Page 51 of The Last Hope

Stork nods and then his eyes drift to each of us. “Look, there are certain species in this universe with abilities, but this baby is the only one I’ve heard of that can both cloak and teleport objects as large as an entire planet. And at the end of the day”—he shoves the book in the satchel, also slipping in the snow leopard—“I’m not asking for your permission. I’m telling you this is the op. You’re either in or out. It’s your choice, but if you choose not to do this, you don’t get the information you want.”

Before any of us can answer, the door whooshes vertically open, and a young girl in a military skirt and armor emerges,panting and out of breath. Footsteps pound frantically behind her, and I catch a glimpse of people running in the same direction.

“Stork,” she says, face flushed. “It’s happening.”

TWELVE

Franny

“Why are they gathering ’round like this?” Mykal asks.

Stork leads our way, fisting a new bulbous bottle with darker liquor. “You’ll see.”

We’ve followed the frantic footsteps inside the divine courtyard. Rivaling the unique splendor of the atrium, the courtyard is like being transported into an Influential storybook.

Foliage and budding pink flowers spindle up humongous marble columns that pillar eight wraparound balconies.Upper observational decks,Stork called them, and we climb a spiral staircase to the fourth level.

As we ascend, the gushing fountain hooks my attention. Right in the courtyard’s center, a lovely stone-carved woman gazes powerfully at the sky port, petal blossoms adrift in the pool at her sturdy feet. Continuous streams of water burst from her palm and trickle down her curves.

With the lush greenery, fancy columns, a starry sky port, and midnight drapes blowing like wind exists indoors, I would’ve happily died in this beauty. At least back when I was preparing poorly for my deathday.

Now my stomach lurches at the mere thought of dying.

Don’t think about death.

I try.

We gather around a balcony railing, and I spy crew accumulating on each observational deck. Their wide eyes fix on the stone fountain down below. The rush of water and cool mist cuts into the uncomfortable air.

Nothing is happening that I can see.

Stork guzzles a mouthful of liquor. Drinking more than any Fast-Tracker friend I had, and most spent all of their bills on ale.

Court braces his forearms on the banister, his intense focus pumping adrenaline more than I really like.

Pacing back and forth, I try to free myself from the prickly energy. I rotate on my heels and stumble toward an anxious cluster of boys and girls my age. Pooling onto the fourth upper-deck, all sport military leather, armor, and archaic weapons like javelins and clubs.

Their whispers fade and their probing eyes poke at my StarDust slacks and shirt. Most gawk but meander right on past. Going to another balcony section.

But three stay put.

I latch eyes with each. Trying to emphasize that I’m not afraid.I’m not afraid of you.

Stork mentioned that he’s the only Saltarian onboard.

These must be humans.

Real-life living, walking, talking humans, and I crave to hear what they have to say. With the translator behind my ear, I can finally understand them.

The petite girl with tightly coiled curls—she drops her crossed dark-brown arms to her armored sides, battle-ax strapped to her back. Head turning fast, she plugs her nose. And cringes.

A towering boy whiffs the air, a scar cut along his sculpted cheekbone. He has reddish-gold skin that complements his bronze shield, his woody-brown hair shaved on each side. A mop of curls on top. Silver bow and quiver slung over his shoulder.

His face bunches up. “What’s that smell?”

“Piss,” I say bluntly. “I took a piss on myself.” In the brig, I thought I could hold my pee until we were freed.

I was wrong.