Page 64 of The Last Hope
Stork drops his spoon in his bowl and sticks two fingers in his mouth. Whistling. She doesn’t hear, so he shouts, “Hopscotch!”
She peeks at us, eyes reddened, and the platform descends to the grass. Gloomily, she slogs the hardbacks over and dumps them onto the nearest bench.
We caused a stew yesterday when Mykal clapped for the dead, and while some crew are still miffed, most seem to aim their hurt toward theRomulus.
Nia is the same.
She nods kindly in greeting and comments on our clean state. Though her cheeks crinkle at Mykal, who chose to go bare-chested and dress in patched slacks.
“Hopscotch,” Stork says. “Make sure the crew knows the library is off-limits for the week.”
She huffs. “I hate reading on the digital tablets.” But she nods. “You aren’t going to the ceremony today?”
I haven’t heard about any ceremony. I pretend not to listen and just push around the yellowish food. Already tasting the gritty substance and sweet bursts.
Court is eating in quiet contemplation.
“No,” Stork says, unperturbed. “I’m training these three.” He waves his spoon toward us.
Nia marches to a device that resembles an upscale vending machine. “You know, when I agreed to run collections, I didn’t think it’d mean becoming abook overlord.”
He takes a casual bite of food. “What a burden.”
She types on the machine’s screen and a flat handheld tablet pops out. “Thanks for nothing, Knave.”
“Cheers,” he calls while eyeingmybowl and spoon, breakfast uneaten. Mykal shovels food into his mouth with his fingers, avoiding all the dark-orange berries.
Nia waves back as she leaves, and we congregate around the books she left.
“What ceremony are you not attending?” Court asks and exchanges his bowl for a hardback. We all tap our translators to read the title:Galactic Encyclopedia: Dis Pater.
Stork sidles close to me, as though this is the most natural place to stand. When he could literally park his feetanywhere.His blue gaze flits to me even more than it does to Court.
Sweat builds under my pits. But I don’t break our gaze. “He asked you a question.”
“The new admirals are being sworn in today,” Stork answers, and before anyone can jump in, he asks me, “Not hungry?” His tone and gradually rising smile indicate that he knows I truly am famished. He has this big-headed air that rubs me hotly.
I lift my chin. “How are the new admirals chosen?”
“Public vote.” He watches menoteat. “You think I poisoned your food?”
No.“Maybe you did.”
He turns fully to me, pauses while our eyes catch, and thenhe scoops my sludge with his spoon. Taking a large bite, he swallows and smiles. “See, not poisoned.”
Mykal and Court are very tense, their breaths caged. Watching Stork and me. My jaw aches as they clench their teeth.
They shouldn’t be so vexed and pissy. Stork unnerves me in such aggravatinglyhotstrides. I feel the exact same as them.
I scoop a spoonful. “What is this anyway?”
“Cornmeal, bonnaberries, pecans, and mashed banana. Affectionately calledfleet grub.”
Chewing slowly, I’m not surprised by the taste or grittiness, but the consistency of fleet grub will take time to grow used to.
“You’re not in line to be an admiral?” Court asks him.
From what I’ve learned, Stork has a high rank. It’d make sense that he’d be considered for the position.
