The Last Hope

by Krista Ritchie

  He’s understood quickly what Mykal likes.

  Mykal grinds his molars, uncertain.

  I’m about to make an excuse for him, but Kinden clamps a hand on my shoulder. “You’re both being obtuse. Clearly, he still likes you, and you still like him.”

  If only it were that simple. “Just last month you thought he broke my heart,” I remind him, “and now you’re advocating a recoupling like it’s the only wise thing to do.” I don’t mention how he punched Mykal. Kinden has apologized profusely for their confrontation.

  Not because of anything I said. I would’ve screamed until I lost my voice. Just to make him understand how much Mykal is not to blame.

  How much I care for him.

  How much I’d die for him.

  How my life has no pure meaning without him.

  Kinden squeezes my shoulder before letting go and whispering to me, “I was only focused on your heartbreak. I never saw his.” He picks up his pear juice. “Not until later that night.”

  The night they fought.

  The same night we learned we were lifebloods. My older brother wanted me to sleep in his barracks, and it hurt to leave Mykal. But we agreed to pull apart, so I willingly left.

  I stormed ahead of Kinden, and I didn’t see my brother lingering behind. He heard Mykal crying through the door.

  I sensed him. Feeling his heart ripping apart, while mine shatters, has been excruciating. To say the least.

  The more Kinden fixates on our uncoupling, the less he or anyone else has suspected we have a strange bond. One day, I plan to tell him that Mykal is my lifeblood.

  I could almost smile thinking about that moment, but it can’t come until we’re safe.

  In the dining hall, Mykal decides to join our table after Kinden’s persistence. My older brother even slides over on the bench. Freeing a space so that Mykal can sit next to me.

  He takes the spot beside Padgett.

  Kinden glares but pushes the cigarettes to him. “You could’ve sat next to Court.”

  “I like this seat better because Court’s not on it,” Mykal teases, his lopsided smile slowly fading as I tense.

  He lowers his head.

  I’m sorry.

  He growls under his breath as soon as he senses my regret.

  Franny massages her shoulder and tells me, “You have less than a day to master the art of slouching.”

  Most Fast-Trackers slump.

  I don’t loosen my shoulders, but I bow forward in a casual posture. I rest my cheek on my fist.

  Everyone mentions how I appear exactly like a common Fast-Tracker, and it helps that I already have tattoos.

  “You could’ve been an actor,” Franny muses.

  Mykal nods. “He’s more than pretty enough.” He curses, our necks hot from his compliment.

  “Have you coupled again?” Gem wonders.

  “No,” we say together.

  Standing, Mykal picks up his bowl. “I’ll be leaving.”

  Kinden whispers for me to walk him out. I can’t. My older brother suggesting what I crave is pouring salt in the wound.

  Mykal messes Franny’s hair, then pushes her cheek. “May the gods be in your spirit.”

  She pushes his shoulder. “And I in your heart.”

  I almost lock eyes with Mykal, but he diverts his gaze to the door. While I watch him exit, in my peripheral I notice Stork and Zimmer near the buffet line. Speaking hushed, both carry little amusement in their closed stances. Severity tightens their gazes, and Zimmer nods repeatedly.

  He looks over at Franny.

  They both do.

  She’s unaware, caught up discussing human music with Gem. “It’s called rock and roll,” Franny says. “I’d never heard anything like it.” She talks about how Stork has miniature speakers for his ears, and he’ll fall asleep listening to guitar riffs.

  I catch Zimmer handing a folded paper to Stork.

  The probability that the paper is about the mission is low. Stork has kept me in the loop for the entire retrieval operation, going as far as asking for my interpretation of the myth and seeking advice on Saltarians.

  The paper is personal.

  Unimportant, my mind screeches at first.

  No time.

  No room to ask and pry.

  Unimportant.

  I blink slowly, my soul humming off in the distance. Waiting for me to find the courage to open up again.

  And again.

  And as Stork leaves the dining hall, Zimmer walks over with a lighter gait. Plopping down backward on the bench, he takes the spot that Kinden left for Mykal. Zimmer braces his elbows on the table and smiles. “What’d I miss?”

  Chatter reignites.

  Ask him.

  What if he’d rather I not know about the paper? What if I make him uncomfortable?

  Just try. I seize my confidence, and as the conversation pauses, I ask Zimmer, “What was the paper you handed Stork?”

  “That little thing?” Zimmer uncaps a saltshaker. “It’s not about the mission, if that’s why you asked.”

  “It’s not why.” My hand is frozen on my thigh. “I just wanted to know.”

  His smile reappears, and I release my tight grip and breath. Zimmer spins toward me, straddling the bench. “You’ve heard of a Final Will?”

  Of course. I nod.

  “Well, I have one.”

  The table quiets. Overhearing.

  Final Wills are sealed until death and a relative or trustee will open them on their behalf. All Influentials have Final Wills since the document states where or to whom their property and wealth will be distributed. Ensuring the prosperity of generations. They’re also useful for Fast-Trackers and Babes, but less so, as family lineages are shorter.

  Mykal’s pa had a Final Will. He left his hut, weapons, and furs to his son.

  Mykal had a Final Will. At eight years of age, he left his possessions to his whole village.

  I had no Final Will. At ten years of age, I became a criminal and thusly all my assets were taken by my country.

  Franny—she had no Final Will. At seventeen years of age, she had no belongings to give.

  “You have a Final Will?” Franny frowns, her shoulders drooping at talk of death and Zimmer. “What for?”

  “I have something, one thing, that I’m going to pass on when I’m gone.” Zimmer mouths to Franny, don’t be sad.

  “I’m not sad,” she lies. “Death is normal.”

  “Clap for me.” He smiles wryly. “Loudly.”

  “You’re not dying today—”

  “I’m not.” He nods. “Who knows when I’ll die?” He laughs since he hasn’t told anyone his deathday. “Could be in a few years.”

  Franny asks, “Then why’d you leave your socks to someone?”

  “Not my socks.”

  Kinden sips his pear juice. “No one wants your baggy floral shirts after you’ve died. My brother of six years had better style than you.”

  I stare far away at the mention of Illian. Our little brother. A Babe.

  Zimmer laughs.

  And then Padgett slips in and asks, “You gave your Final Will to Stork?”

  He dumps salt in a mound on the table. “I initially planned to give the Final Will to you.” He glances at me. “You’re the most responsible one, but I realized…” He pauses, drawing in the salt mound. “… what good is a Final Will if it’s left on another planet? I can’t be sure you’ll make it out of Saltare-1 alive.”

  The air strains between us, and Franny takes a shallow breath.

  Death is uncertain.

  But how can you be fearless despite that uncertainty? I don’t know. Because I sense her fear. I feel mine. We’re about to land on an enemy planet that wants us dead.

  Fear seems like the only sensible emotion.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Franny

  Eyes still heavy-lidded and mind slowly buzzing to life, I thought I’d wake to nerves. Today, we’re finally leaving the Lucretzia and flying to
the moon. Fear and worry is instilled in my future, but right now, in this moment, I’m bathed with sheer content.

  Like I had the most miraculous sleep in all my life.

  Soft breath leaves my lips, and I hug closer to the pillow I’ve been curling up against. Wait …

  My arms hold something firmer than a pillow, and my legs slide against something rougher than the sheets.

  Oh …

  Gods.

  My eyes shoot open.

  The pillow is Stork. White-blond hair tousled from slumber, his arms are threaded with mine. His eyelids are shut—thank the gods. Chest against chest, comfortable, warm heat brews between us. It feels too good. I must’ve rolled over to his side of the bed in the middle of the night.

  Zimmer is still soundlessly asleep on the left, and I don’t look over and risk bringing attention to this … situation.

  Maybe I can feign sleep and just naturally roll away.

  Roll away.

  Just roll away, Franny.

  “You’re awake.” Stork’s soft voice is a whisper, but it blares in my head like a horn. His eyes fall open and his lips rise.

  I’m immobile. Too nervous to move and wake Zimmer. So I bring the heat through my eyes.

  “And how long have you been awake?” I whisper.

  He smiles wider. “Long enough to know that you liked sleeping in my arms.”

  I did.

  I can’t deny that.

  Even now, there are parts of me that ache to move closer. To remember what it was like for a body to be on mine. But I can’t have that—I don’t think …

  My nose flares. Court and Mykal must still be fast asleep because neither of them are alerted by my emotions. Good.

  Let this moment go to my grave.

  “Your body is surprisingly comfortable,” I tell him as I untangle from his legs. “That’s all. Nothing more.”

  His brows rise and he lifts his arm off me. “Of course. Nothing more.” Those words hurt just as much as they did the last time he agreed with me.

  I sit up, slowly, careful not to draw attention from Zimmer. He’s practically passed out, his two arms cuddling a pillow like I thought I’d been doing all night.

  Stork rises off the bed.

  I glance to him. “Thank you.” The words tumble before I can catch them.

  He looks back, frowning. “For what?”

  Last night might be the very last time I go to sleep. I could very well die today. On the ride to Rosaline or on the trash bins to Saltare-1, or on the enemy planet that wants me dead.

  Last night was truly the last time I might ever feel safe.

  And it was glorious, peaceful sleep.

  I don’t know how to say these words, but Stork has seen my fears during training. He knows what lies ahead. And he’s a clever wart.

  He nods, like he understands. But then humor touches his eyes, and his lips lift again.

  “Don’t,” I start, already sensing his charming quip.

  “Next time you want to cuddle, dove, just ask.”

  And there it is.

  I snort, chin raised. “Maybe I will.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  He walks out of the bedroom to bathe, leaving me roasting toe to head.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Franny

  Fast-Trackers everywhere would never bet on my odds. I lived to be eighteen years of age, when I was supposed to die at seventeen, and I made it to a moon.

  The easiest part is reaching Rosaline, a chalky, rouge, crater-covered sphere. We take a jumper-starcraft and park on a flat landmass.

  Dust kicks up and whirls around all eight of us, shrouding our sight. I can only distinguish jagged boulders a few paces off, and an outline of a humongous garbage heap.

  Gravity drags me down, about ten pounds heavier on this moon. Every arm movement and footstep is slower than the next.

  This is fun.

  I’m not trying to trick myself. I’m trying to remember that my old Fast-Tracker self would’ve enjoyed moon-walking.

  This is fun.

  There is fun in fear.

  Right?

  Thanks to Court and Stork, we aren’t chumps floating around without good planning. We’re all well-prepared.

  Our burgundy Saltare-1 jumpsuits protect us from the dust and low oxygen, made of polyester, nylon, and genoforla. A snug-fitting helmet is attached to our spacesuits, microphones in our ears to speak to each other and the Knave Squadron. Nia, Arden, and Barrett remain on the parked jumper-starcraft. They’re to fly the small ship back to the Lucretzia.

  After that, there’ll be no other way off the Rosaline besides the trash bins.

  “Good luck, Knave,” Nia says. Static layers on top of her voice through the microphone. “And the rest of you. Stay sharp.”

  Stork turns to the jumper-starcraft and raises a hand. “I’ll see you three soon.” Confidence encases every word, and even I try to hold on to it.

  “Don’t miss us too much,” Arden replies. “Taking off in three … two … one.”

  The jumper-starcraft grumbles and dust billows from underneath the vessel before it lifts off and zips away.

  With the starcraft gone, the rest of us cluster together, all looking identical in our protective gear.

  “The assembly line is this way,” Stork says, voice echoing through my mic, and he points to the left. He leads us through the swirling dust, darkness enveloping us.

  My breath is too loud in my helmet.

  “Whoever is panting, you’re exploding my eardrum.” Kinden calls me out.

  I swallow hard, and a hand drifts against my palm. Someone clasps my hand, and I can’t tell if it’s Court or Mykal or someone else. Like Zimmer.

  With gloves on, we have no skin-to-skin contact, so the lifeblood link wouldn’t heighten.

  I turn in slow motion.

  And through the glass visor of his helmet, I see Court. He nods as though to say, you’re doing fine. His reassurance means everything to me.

  His new eyebrow piercing reminds me that everyone looks more like Fast-Trackers. Before we left, everyone dyed their hair or pierced their face, some a combination of the two.

  My black hair is streaked green and blue. And all three of my piercings are in place.

  I’m not trying to be who I was before I dodged my deathday. I know that’s impossible, but I want to be some version of both.

  All of who I was and all of who I am.

  We drag sluggishly toward the assembly line, and I hear the groan of machinery. Court and I let go when we notice the graveyard of empty dumpsters. Eight feet tall, but some are too narrow for more than one person to fit inside.

  “Far right!” Gem says with mic static. “I see an oversized trash bin.”

  I can barely distinguish the first row of dumpsters. I try to waft away the dust.

  “We’ll all be able to squeeze into that one,” Kinden says, trekking slowly forward.

  “Good find, Gem,” Court tells her. “Let’s hurry.”

  We try to quicken our pace.

  Mykal is the only one able to move with no setback. I bet he could jog if he wanted to. This gravity must feel only a little different from the weight of an animal on his shoulders.

  The groans grow louder, and the robotic shuttles I’d seen pictured in textbooks are suddenly up close. Materializing through the dust.

  Each shuttle is like a jetpack. Engines blast and keep the shuttle airborne while their monstrous claws shut the lid of an empty gray dumpster. Once the robotic arms grab hold, the trash bin is secured and the shuttle soars off the moon. Heading to Saltare-1, so the dumpster can be refilled with garbage.

  This is fun.

  So much fun.

  I blow out a measured breath, and the tallest help boost the shortest into the sturdy dumpster. Court is among the tall, along with his older brother and Stork.

  Mykal easily climbs over on his own, and once we’re all inside, we press our backs to the firm sides. Cramped, I’m betw
een Court and Mykal, and I’m barely an arm’s length away from Stork and Zimmer across from me.

  Remember the plan, Franny.

  I unclip a handle attached to my jumpsuit’s belt and press the ends to the wall of the dumpster. It suctions, and I grasp hard for support.

  I hear the pop of suction from everyone else’s handles. We kick back our ankles and a sticky grip on our spaceboots adheres to the wall.

  “Now what?” Zimmer’s voice crackles with more static.

  “We wait for a shuttle,” Stork replies.

  I shut my eyes. Trying not to repeat the worst-case scenario: an asteroid hits our dumpster. Or more terrifying, the Romulus intercepts the trash bin.

  Fear snakes down my spine, and I can’t tell if I’m sweating since the spacesuit wicks away perspiration.

  Technology is a beauty.

  “It smells rank in here,” Kinden complains.

  “That’s just you,” Gem says, nestled beside her older sister. Bangs cut blunt across her forehead and dyed a periwinkle shade.

  “Poor … insult.” His voice breaks, bad connection. “Seeing as … we’re … a trash…”

  Something slick is stuck to my boot. I let go of the handle and crouch to the bottom of the bin. Moving so, so slowly.

  I can do this.

  I better do it without hyperventilating.

  Lifting my sole, I make out a flyer in Saltarian. I read aloud, “And so let the God of Victory bless us and unite us on this Sacred Eve, for now, for always.”

  Everyone grows quiet.

  Court rolls his eyes.

  Mykal hangs his head and mumbles huskily, his prayer unfamiliar to me.

  The mechanical groan is suddenly above us.

  “Here we go,” Stork says, just as the lid bangs shut. We’re in complete pitch-black darkness. In a quick moment, Stork snaps a plastic stick and drops it at our feet.

  Blue light glows. Illuminating all of us while the dumpster rumbles. Rocking from side to side, I grip my handle like my life depends on it.

  Gods, my life does depend on it.

  No one speaks.

  We can’t see outside the dumpster, but my stomach lurches like the claws have grabbed and lifted the bin.