Page 124 of The Last Hope

This week, the God of Victory is king!

They all stomp and cheer and laugh. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a drunken FT dancing without care, edging toward our group. Swiftly, I grab onto Gem’s elbow before she bumps into him. He wobbles as he slurs the words to the song and passes us without a care.

Gem gives me a grateful smile that’s half-tensed. A blue scarf covers her eye socket. The gash is closed and healing nicely. Though she’s not concerned or troubled by the injury. Her upbeat energy turns a little anxious the more die-hard Fast-Trackers surround us.

She’s out of her element.

I’d say I’m the same, but I’m confident I can blend in well.

Franny and Zimmer cup their hands around their mouths and cheer with the Saltare-1 Fast-Trackers. We catch on and make a show of raising our fists in the air. My muscles feel like they need oil to loosen, but I manage to force a smile and a halfhearted yell.

“The God of Victory is king!” Kinden screams the loudest. A bright-orange-haired FT raises her pint to him.

My patience for the festivities wears thin, but we finally find a Fast-Tracker hostel around the corner. On the east end among the shadowed, dank structures.

This is our only choice. But for some reason neither Franny nor Zimmer is thrilled about spending time in the hostel.

It costs a couple bills per person to enter. Stork had to go into a vault on theLucretziato grab a small stack of Saltarian money. He acquired the bills through auctions and deals on other planets. I learned that Saltarian currency is rare. Most Saltarians only live on Saltare planets and never venture elsewhere.

Even though we have bills, we don’t have enough. Not nearlyas much as we should have for eight people. The price of the hostel cuts our stack in half.

We’re ushered inside the dark and musty building. Humidity clings to my skin, my clothes, and the smell of mildew is more potent.

A rusted sliding door creaks open and cigarette smoke wafts out. Hundreds of scarves and suit ties hang from the ceiling in different colors, separating the mattresses and areas where Fast-Trackers sleep. Limbs twined together. Some groups appear to be as large as ten.

Young men and women chat loudly as we meander slowly through the hostel, careful not to bump into anyone. Crowded and raucous.

A bar in the back of the room is filled to the brim, and more than a few dazed girls and boys sway to the soft background music. Eyes glazed from drugs.

I watch as people pass small containers back and forth. Some with powder. Others with pills.

Even back on Saltare-3, I never entered a place that was solely dominated by Fast-Trackers. I was raised like an Influential. School. The hospital, work. Being here, it reminds me of the life I might have had, had I not been adopted. Had I not been a Wonder.

Then again, I’m human. I shouldn’t have even been on a Saltare planet. All I know for certain is that my history is mine, and nothing that happened—no answer that Stork breathes from his lips—will change the fact that I was a Wonder. I was adopted. I grew up on Saltare-3 like a Saltarian.

Nothing changes that.

Gem hugs her arms close to her chest like she’s scared to touch anything. “Was Bartholo’s hostel like this?” she whispers to our group. We keep walking through the large space.

“Yes,” Franny and Zimmer say together.

“I never liked it,” Zimmer adds, stepping over a passed-out boy. “They had too many rules.”

“No music after dark,” Franny says.

Zimmer smiles. “No hard drugs.”

“No guns,” Franny says.

“That rule, I did like,” Zimmer replies and then nods to the left of the room behind draping purple scarves. “That mattress is empty.”

We make our way there.

Stork says, “We should relax here and wait for another spot to open up.” Gem crinkles her nose at the stained mattress. There are no better accommodations.

In my heart of hearts, I don’t even want to stay here.

I don’t want to sleep.