Page 11 of The Last Hope

Court takes a measured breath. “We don’t know what any weapon is capable of.” More sweat trickles down his temple, and another shiver disrupts his no-nonsense posture.

Mykal hangs a heavy arm over Court’s taut shoulders and draws him close. Warming him. They share a look of longing before Court turns his head and stares gravely upon me. His back and neck are irritatingly sore.

I wouldn’t be able to tell this if we weren’t linked, and I crave to stretch my arms and spine. Just to stretchhis.But it wouldn’t help much. It’d just drive me mad.

“What?” I ask Court.

“We don’t know who we need to pretend to be in order to survive,” he says with great severity.

My lips part.Court wants to survive.I think it a hundred times. Because it means that he believes an escape is possible.

For all three of us.

I start to smile.

A crooked one crosses Mykal’s face. He messes Court’s hair and says, “Looks like we have our Court back.”

Court nods stiffly, and just as he begins to lean his weight on Mykal, we hear new noises outside our brig. We freeze andlisten to the slap of soles on metal floor and muffled chatter and gruffer curses.

“Someone’s coming,” Court says. A surge of panic collectively storms us.

THREE

Franny

Standing a few feet away, we watch the open hatch and wait. A friend could be arriving, but most likely, it’s a foe. And we’re too cautious to stick our noses out and yell.

Tightening my grip around the rod, I stay one step in front of Court and Mykal. I’m not surprised when Mykal tries to change that. Barreling forward, he aims to block Court and me from harm.

Court captures his shoulder. “She has the weapon.”

“My fists are stronger than a stick,” Mykal counters.

Court goes to speak and then coughs in his fist. My throat tickles, followed by stabbing pain in my hip.

Mykal changes course. Returning to Court’s side, he rubs his back in comfort. Mykal pats too hard at times, but Court doesn’t seem to mind.

The brig rumbles. We tense, apprehension passed between us like a bad offering of spoiled milk. Mykal breathes harder as Court cages his own breath, and I aim a flat end of the rod at the padlocked door.

An unseen force lifts the low ceilings higher and higher. Granting us more room to stretch and stand. My eyes sweep our surroundings that haven’t altered until now.

Court rises fully for the first time in thirty-one days. He rotates his aching shoulders, the relief as pleasant as lying on the softest bed underneath the wooliest blankets.

Mykal stares openmouthed at the ceiling. “Why would they do that?”

“I’m uncertain,” Court whispers, his lips becoming a hard line.

“Maybe they want to talk,” I theorize.

Court frowns more. “They had their chance many times before. It makes no sense.”

We go quiet and watch the front wall and door change color from opaque pink to transparent glass. Gods, I can clearly see what lies outside the brig.

My gaze widens at the motionless body of the spiky-haired cadet. Lying on the starcraft’s metal floor.

Behind the unconscious cadet, a sleet-gray empty corridor seems to travel endlessly. Blue-green lights line and illuminate the walkway. But I can’t even dream of an escape. Not when two young and unfamiliar men stand on the other side of the wall.

The footsteps and chatter we heard—they must belong to them.