Page 3 of The Last Hope
I roll my eyes, but I don’t mind him staring at all. I want to smile, but it seems like an impossible feat.
Quietly, his gaze slides down my weakened frame. Inspecting me from afar.
I do the same to him. Sweat builds up on his pale skin and drenches his wheat-blond hair.
All we’ve ever known was the ice and snow on our frozen planet of Saltare-3. None of us are used to the sweltering room temps here.
The brig stinks badly of a musky odor, our stench the obvious culprit.
We’ve all shed our onyx-and-gold StarDust uniforms to combat the scorch. No slacks, no cloaks, and Franny slung off her bra. Left only in black underwear, we sweat through those and make the best out of the absolute worst.
Beads roll off Mykal’s sideburns and slip down his stubbly jaw. I watch his eyes lower to the tangled scars and ink over my heart, and then I scrutinize his brawn. Bands of his muscle have begun to lose their tautness, not as carved or cut as they once were.
My squared jaw tightens, and a rock lodges in my throat. I want to believe that he’s fine. That he’s not hurting, but I can feel him starving. I can feel his stomach gnawing on itself and his body withering away.
Franny is worse. Her rib cage is visible and juts in and out as she breathes, more skin and bones than either him or me.
My concern for her grows and grows every day.
She refuses to eat our rations. No one is willing to take more than our share, but we’ve all volunteered to take less.
Mykal fixates on my stitches. He grumbles a harsh curse and grinds his molars. More guilt cinching his features.
“You’re not to blame,” I say while trying to sit more upright. I can’t pull myself up without angering the wound, so I stay mostly slumped.
“Iamto blame,” Mykal growls. “I sewed you up poorly—”
“No,” I interject again, my heart pounding. “Your sewing is what’s kept me alive, Mykal. If we hadn’t been taken as their prisoners, I would’ve healed properly.”
But ourSagastarcraft had been roped in by theRomulus,and the cadets physically pummeled us as we struggled and fought to run. All the while, their commander of some twenty years looked on. Leering with no ounce of sympathy, he ordered us to be locked away, and later, we learned his name.
Commander Theron.
“Court is right,” Franny chimes in from the door. “He could’ve been eating a hearty meal if we weren’t stuck here. One made for the gods. Not the little bits of bread we’ve been given for supper.”
At the mention of food, our stomachs collectively groan.
“Mayday,” Franny curses and rests her forehead on the shut hatch.
I suddenly shiver.
Cold ripples through me, and my arms and shoulders quake vehemently.
Their heads swerve to me, and they stare me down as though I let out a dying wheeze.
“Why are you cold?” Mykal asks. “Aren’t you sweating? Isn’t he sweating?” He looks to Franny for confirmation.
“He’s dripping sweat.” She nods. “Maybe there’s a draft over there.” But she doesn’t believe her own words. I can tell as her stomach flips. I think she wishes it were just a draft.
I don’t want to alarm either of them, but all I know is how to prepare them for the worst. How to help them survive in foreign places.
My pulse speeds as their panic sets in, and I try not to tremble again. Biting down hard, my teeth throb. “Franny,” I say slowly. “You can ask me anything.”
She’s quiet.
Mykal starts pushing at the flat ceiling for any exits. He does this every hour, but urgency floods him more than ever before. He shoves harder. Faster.
I think he feels my fear.
