Humor is far out of reach for the three of us. His smile drops at our collective silence, and he floats on the board over to Stork. “What do you know that they should know?”
“Everything.” He inhales, as though preparing to unleash hells. “Right now, they’re referring to the point in history when deathdays were first discovered. Back then it wasn’t illegal for humans to test their deathdays.”
Court takes another step back. Giving Stork enough room to stand straighter.
Tying the cloth tighter around his waist, Stork continues on, “Saltarians and humans believed deathday testing would work for both species. There’d be no divide between us. We’d all know the day we’d die.”
Franny’s heartbeat thump, thump, thumps against my forearm, still wrapped tight along her collar. She clutches onto my arm like she’s clinging desperately to a hopeful outcome.
Storm clouds hang over Court. Unbelieving, doubtful, pessimistic, and moody, and I try to see the good for them. So we’ll all be standing upright at the end of this.
Court frowns. “But only Saltarians learned their deathdays. It never worked for humans.”
“Right.” Stork nods. “The Death Readers showed a date for humans, but they never died on that day. You three didn’t die on your alleged deathday. See, the prongs on a Death Reader are coated in a teal pigment called nylide. It’s what reads a Saltarian’s body chemistry to determine deathdays, but Death Readers don’t read a human’s body chemistry. They change it.”
Silence drapes over the barracks.
Stork says, “Humans who were pricked with the same exact Death Reader became what is known in history as lifebloods.”
Lifebloods. Funny thinking how Court and I named our bond with a simple sort of word—the link—and all along, there’d been a prettier-sounding name out there, something that feels fuller and as intense as the raw sentiments we share.
“Lifeblood?” Franny mutters.
Stork wets his lips like he’s trying to lick up liquor, and after a short beat, he says, “Court is your lifeblood. Mykal is your lifeblood. And you’re theirs.”
Zimmer wobbles on the board and braces himself with a foot on solid ground. “What makes them lifebloods exactly?”
“Our emotions,” Court says in a deep whisper, lost in thought.
Slowly, Franny releases her clutch on my arm. “So the date on the Death Reader…”
“Is the day your body chemistry changed,” Stork answers. “The day you became tethered to your lifebloods. The three of you share emotions and three senses: touch, taste, and smell.”
Zimmer is wide-eyed. Staring like we’ve gone and sprouted antlers.
“How do we reverse it?” Court asks promptly, his urgency a familiar beast. So is his guilt and self-loathing, gnawing on my muscles. I crack a crick in my neck, and I wish I could be nearer. I’d be whispering in his ear.
Telling him not to hate how we’re forced to feel his misery. His sufferings.
Because then I’d never feel the roll of his eyes. Or the flutter in his chest when he looks at me across a room. Or the strength he musters just to smile, and his tearful surprise when he recognizes he can and he does.
“Reverse it?” Stork repeats with the shake of his head. “You can’t go back … it’s permanent.”
His nose flares. “No. There must’ve been someone who found a solution. Over a thousand years has passed since then.”
“It’s also been over a thousand years since lifebloods existed,” Stork rebuts. “Like I said, testing deathdays on humans is illegal. No one wants to return to what happened in 2414.”
Franny braves a step forward. “What happened? All the lifebloods just died out?”
“People didn’t understand that Death Readers were the cause of lifebloods. Not at first. So humans unknowingly used the same devices.” He leaves the frosted door. Nearing Franny. “You’re only tethered to two people, dove. Think about a time where someone had fifteen, twenty, a hundred other emotions and senses from a hundred other humans in them. It led to hysteria, chaos, anarchy—and millions died…” He stops in the middle of the room, voice trailing.
Something’s scratching at his mind.
Sinking dread shackles Court at the ankles, unmoving. I suppose he knows why Stork faltered. Very quietly, Court asks, “If I die, what happens to my lifebloods?”
The air sucks out of the room.
“We’ll all be dying?” I question. Never did I think we’d all perish as one.
“Gods,” Franny inhales.
Stork shakes his head with a wincing smile. “No. The way it’s described in history…” He lets out a sad laugh that rings out like an apology. “It sounds worse than death. They say if your lifeblood dies, you lose a part of your soul forever. A … hollowness is left that can never be filled.”
Eyes are burning. Overcome with something I can’t explain, welling up my gaze. I exhale a coarse breath, grumbling, and I rub at my face with a callused palm.
Silent tears track Franny’s cheeks.
Court has shut his eyes. Sinking and sinking, and I ache toe to head to heave them up out of this grief, but I dunno how.
It’s a good thing Zimmer is here. He asks a question I think we’d all forgotten. “So humans know about lifebloods. It’s in the history books, but does the Lucretzia crew know about Franny, Mykal, and Court?”
Have we been walking ’round all this time, trying to hide something that didn’t need to be hidden?
“The crew has no idea,” Stork says. “It’s above everyone’s clearance level.” He watches Franny wipe her cheeks. “To be safe, I wouldn’t tell anyone you’re lifebloods. Not until the op is over and we’re on Earth.”
“How come?” Franny asks.
He nearly smiles at this part. “Historians say that at their best, lifebloods were the very essence of humanity. What you three have together … there is no definition that can sum up the pure empathy and compassion. You know more than I do.” He pauses again, finding the right words. “But lifebloods are more vulnerable than a regular human. The crew would never hurt you, but they may distract you from the op. I have a feeling you’d be bloody paranoid if they found out beforehand.”
We already have been. But I suppose it’d be worse if we yammered about being lifebloods to the whole starcraft. I wouldn’t trust anybody afterward.
Court has opened his eyes. “Do other Saltarians know about lifebloods?”
“Saltare-1 does, yeah. I can’t be sure whether the Romulus knew about you three. They never mentioned lifebloods when we negotiated the trade to free you from the brig.”
That’s good.
Court feels uncertain.
“Let me sort this out,” Zimmer says, hopping back on the hover-boardie. Feet belong on the fucking ground.
Or mountainside.
“You two”—Zimmer skates to the middle of the room, halting beside Stork, but he motions to Court and me—“you can feel whatever Franny feels?”
Franny is on fire.
“Like it’s our own body,” I say. “Yeh.”
“My body is not their body,” Franny clarifies quickly. “We are all three bodies. Three minds. We just … feel.”
I nod, glad she’s better at speaking than I. That way someone can untangle the mess I make with words.
Court stares hard at Zimmer.
“So you knew Franny was straddling Stork then?” Zimmer realizes.
Franny’s eyes bulge. “It was not that kind of straddling.”
Stork smirks into a laugh and turns toward the cabinet.
“We ignored it,” Court says smoothly.
Franny spins on him. “You ignored nothing. Because there was nothing to ignore.”
“She’s right,” Stork says casually from the cabinet. “It was nothing.”
My stomach sinks in disappointment, and immediately, I know it’s Franny. Maybe she wanted it to be more.
Zimmer glides on the board, closer to Franny. “I know what I saw,
and it was textbook Fast-Tracker straddling.” Him yammering about Franny and Stork only puts more of Franny’s sinking feelings in my belly.
Zimmer begins to pass me, and I shove his shoulder. He trips off the silver board. Stumbling. “Every time.” He dusts off his slacks, not offended. “I’ll take that as a Grenpalish affirmative.”
I give him a ruder gesture. “This is more like it.”
Court rolls his eyes, but his lip aches to lift.
“We’re all a strange sort,” Franny says quietly, but light brightens in us. We’re making greater sense of what we share. What others like us once shared.
Stranger, even, to think we’re all that’s left now.
The last three lifebloods.
“You’re forgetting something,” Court suddenly says, more weight descending on his chest. He’s staring at Stork, who fills up a damned glass with liquor.
Sighing, Stork rotates to Court. “Am I?”
“If lifebloods are only created by using the same Death Reader,” Court says. “How did all three of us use the same device and end up in three different places?”
Yamafort.
Bartholo.
Grenpale.
Stork smiles bitterly. “It’s all connected, mate. I told you there was a reason I kept this secret. It’s all connected. And here we are. You, wanting answers. Me, protecting a dying wish.” He kicks back against the cabinets. “Tell me, which matters more? Your greed? Or their sacrifice?”
We all glance at one another, unsure.
Stork opens his arms. Tears cinch his eyes. “I’m waiting.”
TWENTY-THREE
Franny
“Simply put, don’t fall in the water, and you won’t drown,” Padgett says while I push fleet grub around in my bowl. At 5 o’morning, the warmly lit dining hall is hushed, early risers chewing on cornmeal and berries.
More militant than StarDust, there are no velveteen chairs or crystal goblets. Just a piping-hot buffet spread, benches wrapped around bronze circular tables, and framed picture screens on leafy-green walls.
In a corner next to a potted fern, Padgett, Gem, and I eat breakfast together and talk about the retrieval operation.
We leave the Lucretzia tomorrow, and after two months of trying and trying, I botched every attempt at swimming. Lately, I’ve thought less about being a lifeblood and more about staying above water.
I dig a bonnaberry out from the mush. “I was hoping humans were majestically buoyant as a natural survival instinct.” Turns out, I’m the opposite of buoyant when panicked.
I sink.
Anyway, I only learned about buoys and sailboats and seafaring things from our two-month Saltare-1 training, but talking about the ocean is different than seeing it.
Gem takes dainty sips of orange juice. “Humans do have floatation jackets. I read about them in a safety manual.”
I straighten up from a slouch.
“Human flotation jackets,” Padgett emphasizes, stirring her grub. “If you wear that on Saltare-1, they’ll know you’re not Saltarian.” And then I’d be sent to Onakar Prison.
I try not to mope. “I guess I just better pray to the gods that I don’t fall in.” I eat a spoonful, the gritty texture easier to swallow since my first day here.
“Chin up.” Gem cups her glass with two hands. “Between the three of us, we’ll overcome all odds. I also put in a request that we share the same trash bin to Saltare-1.”
We all laugh when she says trash bin like it’s a Purple Coach and we’re just leisurely being driven to a new planet.
“A request with who?” I ask. “Stork or Court?”
“Both.”
Padgett adjusts a pretty pendant at her throat, the pink jewel complementing her brown skin. “Most likely, you’ll be in a trash bin with Court and Mykal. I think they’ll want to keep the humans together.”
“Or they’ll split them apart,” Gem predicts. “They’ll have less chances to die if we use our bodies as shields—”
“No,” I say, eyes flashing hot. “Don’t do that.”
“It’s just a theory,” Gem muses.
“Incoming,” Padgett says silkily.
I hardly see what she’s noticed until a confident and bookish Nia waves to us, spiral-bound texts tucked under her arm. She places the haul in front of Gem. “Found all your requests.”
“Holy wonders, this is brilliant. Thank you, Nia.” Gem smiles and taps the title to show all of us. “I plan to build one in my lifetime.”
I peek over and read, How-to Kit: All About Cars & Manual Transmissions. My lips part, and I ask Nia, “So there are cars on Earth?”
“There have been in past history, but currently? I wouldn’t really know.” She’s about to depart.
Padgett is quick to ask, “Why wouldn’t you know?”
Walking backward, Nia tells us, “I was born on the Lucretzia. Never stepped foot on Earth in my life.”
At this, she turns and leaves, and I notice Court at the buffet line. Grub bowl in hand, he wavers on approaching our table, stepping forward.
Stepping back.
Nervousness clams his palms, and the more I concentrate on him, the more I feel bitty pieces of metal in his sweaty hand. One end sharp, the other smooth and familiar. I recognize what he’s clutching.
My heart swells, and I motion him over.
TWENTY-FOUR
Court
I hesitate to join the girls at breakfast.
They laugh together, and my austere presence is a reminder of practical matters: the mission tomorrow, the dangers.
And then Franny waves me over.
My feet move beneath my rigid body before my brain catches up to speed. Sandals clapping on mosaic tile, I approach and unclench my fist while I slide on the bench. I set my grub on the tabletop.
“Good morning, Court,” Gem greets, polite and cheerful.
“Gem.” I nod, joints stiff. My lips hoist—just a feeling. I touch my mouth to be certain no smile crests my face. This one belongs to Franny on my left. She senses the metal in my palm, but I’m not certain she realizes what I hold is for her.
Beside her bowl, I place three silver pieces of jewelry. For an eyebrow, lip, and nose piercing.
Overcome, like her past suddenly rushes back and crashes against her chest. Pressure falls on my breastbone and then washes away with her stronger breath.
She pinches the hoop ring, meant for her lip. “You remembered?”
I can’t forget.
How I met Franny with messy green-and-blue dyed hair, three piercings, and inked FT tattoos. How I told her to pretend to be an Influential—to be with us, she needed to take out the piercings.
I try to answer, but I can’t form the words. Swallowing, I say, “They weren’t difficult to find. I asked around the starcraft.” Humans wear piercings too.
With the heels of her palm, Franny rubs her glassing eyes. “You found these for me—”
“It’s nothing.” I shake my head. “Just preparation for the mission.” I’m not kind like Mykal. If we weren’t trying to pretend to be Fast-Trackers tomorrow, I doubt I’d hand over the piercings, but gods be damned, something inside of me is crying out, you know it’s more.
You know you’re more than survival.
Or maybe I’m just wishing I were.
Of what I’ve studied about our sister planets, their way of life is largely similar to people from Saltare-3. Down to the stereotypes of Influentials and Fast-Trackers. The former is elite class, often overdressed and proper, while the latter is hedonistic, pierced, and tattooed.
“Tomorrow, we all plan to look the part of a common Fast-Tracker.” I remind Franny of this.
“You didn’t have to bring me these three piercings,” Franny says in a scorching whisper, like she’s trying to set fire to the bleakness in my mind. “But you did.”
I did …
I nod several times. Not arguing.
I did.
The girls return to talking about cars, hair
dye colors, and trash bins. Laughing again, even though I’m with them, and Kinden struts over with a glass of pear juice.
“Soarcastles, Franny,” he greets. “Little brother.” He sits on my right. “You’re all smiling now, but tomorrow, we’ll be flying to a trash moon, and I’ll laugh when one of you trips in someone’s soiled underpants.”
“You’re a juvenile,” Gem rebuts.
“You’re a juvenile,” he mimics, his impression of Gem’s high-pitched voice nearly spot-on at this point.
Gem huffs.
Padgett motions her spoon at Kinden. “You just proved Gem’s point.”
“I prove many points right, Padgett.” He unbuttons his champagne-colored blazer. “It’s a gift.”
“And a flaw,” she says easily and takes a casual bite of grub, but she’s pursing her lips to restrain a smile.
I sense him.
Trudging into the dining hall, Mykal scratches the back of his head. Wheat-blond hair threading his coarse fingers. Sweat pricks his bare chest, no cold slap of the wind or wet snow against his ankles. Discomfort grips his body like a belt five notches too tight.
He’s ready to be out of a starcraft and on land.
I want that for him.
Instead of just sensing, I look over at the buffet. Watching Mykal take a bowl and pick out the bonnaberries with his fingers. He tosses them back into the steaming vat of grub and grumbles under his breath.
Suddenly, he goes still, and then his head whips over his broad shoulder. He locates me, fixating on my mouth.
I realize only now … I’m smiling.
He felt my smile.
His lungs expand. Chest elevating. Just as the corner of his lip lifts, realities bear on me and him, and at the same time, our mouths form lines.
We need to be uncoupled so no one thinks we’re lifebloods. On the starcraft and on Saltare-1.
Mykal grunts out a gruff breath. Raking his hand harsher through his hair, and my jaw muscle tics. He jerks his head toward the door. Telling me he’s about to leave.
He’s been eating breakfast in the library. Not always alone. Franny spends every other day with him and me.
“Mykal,” Kinden calls, raising his voice to be heard. “Eat with us.” He digs into his blazer pocket and holds out a package of cigarettes for him. His peace offerings this past month have come in the form of wood, tobacco, thread, and fabrics.
The Last Hope Page 20
