The Last Hope

by Krista Ritchie

  Gem stares excitedly at the dresser. “We can try to open it, and then we’ll meet you upstairs.” She reties a scarf around her stitched eye socket.

  Stork looks to Court and tells him, “We should split up anyway to cover more ground.”

  Court agrees.

  I worry the Soarcastle sisters will be caught tinkering with the hotel’s electronics. “What if someone sees them?”

  Court tells Kinden to stay here, and his older brother takes the task of lookout with arrogant grace. Letting us all know there is no one else better for the job.

  We leave them in the locker room, and the five of us that remain find the glass elevator. We rise up to the elegant suites. On the buttons, the two highest floors are marked with an E.

  “How are we splitting up?” I ask Court.

  He instantly glances at Mykal, who already has his muscled arm over Court’s shoulder. Coupled again, they’re in great beautiful spirits—so much so that my chest swells and swells.

  But silence falls because their strengths may be better suited apart. Zimmer knows hotels the best, but he’s admittedly the scrawniest. Mykal can protect him from anyone that tries to slow him down.

  “Franny and I will take the floor above you,” Court tells Mykal and Zimmer. “Stork can keep a lookout between the two.”

  We can’t pay Riktor off, so I ask, “What do we do when we come upon Riktor?”

  “Break his neck.” Mykal grunts.

  Court rolls his eyes. “We threaten him.”

  Mykal outstretches an arm. “Exactly what I said.”

  The elevator dings and slows to a halt.

  We’re here.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Court

  I don’t believe in any gods, and so to me, leaving the fate of Earth to a coin toss is impossibly ridiculous.

  But I believe in Mykal and Franny. I believe in my brother, the Soarcastle sisters, and Zimmer. I even believe in Stork.

  And I believe in myself. We can find the baby’s parents. One step at a time, and I focus on the present.

  Franny and I knock on VACANT doors and wait to see if anyone shouts.

  My thirtieth door, a boy yells, “I’m cleaning in here!”

  The sleeping baby stirs against my chest. I put a stiff hand to the back of her head. She never seems to mind my rigid affection. “Riktor?!” I shout back.

  “He’s not with me!”

  I move on.

  Franny raps her knuckles on the other side. Opaque portholes are screwed to each sleek door, and sea glass clinks together above us, disturbing the baby.

  She rustles a little more, and I let her grip my finger.

  “We’re just trying to find our mat—friend,” Stork says with earnestness. My head swerves. Down the hall, Stork tries to stop an older man in a frilly-sleeved shirt and black vest from charging over to us.

  The Influential glares. “If you’re not a guest, you can’t be up here.”

  Gods be damned.

  “We are guests,” Stork says casually, walking backward. Distracting a hotel owner, he bides us time.

  Hurrying, Franny and I skulk forward and knock on doors, listening for responses from sweepers.

  The Influential tells Stork, “I need to see your identification right now.”

  Stork flashes a half-smile and pats his frayed shorts and shirt. “Must have left it in my room.”

  “If you’re a Stormcastle—”

  Stork launches an elbow at the man’s windpipe. He chokes, grasping his throat, and then Stork head-butts him.

  The man’s eyes roll back and then shut. Stork catches his limp body and lays him on the floor. His calculated movements look trained and militant. C-Jays must learn how to disarm Saltarians in hand-to-hand combat.

  Franny frowns at me. “The Influential thought we were Stormcastles?”

  Stormcastles are the Saltare-1 equivalent to Icecastles. Criminals who’ve served time in prison. If we appear that threatening, then we really have no time to waste. “Keep going,” I urge.

  We knock on several more doors.

  Franny bangs angrier on one beside me.

  “Heya, I’m cleaning!” a boy shouts.

  Stork hears and immediately runs over to us. He mouths, that’s him. He recognizes his voice.

  “Riktor?!” Franny asks, her pulse thumping faster in my veins. Stork and I join her side.

  “Yeah? Who’s asking?” he says.

  I cut in, “Baxley sent us!”

  “You chumps must be new! This floor is mine. I earned it! You can take the lower—”

  “We’re not here to clean!” I shout. “A couple left you a tip, and Baxley wanted us to give it to you! He was too busy downstairs to do it himself—”

  The door swings open, and immediately, Franny bangs Riktor’s chest with two palms. Pushing the buzzed-haired Fast-Tracker backward, she shouts, “Give us the pouch, you baby thief!”

  Stork smiles at Franny as we slip in behind her, and I lock the door. The rich suite has nautical flair: all polished wood and golden boat décor. The bed comforter is downturned, mid- cleaning, and on the ceiling, more sea glass hangs in harmonic clusters.

  “I’d have to take the fykking baby to be a baby thief,” Riktor retorts. Teal ink washes down his arms like waves. His eyes dart to the newborn braced to my chest, and then he laughs at Franny. “Seems to me you’re the baby thief—”

  “Shut up,” I sneer, but Franny is still hurt by the comment.

  Her nose flares, swallowing hard.

  Riktor grins. “Not as feisty now, are you—”

  “How about you stop telling me what I am, you pouch thief.” She holds out her palm. “Give it to us.”

  Riktor tosses his cleaning rag at her face. Cloth brushes her cheek. I feel the fabric like he threw the rag at my body—but greater than that sensation, hostility springs inside me.

  Mykal is sensing Franny, but he’s not running back here. I can only assume he’s encountered a hotel owner like we did or different trouble. He’s fine.

  He’s fine.

  I try not to cage my breath. I trust that Mykal can handle an Influential like Stork just did, and before it reaches that point, Zimmer can try to talk them out of a confrontation.

  “Your boss is unconscious in the hallway,” Stork tells Riktor. “You throw any shit at her or try to jump us, and your lights are out next.”

  Riktor lets out an uncertain laugh. Not understanding all of what Stork just said.

  Let me try. “We’ll break your neck.” I think of Mykal.

  Always.

  Riktor hoists a hand and backs up into his cleaning cart. “Heya, no need for that kind of violence. But that pouch is mine. I’d only part with it for a cost.”

  I roll my eyes, and the baby wakes more, squealing playfully. “Shh,” I whisper, rubbing her back. Sleep.

  “What do you want?” Stork asks.

  Franny crosses her arms.

  Riktor skims her up and down. “You seem fairly skilled with your mouth. An hour with me and the pouch is yours.”

  I clench my jaw.

  “Gods.” Franny cringes.

  Stork flashes the most biting smile I’ve seen from him yet. “Counteroffer. An hour with me, and you’ll learn exactly what I’m skilled at after I’m done with you.”

  Riktor is still eyeing Franny.

  “My mouth is good for spitting,” Franny retorts. “You want to find out just how good?” She prepares to spit at him—

  “Heya, I’m well-liked in Montbay,” he rebuts, shifting against the cart. He’s not scared of us, so why is he so fidgety? “If you start a stew, you’ll have worse hells to pay out of that door.”

  “I’m shaking,” Stork says, sarcasm thick.

  Riktor peeks over his shoulder at the cleaning cart. He’s blocking the cart.

  “The pouch is on the cart,” I say.

  Riktor points at Stork who takes a step closer. “There’s no value in the pouch. Joke’s on you. It’s just a rock!
”

  Like Mykal is with us, Stork disarms the Fast-Tracker in two blows. One elbow to the throat, and then he rams his head into the wall.

  His body thuds to the floor, unconscious.

  Franny and I reach the cart. Packed with bottles of antiseptic, fresh towels, a bowl of mints—I find the pouch next to a bar of soap.

  “I have it.”

  They gather around, and I remove … a small black stone. Smooth along all sides and lightweight.

  “Is there anything else?” Franny asks, worried. Her stomach is knotting mine.

  “No.” I pass her the pouch.

  She reverses the folds. Empty.

  I glance over at Stork, and I freeze. His hands are on his head and eyes tightened on the stone. Looking whiplashed.

  “You know what this is?” I ask.

  He nods strongly, and his hands fall to the back of his neck. “It’s a UHR, a Universal Hologram Record.” He licks his lips. “But it doesn’t make any bloody sense.”

  “Why?” Franny asks.

  “It’s a human device, dove.”

  My frown deepens. I flip the stone over in my left palm, the baby clinging to my other hand. “How could a human device end up on Saltare-1?”

  “It couldn’t have.” Stork stares off in thought, trying to find reason in this impossibility.

  “Well, how do we open it?” Franny asks.

  “You can’t.” Stork lets out a broken laugh. He sinks down on the unmade bed and kicks a pillow, thread stitched in a pattern of breaking waves. “UHRs are one of the most encrypted devices. Only the owner’s fingerprint can open one.”

  And we have no way of finding the owner.

  Franny searches the cleaning cart to see if there’s anything else.

  The baby shrieks gleefully. Catching our attention. She wiggles against me and stares up with glittering blue eyes.

  Life is precious. I was never taught just how much lives are worth our sacrifice and devotion and love. On Saltare, life means something different, but there is a world out there waiting for us and for new generations. A world still worth fighting for.

  I narrow my stern gaze at Stork. “Earth can’t become another Saltare.”

  He watches the restless baby and sighs, conflicted.

  She tries to rattle my hand, and I drop the UHR out of my other. It slides across the waxed floorboards toward Stork.

  He reaches for the stone. “If we take the baby—” His voice dies as the device clicks.

  He opens his palm, and the stone is glowing bright green.

  “That’s not possible,” Stork says, mouth ajar as he rises off the bed. Standing and nearing us.

  “It’s opening?” Franny asks, just as a hologram projects from the UHR like a film screen. I tune out my surrounding as I fixate on the video.

  Wait …

  Wait.

  I sway back at the image. Blinking in a daze, as though this is a dream. In my logical, reasonable mind, there is no conceivable way this can be real.

  What I see is …

  Me.

  But it’s not me. Not really. My jaw is a little wider and wrinkles crease the edges of my bloodshot eyes. I’m older. Thirties, possibly. Bronze armor shields my chest, the Earthen emblem etched on the breastplate.

  I cradle a baby against my armor, my hands coated in blood. The baby is tightly swaddled, blankets stained crimson. Green tufts of hair puff off her little head.

  This can’t be real.

  Standing here, staring at a version of myself—my face older and scarred, and eyes eerily blank—I feel as overcome with madness as the day I lived past my deathday. When I hungered and starved in the Free Lands and nothing made sense except for the boy a country away. Feeling and hoping and screaming for me to keep going.

  The recording has sound.

  “I don’t have long,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. Noise cracks behind him. Banging, violent booms. It sounds like war …

  Looking forward again, his voice is deeper than mine but just as grave. “If you’re hearing this, it means you’ve found her. And you must have many questions, Stork. If you’re with Franny and Court, then I know they must have even more.” Crashing resounds in the background, and he speaks more urgently. “I’m going to explain everything as quickly as I can.”

  “What is this?” Stork asks softly, slowly shaking his head. Lost in disbelief.

  Franny gapes at the hologram, her brows furrowing while we watch an older version of myself check cautiously over his shoulder …

  And then it hits me.

  “The future,” I breathe.

  This is our future.

  The hologram flickers like static interference. He speaks hurriedly. “The three of us—Franny, Stork, and myself—came up with a plan as soon as we learned of the child’s abilities. We knew we must send her back to Earth.” He glances at the baby in his arms.

  I look at the baby in mine.

  They’re identical, and returning my focus to the hologram, the baby in his arms lets out a soft whimper. “Little one, you’re safe.” His dull gaze lifts to us. “Time travel is a complex business and will be discovered in a decade from your year. So as not to spend the next century agonizing over this, Court. Understand, this was the only way. We only had enough power for two time jumps. One for the book. One for the baby.”

  The book.

  “No,” I whisper. “I didn’t…”

  “The author of The Greatest True Myths of the 36th Century is Sean Cavalletti.” He nods, like he understands that I’ve already put the pieces together. But he tells me anyway, “An anagram for Etian Valcastle.”

  My birth-given name. I knew the book held a strange familiarity, but I never would’ve imagined it was because they were my words. Something I could’ve written, if given the chance.

  He tucks the baby closer to his armored chest, the hologram flickering again. “We chose the auction that Stork attends, and we knew he wouldn’t pass up that title.”

  Next to me, Stork lets out a soft breath.

  “It’s safer separating her and the directions. Our greatest fear is that someone else will find her—but if you never reach Saltare-1, if you never locate the right orphanage, or if she moves herself and you never listen to this recording…” He takes a long pause. “She’s resilient … we’ve known that for some time. She’ll take care of herself.” He looks down. “At least, that’s what we’re going to tell ourselves.”

  He glances back again. More crashes and yells and gunfire.

  I don’t understand.

  Something isn’t adding up in this overall picture. If we needed the baby for the purpose of cloaking and transporting to Earth, then …

  “Why not just send her directly to Earth?” I ask aloud.

  Stork shakes his head, unknowing, and Franny says, “Is someone behind him?” Pinging lights flood the hologram. Screaming, and then the banging of a door.

  We watch an older version of Stork rush over to the older version of me. His snow-white hair is cut much shorter, and blood drips down his armor and stains his pale cheeks. He still wears his blue-jay earring, but there is a noticeable difference about Stork and it’s not old age.

  “I lose an arm in the future,” Stork says matter-of-factly.

  From bicep to his fingers, his arm is a bronze prosthetic. Made of the same lightweight metal as his breastplate. “Is it done?”

  “Almost,” the older version of me replies. “Do we have ten minutes?”

  “Five.” He glimpses at the baby and instantly chokes on a sob. “I’m so sorry.”

  The future Court focuses on us. “You’re going to ask why we didn’t send her to Earth.”

  Yes.

  “The way this works, I would need the current location of the planet. And Earth is…”

  “Gone,” the future Stork finishes. “Destroyed. Years ago. The Lucretzia is all that’s left of the Earthen Fleet. Seventy-five souls aboard.”

  Franny rocks back.

  �
��In minutes…” He’s crying, tears streaking his bloodstained cheeks. “… that’ll be gone too.” Their baby wails, and future Court strokes her head until she hushes.

  A void hollows his eyes. He seems to be drifting. Not talking. Not really present. Like he’s dying.

  No.

  Like he’s already dead.

  “Court.” Future Stork snaps and waves his hand in front of his face, and then he taps his cheek twice. A Grenpalish gesture.

  My tears flood uncontrollably as I watch—as I know. Mykal is dead in the future, and I’m something worse than miserable without him. I’m empty. Filled with nothingness.

  “Come on, mate. It’s just a little longer.” Stork jostles his arm until he lifts his head higher.

  “Mykal is gone,” the future Court says numbly.

  Franny wipes her wet cheeks—I turn my head. Mykal, our Mykal is running toward us. I sense his strong stride and burning tendons.

  He’ll be here soon.

  I calm.

  He’s not gone.

  “Sometimes the Grenpalish gesture focuses Court,” future Stork tells us. “But when Mykal died, a part of Court died with him.” The hologram flickers badly.

  The older version of myself is back speaking in haste. “The baby. You should know her abilities by now. Once on Earth, she’ll make the planet invisible. Our enemies will not understand what happened, and this gives you time you desperately need.”

  Why do we need more time?

  He barely pauses. “She won’t have the intelligence to teleport Earth to a galaxy of your choosing. Not yet. Wait a few years and then she’ll be able to teleport the planet safely where it needs to be. This also gives you three years to find a new galaxy that Earth can call home.”

  I pocket every instruction.

  “Stork, tell them her name.” They both look down at their baby—and their baby is our baby. But I have a difficult time comprehending how this little peaceful newborn in my arms has seen and heard and been held in a battle-torn, bloodied future.

  In the hologram, future Stork rubs away his tears. “I’d like to introduce you to the darling light of my life, Zima Bluefall.”

  Something wet touches my cheek. Franny drops her head, stepping back like a punch to the gut, and the hologram stone is as unsteady as Stork’s quaking palm.