Page 96 of The Last Hope

Far away, I faintly sense Mykal rubbing at his neck. Disgust lingers, but not as potently as when I eat fruit. I detest the bitter flavor of whiskey much more than they do.

I stifle another cough.

Stork looks less amused.

Zimmer sidles to me and sniffs the bottle. Grimacing. “It smells worse than the piss-water ale they sell on Fowler Street Ave.”

“I liked that ale,” I defend. “I don’t like this.”

Stork steals the bottle back. “Don’t drink it then.”

“I’m doing what I’m doing,” I say, not so poetically. But I never had lofty poetic dreams. My eyes roam his cut cheekbones, his dangling earring, and his slicked-back snow-white hair, tied with an elastic band. I’m not just looking because he’s handsome. Sometimes I try to see who he is. The Saltarian boy who was raised eighteen years strong on Earth.

The picture is hazy with an unknown landscape and unknown parents, and I only understand more of what he missed.

He was meant to grow up in an Influential city on Saltare-3. He was meant to combat the snow and ice and understand what piss-water ale on Fowler Street Ave. tastes like.

And I was meant to see the world he lived inside.

“Who named you?” I ask.

Stork inhales a sharp breath, as though readying himself to answer. And then he winces into a forced smile. “A person.” He swigs.

I jerk the bottle out of his hands when he finishes. “You want to tell us more; I know you do.” I barely take a sip before he wrenches the whiskey from my clutches.

“I’d love to tell you more about who I am, but how am I supposed to share the little things wheneverythingis connected?” He mockingly widens his eyes, but sadness flashes in them. “The answer is that there is no answer. I wait.I waitfor when this all bloody ends so maybe you can know me then.” He shrugs tensely and downs a larger gulp, staring at the ceiling.

“What’s the harm in telling us now?” I ask.

Zimmer adds, “We’ll all still do the mission no matter what—”

“It’s not about the op,” Stork interjects. “The admirals hadonedying wish, and I swore to them—I looked them in the eye,knowingthey were about to sacrifice their lives; something I can never do—and I promised that I’d wait to tell you.”

I blister. “If their dying wish is to keep secrets from us then their dying wish is cruel.” I steal the bottle.

He watches me sip the drink. “It’s complicated.” He lets me hang on to the whiskey and he waves me onward.

Maybe he’s hoping if I’m sloshed, I’ll stop harping on about the admirals.

Zimmer snatches the bottle from me, takes a gulp, and passes the liquor back to Stork.

“Who named you?” I ask again. “What if I die on Saltare-1and I never learn these things about you? What ifno oneever knows these things?”

While he studies my indignation, a strand of his hair slips out of the tie and brushes his temple. “You think no one on this ship knows who named me?”

Did I assume wrong? He seems lonely, like he’s been yearning to share more about his life for eons of time, and with us, he finally has that chance.

But he has to wait.

“Does anyone living know?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Only me.” One sip of liquor and he asks, “Who raised you?”

“My mom,” I say without pause. Taking a risk by lowering my guards. I pry the bottle out of his hand. “Just her, and she wasbeautifuland kind, and I watched her die when I was six. Her death was just as glorious as she was.” Lungs on fire, I pant like I’m running up a monstrous hill.

He stares into me like he’s excavating more of who I am, and he reaches for the bottle—I tuck the liquor to my breast. “I haven’t sipped yet.” I add, “Who named you?”

“The woman who found me in a pod.” He breathes deeper. “On Earth, there’s a myth that a bird delivers newborn babies to parents, and she thought the name fit.” Before I ask, Stork clarifies, “The bird is called a stork.” He grins at my growing smile. “You appreciate that?”