Page 110 of The Last Hope
Franny
Fast-Trackers everywhere would never bet on my odds. I lived to be eighteen years of age, when I was supposed to die at seventeen, and I made it to a moon.
The easiest part is reaching Rosaline, a chalky, rouge, crater-covered sphere. We take a jumper-starcraft and park on a flat landmass.
Dust kicks up and whirls around all eight of us, shrouding our sight. I can only distinguish jagged boulders a few paces off, and an outline of a humongous garbage heap.
Gravity drags me down, about ten pounds heavier on this moon. Every arm movement and footstep is slower than the next.
This is fun.
I’m not trying to trick myself. I’m trying to remember that my old Fast-Tracker self would’ve enjoyed moon-walking.
This is fun.
There is fun in fear.
Right?
Thanks to Court and Stork, we aren’t chumps floating around without good planning. We’re all well-prepared.
Our burgundy Saltare-1 jumpsuits protect us from the dust and low oxygen, made of polyester, nylon, and genoforla. A snug-fitting helmet is attached to our spacesuits, microphones in our ears to speak to each other and the Knave Squadron. Nia, Arden, and Barrett remain on the parked jumper-starcraft. They’re to fly the small ship back to theLucretzia.
After that, there’ll be no other way off the Rosaline besides the trash bins.
“Good luck, Knave,” Nia says. Static layers on top of her voice through the microphone. “And the rest of you. Stay sharp.”
Stork turns to the jumper-starcraft and raises a hand. “I’ll see you three soon.” Confidence encases every word, and even I try to hold on to it.
“Don’t miss us too much,” Arden replies. “Taking off in three… two… one.”
The jumper-starcraft grumbles and dust billows from underneath the vessel before it lifts off and zips away.
With the starcraft gone, the rest of us cluster together, all looking identical in our protective gear.
“The assembly line is this way,” Stork says, voice echoing through my mic, and he points to the left. He leads us through the swirling dust, darkness enveloping us.
My breath is too loud in my helmet.
“Whoever is panting, you’re exploding my eardrum.” Kinden calls me out.
I swallow hard, and a hand drifts against my palm. Someone clasps my hand, and I can’t tell if it’s Court or Mykal or someone else. Like Zimmer.
With gloves on, we have no skin-to-skin contact, so the lifeblood link wouldn’t heighten.
I turn in slow motion.
And through the glass visor of his helmet, I see Court. He nods as though to say,you’re doing fine.His reassurance means everything to me.
His new eyebrow piercing reminds me that everyone looks more like Fast-Trackers. Before we left, everyone dyed their hair or pierced their face, some a combination of the two.
My black hair is streaked green and blue. And all three of my piercings are in place.
I’m not trying to be who I was before I dodged my deathday.I know that’s impossible, but I want to be some version of both.
All of who I was and all of who I am.
We drag sluggishly toward the assembly line, and I hear the groan of machinery. Court and I let go when we notice the graveyard of empty dumpsters. Eight feet tall, but some are too narrow for more than one person to fit inside.
