Page 97 of The Last Hope
“Very much.” The air unwinds, but unleashing more is as grueling as scaling Grenpale mountains. “Did you always want to be a C-Jay?”
“Sip and pass back.” He motions for the bottle.
Lips to the rim, I wince before I even swallow, the fierce sting growing worse as we go on.
Once I push the whiskey into his hand, he tells me, “I played with plastic toy spaceships as a kid. I wanted to fly and protect Earth. I thought it was mydestiny.”
I hang on to his use of past tense. “You don’t anymore?”
He drinks and licks liquor off his lips. “I reckon I do, but I believe a hell of a lotlessin destinies. People have choices, and some screw with the lives of others and some help. That’s it.” He shakes the whiskey at me. “What was your job on Saltare-3?”
I clasp the neck of the bottle. I’ve held on to this answer for a month, but he’s begun to divulge more about his life, so it feels only fair that I do the same. “I was a Purple Coach employee.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.” He has no knowledge of the shuttle service.
I almost laugh at a thought. Of what information exists on file about Saltare-3; Purple Coach never made the history books. My job must not have been important to historians, not enough to grace any page or any computer.
“I was a driver,” I say, a bit apprehensive to share. “Whoever had bills to spend, I drove them across cities and countries.”
“Bad tips, hostile passengers, dangerous roads,” Zimmer chimes in, giving Stork a fuller picture of Purple Coach. “Most FTs never apply for that job. They just take it for the Fast-Tracker benefits.”
Stork locks eyes with me, processing.
“I never wanted to be anything else,” I say with short breath. “I liked being behind the wheel and having the chance to go places and take people where they needed to be.”
I was important.
I was necessary.
I can be left out of history books, but I know my place in that world.
Stork frowns more. “You actually drove?”
“Every day since I was eight.”Up until I was required to retire for the six-week decline.I chug harshly while amusement glitters in his eyes, and then I shove the bottle into his chest. “It’s not funny.”
“No, it’s incredible.” He smiles into a laugh. “If only you knew how weird it’d be for an eight-year-old human todriveacar, let alone on the terrain you managed. Does Saltare-3 even have automatic gears?”
My lips part. “There are cars on Earth?” He’s talking like vehicles exist, and he’s seen people drive.
He swishes the liquor, thinking. “I didn’t say that.”
“You said something—”
“I can’t talk about Earth,” he says gently. “We’ve been through this, dove.”
I groan into a sigh. “You can caress those words but they’re still aggravating.”
He grins while he swigs.
“Why isknaveyour call sign?” I question and tug the bottle midsip. Liquid spills down his chest, and he waits for me to apologize but I just take a showy gulp and cough.
His lip quirks. “How does that whiskey taste?”
“Divine,” I snap.
“Must be why you keep choking.”
Zimmer grabs the bottle before I stubbornly chug half the liquor, and I sway a little bit into his side. Woozy, I blow out a measured breath.
