

  “And if we refuse?” Court asks.

  “It’s called a toll for a reason.” He laughs. “You can’t refuse.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Mykal

  The Gandwich Orphanage is a four-masted sailing ship. Enormous. Dozens of thick ropes tie the vessel to a rickety dock, and it sways gently in the crammed harbor. Boats brushing up against more boats. Two glass towers flanking the wharf.

  I don’t know where to rest my eyes. Up above, wooden bridges crisscross dizzily from one building to the next and swing in the breeze. Cheap and free. Unlike the glass railways and elevators that cost bills.

  I’ve gone from the stark emptiness of snow and ice.

  To the quick hustle of stone-and-brick Saltare-3 cities. Where people kept warm inside.

  To the rowdy and crowded water world. Where everyone and their damned friend leisurely yammers away in the sun. Like they have nothing else to do.

  Stork at my side, we’ve come out from the stuffy bottom of the ship. Standing on the front grimy deck, nails stick up from uneven planks of wood and green mold grows on the ropes.

  The country has taken no care to tidy up this ship. Streamers and seaweed garlands—decorations for the weeklong holiday—hang off rusted rigging and torn sails.

  Little boys and ladies pay no notice. Climbing up the mast, they play a game where one chases and the rest flee.

  Stork and I just spent a hot hour down where the orphans sleep. A lady flipped through a registry of the newborns. According to the fairy-tale Myth book, the baby should’ve arrived in Montbay by now.

  But the Gandwich Orphanage hasn’t had a newborn in a whole month. Which means the Myth baby has to be in one of the other four orphanages.

  I haven’t lost hope. We’ll be finding this baby. When Court puts his mind to something, he makes anything possible. And he’s as determined as ever.

  Stork has been largely ignoring me. He watches the orphans play. Partly lost in thought, he unconsciously pinches the skin at his temple.

  The corner of my mouth rises. “Our pa used to do that.”

  His head jerks to me. “What—?”

  “Heya, mister.” A bony boy of five years tugs on my frayed shorts, his curly, sun-bleached hair matted at his shoulders. “I like your hair.” Tips of my blond locks are dyed fire-red. “How’d you get all those scars? Why is your nose crooked? Can I touch your muscles?” He pokes my thigh.

  “Leave me be, or I’ll be throwing you overboard.”

  He giggles.

  I roar at him like a beast in the mountains.

  He shrieks, darts to his gaggle of friends on the bow, and giggles again.

  “Our pa,” I say to Stork. “He used to pinch the flesh by his temple when he was thinkin’—like you just did there.”

  Stork smiles into a wince and nods a few times. “Next you’ll tell me how we looked just alike?”

  Our pa had a narrower jaw and thinner lips than Stork. “I think you must’ve looked more like our ma—”

  “I was being sarcastic,” Stork says with a short laugh, audible even over the clanking ship noises and hollers across the harbor.

  “You’re craving to know more, or else you wouldn’t have kept that damned carving.” The snow leopard I whittled. Franny said he put it on a bookshelf in his barracks.

  Stork inhales but stays on the ship deck. I watch him wipe sweat off his brow. He’s been queasy the past few days. More hurt fissures through his features, and he puts his hand on his hips. Winded.

  He looks like he needs somethin’.

  I lower my voice. “I’ll be giving you your sword back.” I didn’t bring it, but first thing when we’re back on the Lucretzia, I’ll be passing it to Stork. He’s no longer drinking himself away. And I’m glad to see he’s no longer sweating through his clothes or shaking like a tree in a snowstorm from the withdrawals, as Court called them.

  “You took it, keep it,” Stork retorts.

  I glower. “Why do you have such a nasty attitude around me and only me? You can be bright-eyed around everyone else—”

  He takes a pained step closer and beneath his voice, he says with conviction, “Because you’re too kind. You keep trying to tell me everything about where I came from while I’m telling you nothing about your life.”

  I scratch the stubble along my jaw. “I was alone for eight years before I met Court, and then Franny came along, and I had two people I could talk to. You were the third damned person I could share stories with, and maybe I was a bit overeager. But I get more out of talking with you than you realize. You needn’t tell me anything in return.”

  “Heya, misters!” the gaggles of children yell.

  We glance over at the bow and they giggle like they caught us undressing.

  Stork tries to smile but cringes. Watching the orphans, he tells me, “I reckon I’ve wanted to know about you and Grenpale since I first saw you.” He reties loose pieces of his snow-white hair, pushing strands out of his face. “But every time you talk, it reminds me of what I’m denying you.” He turns and flashes me a half-smile. “The end.”

  He’s about to pass me, but I catch his shoulder.

  And I say, “I’ll be waiting to tell you about our pa, if you just stop shoving me away.”

  Stork considers this, and then the children bellow, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” at the two of us.

  I grunt out, “You don’t fight your brother.”

  Stork is smiling with less bite, and he sighs out and looks to the sky. Maybe speaking silently to his Lord.

  “Kiss! Kiss!” a few yell.

  Gods bless. “You damned well don’t do that with your brother neither.”

  Stork laughs hard. “Stay in school, kiddos.” He nods over to the
ship’s ladder. Our exit.

  I follow at his side, and the children shout back at him gleefully.

  “What’s a kiddo?”

  He’s been casual with slang, often tossing in a random word no one’s heard of before. Not as cautious as Court about slipping up our disguise.

  “We’re not allowed to go to school, you wart!”

  Stork gasps. “No kidding.” He already knew Fast-Trackers and Babes aren’t formally educated.

  I wear a crooked smile, and before we head down the rope ladder, we glance over at one another—we’re both smiling the same kind of humored smile.

  And he nods to me. “You know, I was never going to spar you for the sword. I couldn’t be sure how badly it’d hurt them if I hurt you.” He’s referring to the lifeblood link. Court.

  Franny.

  We’ve all sparred enough that there’s no harm, but now I know he thought about their well-being. It meant more to him than his blade.

  I’m liking my baby brother more and more. “I would’ve won anyway.”

  He laughs. “Yeah right.” As we descend the ladder, he mentions how he had me pinned the first time we met.

  I’m explaining how I was underweight, and I’ve wrestled creatures three times his size to the ground. We drop down on the rickety dock, the sailing ship about twelve feet high beside us.

  I sniff. Sewage stench bombarding my nostrils.

  Hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Court, Franny—both are in the sewer tunnels. I’m sensing them more strongly.

  “What’s wrong?” Stork rounds back when he notices I’m not budging.

  “I dunno…” My breath cuts short—Court.

  He’s holding his breath, and a fiery growl tickles Franny’s throat.

  Stork watches me with a keen eye. “Is it Court and Franny?”

  I nod. Concentrating on them, I taste bitter iron. Blood. Franny’s nose is bleeding. I sense a prick of fear, but I’m unsure about the origin.

  Is the nosebleed frightening her?

  “How bad is it?” Stork asks, concern cinching his brows.

  I dunno. Frustrated, I expel a harsh breath between my sunburnt lips. “We gotta go find ’em—”

  “You two.” A lady interrupts us. “Come here.” She peers over the railing of a pristine two-masted boat, vessel polished and sails proudly displayed with the painted words: TOSS ASIDE YOUR TRICKERY! GIVE BLESSINGS TO VICTORY!

  The dock dead-ends to our left, and her sailboat is tied up about four vessels to the right of the orphanage. We left our dinghy somewhere farther down that pathway, and to return to it, we’ll have to be passing this lady.

  Getting our tiny boat had been our luckiest deed. A man with a pint wanted us to cheer with him about the God of Victory. We sang a few songs and he let us borrow his dinghy.

  “Let’s act like we didn’t hear her,” Stork whispers as we head down the rickety dock.

  Wood creaks beneath our tough strides.

  “You two,” she coos, her jeweled ring glinting in the sun. She holds on to a hat shaped like a boat, a yellow feather sticking out of the corner. More feathers are sewn onto the hem of her dress, and seashells curve along her neckline.

  Two more steps, and her sailboat with the name The Montbay Majesty is next to us—and someone suddenly heaves their body off the damned thing.

  A hefty boy of twenty-some years drops down.

  Creeaaak.

  A board breaks under his weight, and the dock quakes. He has about two-hundred-odd pounds on me.

  Instantly, I extend my arm over Stork’s chest. Pushing my baby brother back.

  He won’t let me.

  Stork swings his arm over my shoulder. Staying locked right up against my side, he whispers to me between his teeth, “I won’t die.” He shoots a fake smile at the boy and shouts, “Heya! Move your ass.”

  The Fast-Tracker lifts his hairy chin. Crossing his arms over his burly chest. Dark-purple hair is wrapped in a bun on his thick head.

  “Or we’ll be making you,” I threaten.

  “He’s with us,” says the lady on The Montbay Majesty. “Our security guard won’t bite unless he has to. Now, come here, boys.”

  We turn our heads. A man weaves his arm around the lady. Wearing a silly hat with a feather, brass buttons run down his velvet vest.

  “My companion didn’t stutter,” he snaps. “Come aboard.” He motions to the metal ladder attached to their boat.

  I grind my molars. My pulse hammering. Sweat dripping down my temples, and I wish it were me.

  Touching my face, no sweat has beaded up.

  Court.

  Franny.

  I wipe at my nose—not me. She’s rubbing and pinching her nose.

  Stork laughs at the Influential couple. “We’re not interested in whatever you want. Go bother someone else and tell your gu—boy to move.” He clears his throat, catching himself from saying guy fast enough.

  I keep my eyes on their security guard. So he won’t be hurting Stork.

  “We’re taking you both,” the lady announces, paying no mind to all that Stork said. “For the night. Three hundred bills apiece. If you prefer pills, we have those as well. You’ll do and say whatever we want from here on out.”

  Stork mumbles under his breath, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Her eyes undress him slowly.

  The man isn’t looking at me too kindly either.

  “Put your eyeballs back in their sockets before I rip them out,” I growl.

  He laughs. “I like that one.”

  “Mmm,” the lady coos in agreement. “The other is more handsome.”

  I’m glad to be considered ugly in her eyes. She’s uglier in mine.

  Stork waves a hand at them. “How about you ask before you take?” he says with a raise of his brows. “And the answer is hells no.”

  “You’ll enjoy it,” the lady says smoothly.

  “Wow, you must be a mind reader—”

  I elbow his side. Never did I think I’d be scolding someone for tripping on dialect. If Court were here, he would’ve been talking us out of this mess much better and sooner.

  “Wow?” The lady frowns.

  The man is fuming a bit. Impatience curling his lip. “If you don’t come aboard, I will drown you in the harbor. You will cough up salt water for years.”

  My gnarled brows knot. “You will be drowning us? Not your security guard?”

  The man is scrawny. Not as broad as I. Not as muscular as I. Easily, I could fight him and win.

  He pulls at the frilly white sleeve of his shirt. Revealing shimmering metal and gears where his arm should be. Wires are tendons of his muscle.

  There aren’t any robotic prosthetics on Saltare-3.

  “This is the latest model of the Power 3400. It has the strength of fifteen men.” He grins. “Let’s try this again, shall we? Come aboard or drown—”

  Pain attacks me. I scream through my gritted teeth and stare wide-eyed at my quivering hand. Something stabs my palm—his palm.

  Court.

  I scream angrily. A fierce puncture throbbing my flesh. His flesh.

  “Mykal.” Stork has a hand on my back. “Hold on.”

  Gods dammit, I gotta go find ’em—I peel out of Stork’s hands and I charge at the security guard. I punch his gut.

  He hardly flinches. Doing nothing to me. Just standing there like a rock on a dock.

  I’m strong. I’ll be shoving him down. I push.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  I twitch as fear rakes down my back.

  “What’s wrong with that one?” The lady inhales a disgusted, uncertain breath.

  I’m in a tunnel.

  Stench all around me. Sharpness impales my palm again—no. Tears prick my eyes. “RUN!” I growl into a scream. You better be running. You better be moving.

  Court mouths to me, it’s fine.

  I shake my head over and over. They’re not all right, and I’m too far away.

&nb
sp; “Something is not right with him, Florian,” the lady tells her companion. “I don’t want him, and the other is too peculiar.”

  Florian sighs. “Fine. We’ll find another.”

  She lets out a disappointed breath. “What a waste.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Court

  Today has been terrible.

  I pull out the nails and bandage our hands with fabric from our shirts. The rest of the night we search for Lulencrest by canals. Once we find and enter the rusted metal structure, Franny and I meet bleak news. No newborns. As we make our way back to the hostel, I feel as if I failed us both. Pain sears in both our palms, not even having enough time to stop and suture the gashes closed.

  “Can you stop?” Franny mutters, feeling my guilt mount up in her. “It was the only way, Court. They had us blocked in, and we couldn’t have overpowered them both … they had weapons.” She pulls at my shoulder to make me stop and face her. “I’m serious.”

  “There could have been another way,” I say. Maybe if I had more time. If I could have thought of something better. If we just didn’t go down in the tunnels to begin with.

  Franny’s brows knot. “No.”

  “That’s it?” I snap.

  “That’s it,” she agrees. “So stop fretting over this before I start a real stew. It’s just a silly wound.” She waves her bandaged hand. Blood dotting the cloth. “The nail is gone.”

  “You can’t close your fist,” I remind her.

  “Tomorrow, maybe I can,” she says determinedly and then pushes her way to the door. I trail behind her, trying to let her words sink in. There’s a good chance that if we tried to run or even fight, the Fast-Tracker would have pointed the nail gun at our heads. He wouldn’t think it’d kill us. But it could.

  I hold on to that.

  The hostel bursts with excitement, people chattering and drinking, and we weave between the young bodies to find our familiar place. I spot Padgett and Kinden first, lounging on the mattress and chatting quietly. Then I see Mykal. He shoves his way through the crowds, panicked blue eyes flitting to me. Worry bursts in my chest. His worry.