Page 32 of The Last Hope
At eleven years old, I was on my knees in the dining hall. Tray of beans, apples, and chicken thighs spilled onto mosaic tile.
I staggered to my feet, brushed the beans off my kneecaps, and I gestured the older boy toward me. “Come here, then.” I sported another wily grin. “You want at me; I’m all yours.”
He yelled between his teeth and shoved forcefully.
I fell again, and I stood once more.
His anger burned through two narrowed eyes and tried to impale me hot.
He couldn’t kill me, and he knew it. The next time he tried to push me down, I caught his wrist and whispered, “We’re on the same side, mate.”
At fourteen years old, I thought I knew everything there was to know and learn.
Naïve.Probably.Cocky.Most definitely.
I stood on the training deck inside an Earthen starcraft and finished buckling my bronze breastplate and metal armguards. The lightweight bronze was an alien metal mined off the planet of Gigadon and one of Earth’s major imports, and even thoughI didn’t really need protection from fatal injuries, I chose to wear it to seem more like them.
More like humans.
Inside the docking bay, fifty sleek combat jets were parked. One would become mine after academy graduation. The pretty one—I’d hoped.
A drill sergeant cautioned me, “Head down, guards up.”
Standing tall, I pushed my blond hair back and said, “Or better yet: head up, guards down.”
She rolled her eyes and stepped to the side. “Turn on your mic and listen for instructions, knave. Unfortunately for me, I’ll be in your ear.”
I whispered under my breath, “The misfortune is all mine.” I fit on my bronze helmet, metal plates shielding my nose and jawline.
After adjusting the small microphone that brushed my pink lips, I began to climb into the cockpit. I wore the customary fleet skirt: made of midnight-blue leather strips.
Unconstricting, weightless. I could easily move. And as I hiked up the jet, the leather skimmed the gray metal shell, and I settled in my seat.
Strapping in, I listened to the crackling voice in my ear. “Drill 508: abandonment protocol. Trainee, do you copy?”
“Copy,” I replied. Normally I’d reach for the thrusters, but to pass this specific drill and become a C-Jay, I wasn’t supposed to fly the jet.
She started describing the simulation. “You’ve been attacked by a Saltarian starcraft. It doubles the size of your jet. Your command functions are disabled. The enemy starcraft is pulling your jet aboard. You are their prisoner. What is human protocol?Begin.”
Quickly, I unstrapped myself from the seat. Jumping out of the cockpit, I slid down the body of the jet and landed on the training floor.
Thethumpof my leather boots echoed in the cavernous docking bay, and I watched three men march forward to apprehend me. Their wool cloaks billowed behind hurried feet, and their triangular StarDust brooches gleamed at their throats.
Pulse pounding, I reached behind my armored chest and gripped a rigid hilt. Unsheathing a long two-edged sword with a tapered point, I braced myself and twirled the weapon. More flourish than purpose, I could already picture the points being deducted for my bravado.
As the cloaked men reached me, I instantly ducked and sliced their Achilles tendons. Blood spewed, and each body fell.
I stabbed them in the gut for precaution. But heavy footsteps resounded, and I spun to find seven more Saltarians running toward me.
This time, they were armed.
I clutched my weapon with two hands and chased down the barrel of seven guns. Sprinting, alert, and ready.
I knew my strengths.
I couldn’t tackle seven people. I wasn’t a muscular fourteen-year-old. Hell, I probably weighed a buck-fifteen back then, but I was fearless, especially.
Some would say careless.
