The Last Hope

by Krista Ritchie

  I can’t.

  Stork turns on me and the baby wails harder in Zimmer’s arms. He tries to rock her with no avail.

  “What do you want me to do?” Stork says, his voice breaking. “Leave her where we found her?” He touches his chest. “I know what it’s like to be taken from my parents—do you honestly believe I want to do that to someone else?”

  I don’t know.

  For Earth, maybe.

  When I don’t disagree, his face breaks into a pained, choked laugh. Zimmer frowns. “Since both of you are too emotionally invested in this … situation,” he says, “I’m going to make the decision.” He shifts the baby in his lanky arms. She cries again. “She can’t stay in the alley. If she doesn’t have parents, she’s going to starve or get stolen by a worse wart. We take her back to the barge and decide things there.”

  Stork nods, and I also agree to the plan.

  Nearby sirens wail, but they’re coming from the opposite direction of Court and Mykal and the others. But it’s a reminder.

  It’s only a matter of time before our faces are plastered across this city. And when that happens, with or without the baby, our window to leave Saltare-1 will have closed.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Stork

  One thing is bloody certain.

  She’s the correct baby. She disappears every few seconds, causing all of us to look around the house barge in tense anxiety. Until seconds later, she reappears on Court’s lap.

  She’s been doing that all night. Cuddled contently in his hands. He’s the only one who can hold the newborn without her crying.

  Got to give it to the kid, she knows how to make a joke. See, of all people she could have preferred, she chose Court. The guy who’s stiff as a board and cradles her like she might combust in his arms. Honestly, he doesn’t look that comforting or soft.

  Anyone else would have been a better choice. If I were a baby, I’d have chosen me, but not all newborns can be as smart.

  Quietly, she sucks on her thumb, happy for now. We don’t even know if she’s hungry or if she drinks milk like newborn Saltarians and humans. Not that we have any.

  I sit atop the wooden dresser in the main living area, my gaze plastered to the baby. Franny’s earlier words have infiltrated my head … my heart. And Franny is right. If that baby has parents here in the city, it changes everything.

  The Myth book never mentioned her parentage, and I’d always felt right about taking her from an orphanage. It’s why I never brought up this scenario. I didn’t think it’d be possible to find her in an alleyway. That she could have family in the city. People who love her. Want her. I myself was stripped of a father.

  Knowingly doing that to a child is something I’m trying to grapple with. Something I’m not sure I can actually go through with.

  But if we don’t bring her back to Earth …

  Lord, I don’t know what to do.

  “Maybe she was inside the orphanage and teleported her way into the alley,” Gem offers as explanation. Cross-legged on the ground, she tinkers with a portable fan and tries to disassemble it.

  Padgett folds a paperback over her thumb, having picked one off the tilted shelves in the barge. “That’s a good possibility,” she agrees.

  “Maybe she was always in the alley,” Kinden refutes. “Fast-Trackers do stupid things like leaving their children alone in the city.”

  “Heya.” Zimmer points a finger. “I’d never leave a baby in an alleyway.”

  “I didn’t say you,” Kinden says.

  Court cuts in, “You’ve been horribly quiet about all of this.”

  I don’t realize he’s talking to me, until the silence grows. I meet Court’s stern, narrowed eyes like he can see through me. He’s too observant for his own good.

  “What do you want me to say?” I ask into a sigh.

  Court glares. “This is your mission.”

  I laugh. “And here, all this time after training, I thought we silently agreed that we’d both bear the leadership role.” Or was it just in my imagination that we had been working well together? It was nice for some time. To fake-believe someone else was carrying some of this responsibility.

  Court frowns, but he doesn’t reply.

  Mykal stops sewing for a second. He told us he was making the baby another blanket. I can’t feel their emotions. I don’t know what they’re sensing between each other, but even Franny is glancing over with worried eyes. She picks at the frog leg, the slowest to eat dinner tonight. No appetite.

  Lifebloods—I’m trying so hard not to be jealous of what those three share. Franny has told me more than once about all the negatives. How it feels like a curse sometimes.

  But there are moments in my life where it’d be nice not to have to explain what I’m feeling. For someone to just completely, wholeheartedly understand me.

  Court finally speaks again. “You’re the one that knew the admirals,” he says. “What would they want us to do?”

  “Does that even matter, mate?” I shrug. “None of you were doing this mission for the admirals. You all have your weird reasons. And I’m not an idiot; this baby could feasibly have parents in the city and that changes things for some of you.”

  “What Court’s asking is,” Franny says to me, “does it change things for you?”

  I don’t have a flask, so I reach for the closest thing to me. A metal cigar tin. “And if we put it to a vote, mine won’t make a difference.” I open the tin; nothing is inside.

  Zimmer looks me down and up. “I think you don’t know what to do.”

  He’s right.

  I don’t. There’s more to this situation than just my feelings. There’s a history involved with taking babies from their rightful birthplace and bringing them to a foreign land with foreign people. A history that belongs to Court, Franny, Mykal, and myself.

  But I’m the only one with the brutal knowledge. And they deserve to know. Every piece of it, they deserve to know.

  Tell me, how am I supposed to go against the admirals’ dying wish? They raised me. Cradled me as a baby and loved me—even though I was their enemy. They gave me a place to rest my head and taught me all I know: ships, flying, and languages. How to be a good man, even when I failed at that.

  Not a day passed that they didn’t remind me that I had a choice. Earth or my people. I chose their planet. Their home because one day, I thought it’d feel like mine.

  And then without a second thought, they gave their lives for these three people in this room.

  How … how do I just turn my back on that? For what, my own guilt? My own pain? They believed I was strong enough to carry this burden. But I am weak and selfish, and all I want is to rid myself of every last word.

  And then, I can’t.

  I just can’t.

  “I don’t know,” I mutter.

  “Fyke,” Franny curses. She pinches her nose and leans her head forward, blood rushing out of her nostrils. Mykal rushes to her side with some fabric to staunch it.

  My eyes burn as I watch her growl in frustration. Something heavy weighs on my chest like it’s being compacted down by cinder blocks.

  Guilt.

  It’s been screwing with me for months.

  But right now, all I want to do is sprint toward it. Not away like I’ve been doing.

  “Franny,” I breathe her name. Too soft, she doesn’t hear me.

  I run a hand at the back of my neck. Hot all of a sudden. I know why she’s been getting nosebleeds, and I’ve been sitting with this information since I met her. Telling her hasn’t been possible. It’s connected to too many other secrets that the admirals wanted to be kept.

  But I can’t just sit by and watch her get more nosebleeds. Not when I know she’d calm down with the answer.

  I have that power, and I’m allowing a human to suffer. Something I promised I’d never stand beside and let happen.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  I can’t.

  Lord … help me.

&nbs
p; “Franny,” I say louder, restraining tears, my eyes stinging harshly.

  She turns her attention to me, holding the bloodied rag to her nose.

  I lose every ounce of resolve when her fiery gaze meets mine. She’s going to hate me. A silent tear falls down my cheek. “I’m sorry.”

  She replies back, but the rag muffles her voice.

  “She said, what do you have to be sorry about?” Mykal tells me, close enough to hear her clearer. Seven pairs of eyes lie on me like I’m under the hottest spotlight.

  I sniff and rub at my cheek. Get it together.

  There’s no going back after this.

  I take a tighter breath. “I know why you get nosebleeds,” I say. “I’ve always known.” I flip the cigar tin open and closed, my fingers trembling. “It’s hereditary. Your birth dad had the same benign condition.” I smile painfully at a memory. “He always used to carry a handkerchief in his pocket … just in case. And every day he’d change it to a different pattern. When I was a kid, I used to try and grab them from him, to see what the pattern of the day was. Polka-dot. Chevron. Banana-print.” I shut up, not knowing why it’s all coming out like this. It’s like opening a dam, and I can’t shut it closed. “I’m sorry.”

  My throat swells like a thousand bees stung my esophagus. I shift uncomfortably on the dresser. The quiet strains the air.

  Franny removes the rag from her nose, the bleeding stopped. Confusion laces her eyes. “Why are you talking about him like you know him well?” she asks. “Is he still alive? Was he on the Lucretzia this whole time? What about my birth mom?” She fights her own tears.

  “Just give me a second.” I can’t look in her eyes. Again, I focus on the cigar tin. Open and close.

  Open and close.

  Click.

  Click.

  Tear droplets ping the tin. I need something to drown this pain. I need the scotch. I need the mission. I need anything else. But I have nothing but the truth. And it’s time.

  It’s time.

  “He’s dead,” I say abruptly. “He died.” I raise my head, owing it to Franny to meet her gaze to deliver the rest of this news. “I knew him well…” I choke on a sob. “He raised me.”

  “No.” Franny shakes her head, connecting the pieces.

  I wipe the tear streaks beneath my eyes. “Admiral Voss was your birth father,” I tell her. Then I look to Court. “Admiral Hull was your birth mother.” Finally, Mykal. “Admiral Moura—”

  “Stop,” Mykal growls.

  Court is in silent, grave contemplation.

  “It must make more sense.” I breathe. “Why they’d give their lives for you. You three weren’t just strangers to them.”

  Franny narrows her reddened eyes at me. “You said look away.”

  “What?” I frown, not following.

  “When they were murdered,” Franny explains. “You told us to look away. Because you knew…”

  I pause, choked. “I didn’t want that to be your only memory…” I shake my head and swallow hard. “I wish I could have given you the choice. Told you all then.” I laugh out a sharp sigh. “I shouldn’t even be telling you now.”

  “Why are you then?” Court asks. “Why are you telling all of this now? We’re not on Earth yet.”

  I’m not sure we’re going to make it there, and even if we do, there’s a chance this baby isn’t going to come with us. We’ll find her parents. Leave her with them. And I can’t carry this information any longer.

  I’ve failed the admirals.

  But I don’t want to fail myself. I turn to Franny. “I agreed to their dying wish—keeping all this information from you—because I thought I was offering kindness in the face of their certain death. But I realize now they asked … too much…” I choke on those words.

  My abdomen cramps and I have to stand up, shaking out my limbs. Bile rises to my mouth, but I’ve come this far without puking. I need to stomach the rest.

  “Please,” Franny says. “We want all of it. The truth.”

  “I’m going to give you that, dove,” I tell her strongly. “I promise.”

  “Tomorrow?” she asks hopefully.

  “Right now.” I give her one better. I’ve opened the gates. Why wait? There’s no going back from this. “But this is a story that you’re going to want to take a seat for.”

  Franny settles next to Padgett on the couch. I’m thankful that Zimmer, Kinden, and the Soarcastle sisters have been quiet. Making it easier.

  Because it’s only going to get harder from here.

  This time, I start the story from the beginning.

  The very beginning.

  Almost two decades ago. I tell them about the Battle of Drodinia. Admiral Moura used to show me hologram reels of that day, videos of the wreckage. Each morning, she’d make me breakfast—fresh apples, cinnamon, and oatmeal—and I’d spread out the battle plans on the oak table. I memorized the strategies. Combed through every last detail. Our cottage was in the countryside, the sky so clear you could see every single star. I’d lie on the grass, stare up, and visualize the battle.

  It was Earth’s single biggest casualty.

  Strategically, the fleet had been cornered by Saltarians. In a blink of an eye, the Romulus took out Earth’s largest warship. It happened like a snap of a finger. One minute, the ship was there. The next, pieces of the metal … and the bodies were just floating in space.

  The Summit of Alcoara came next.

  Our cottage still has the photograph where the admirals, captains, and strategists stand in a towering arena on the planet of Alcoara. Some were from the Earthen Fleet, others were our allies across the universe.

  Not all were human.

  I’d point to each face and ask Moura to name them. Some had blue skin, others had gills, and some were floating five feet in the air. It was an eclectic group. All with a singular purpose.

  Save the human race.

  At the summit, they were to devise alternative strategies. Ones that wouldn’t pit fights with the Saltarians. It took fifteen days.

  Everyone agreed they needed a long-game strategy, something that would benefit them later. Intelligence inside a Saltarian planet.

  Spies.

  When Moura said that word, spies, it almost doubled me over. Even as a kid, I understood the weight. To send humans to a Saltarian planet would be certain death. Even if they could pass as Saltarians, they’d make it weeks, maybe even less before being caught. Most of the Saltare planets have advanced surveillance and mandatory Helix Reader screenings every month.

  Her next words always ring in my head. She countered with, not Saltare-3.

  Even studying Saltare planets day and night, I’d almost forgotten about the isolated world. Saltare-3 is a footnote in history books.

  A single paragraph. A location on a map.

  It’d been frozen over and deserted by its sister planets. But Moura and the other admirals feared the challenges of blending in. There’s little knowledge surrounding the customs of Saltare-3. And being able to perfectly pick up the dialect on any Saltare planet … it seemed impossible.

  Those at the summit came up with a solution. A very controversial solution.

  For the best chance at survival, the spies would need to be embedded on the planet at infancy. There they would grow up. Learn Saltarian ways. Adapt seamlessly.

  The admirals called for volunteers.

  They needed parents to part with their newborns. Send them to this big frozen planet in hopes that one day, they’d grow old enough to serve the Republic of Gaia and bring peace to their true home.

  Moura always told me that the room went into the coldest silence she’d ever felt. It was like all the air drained from the atmosphere. The risk was too big.

  No one came forward.

  So the admirals did the only thing they could—they gave up each of their future firstborns for the mission.

  Moura told me stories about Mykal. She never named him, but she’d call him the boy she lost. The one she had
for Earth. For humanity. He was born first of the three. On the Lucretzia, Moura gave birth in the atrium overlooking the stars.

  She said he wailed and cried in her arms and only quieted when she sung him hymns.

  And then she broke the law to test his deathday. Pricked the bottom of his heel with a Death Reader, and when she saw the number, she knew it wasn’t good. His deathday. The Saltarians would think he’d die when he was eight. A Babe. It was a problem, but one they would deal with in time.

  Court was next.

  Admiral Hull gave birth two weeks later on the Lucretzia. Not more than a day old, he was swaddled in blankets with Mykal and flown to Saltare-3.

  “Who flew the jet?” I asked Moura. That’s what I was most interested in. Who was this great, big, brave person that single-piloted the jet onto a Saltare planet? Hero. I always thought in my head.

  “Captain Prinslo,” Moura replied. “She was pregnant at the time. With the girl.”

  The girl.

  The one I’d later come to know as Franny Bluecastle.

  Prinslo was supposed to be the liaison between the spies and the Lucretzia. Her role seemed anything but simple. Embed the babies on Saltare-3 and then hide out in the Free Lands until the children turn eight years old. Then, she’d give each of them the details about their parentage. About Earth. The spies would remain on Saltare-3 to gather data before venturing to the bigger, more advanced Saltare planets. All the while, blending in and feeding information back to Earth.

  Everything hinged on Prinslo. And when a whole operation is weighing on one person’s shoulders, there’s bound to be mistakes.

  Moura let me listen to the early communication recordings that Prinslo was able to send from Saltare-3. She told me that originally it took three days to break the encryption.

  In the house barge, I remove the Prinslo Tape from my shorts’ pocket. I’ve been carrying the tape and an old player with me, ever since Franny found it in the bookcase. I never meant for them to hear the recording until we were on Earth.

  But here.

  Right now.