Chapter Six: The Stowaway Titan

The Miranda Docking Hub is filled with people from all walks of life. There are children and the elderly. People of different races and ethnic backgrounds. They are all concerned with their schedules, peddling away at time that, at any second, could be ripped from them at a moment’s notice. I walk among them but am not one of them, like a ghost or a shell of a person aimlessly lumbering with only one thing left. I reach into my pocket, retrieving the only important thing I have left, and stare at it intensely. It is a torn section of fabric with a logo from some long-forgotten piece of history and the acronym AIC scrolled across it. This is the only thing I was found with on the day I came to the orphanage fifteen years ago. That was also the first day I met Jurin, Genna, Frang, and Keida. They were my friends, my family, and now they are all gone. The marine was right. I need to do this not only for Jurin but also for everyone else I have lost.

I wander around the various ships, scoping out the ones that I could possibly slip into unnoticed, when I come across a large skip that, for some reason, I can’t stop being drawn to. About thirty people are boarding when I walk up and notice the maintenance hatch on the underside of the skip. I look around, and not a single soul is paying attention, so I take it as a sign and quickly scurry up the ladder through the hatch. I find a somewhat comfortable spot under the main compartment walkway. I can hear voices and the sound of footsteps just overhead, and after a while, I feel the skip begin to vibrate as the engines warm up.

"This is MDV-0425 requesting permission to launch and proceed to destination," the pilot says in a rehearsed fashion.

"Roger that, 0425. You have been approved for launch. The estimated time to thrust is approximately three minutes and thirty seconds. Happy flying and stay safe up there," the controller responds.

The hull begins to vibrate now more aggressively as the engines screech with anticipation. "Everyone, please take your seats and fasten your belts—" a stern voice echoes through the compartment, followed by the mass shuffling and moving of the passengers in response to the orders. "Nev, begin the final departure checklist."

"Yeah, yeah, already on it—pressurized seals—green, exterior sensors—green, hygithium-fuel cells—charged and ready, radiation shield—green. All systems are nominal. We are up and up. Let’s get the hell off this rock," he finishes with a crude chuckle.

The skip begins to lift off, slowly at first but gradually gaining speed and pitch. The hull vibrates uncontrollably as I struggle to hold on to something. Then, just as I'm about to lose grip, everything falls silent, and I feel the strange sensation that I have dreamed of since I was a child. My body floats up on its own, weightless. The hull stops vibrating so crazily, and I press my head against it to feel the skip’s heartbeat flowing through my body. I hold myself steady with the walkway's brace, listening to the chatter of the passengers above. Man, I wish I was up there so I could see the vastness myself.

About fifteen minutes later, I hear several passengers gasp, and the pilot starts speaking, “This is MDV-0425 on final approaching vector with MST-C: Idle Confessor; come in, Idle Confessor. I repeat, we are on final approaching vector. Respond. Over," the pilot says in a clear, concise voice.

A few seconds later, "MST-C: Idle Confessor, reading you loud and clear. Proceed with docking protocol—" The voice pauses. “How you doin' darlin’? I bet Nev is driving you crazy by now.”

"Hey, I can hear you, jackass!" another voice, presumably Nev's, joins the fold.

"I assure you that was entirely my intention. Hey Lora, go ahead and drop the cargo off in hanger two. ETA five minutes. See you soon, Confessor out." The com falls silent.

The ship turns tightly, causing the hull to creak and whine under stress, and before long, we enter the hanger bay, or at least I believe we do, because my body falls under its own weight, indicating we have entered artificial gravity. The skip throttles down, coming to a soft landing, and the engines sigh in relief. I remain hidden under the walkway until the passengers have left, and then I wait even longer to ensure everyone has cleared out before making my way to the hatch and down the ladder.

The hanger was eerily vacant of life, with no evidence that there were people running around earlier. At this point, my presence mustn't be known, so I have to avoid others as best I can. Frankly, this is a big ship, so it shouldn’t be too hard to hide out for a few days. I run over to some crates and sit for a little bit, attempting the get used to the ship's fuel. Just then, the hanger doors slide open, revealing two stout individuals with meticulously-waxed mustaches heading for the skip.

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"Unload the skip," one of them mocks while the other chuckles.

"It’s not like we aren't busy keeping the ship space-worthy, but now I guess we are also—" he stops mid-sentence.

"What is it, Don?" the other asks while checking an inventory sheet on one of the crates.

"Ron, did Lora or Nev tell you that they were performing maintenance on the skip?" Don asks.

There is about a minute of silence. "Na, neither mentioned that they were going to do anything. Besides, that is our job, so they shouldn't be messing with it anyway. Why?" He turns and looks at the skip.

It isn’t until I take a closer look at what they are obsessing over before realizing that I had forgotten to close the maintenance hatch after I exited the skip. Surely they wouldn't think much of a single hatch being left open—right?

"You'd better call them and find out if any of the passengers messed with the maintenance hatch," Ron says to Don, but he was already talking to Nev on his Aug’s communicator.

Nev comes walking in several minutes later. "What the hell is it now? I was getting ready to sleep after—" he stops in his tracks, staring at the hatch wide open. "You guys messing with me?" he asks.

"No, it was wide open when we found it," Ron interjected.

Don lowers his left arm and faces them. "Just talked to Lora, and she didn't open the hatch either."

"Maybe it just opened during the flight," Nev suggests.

"Oh, it just opened—you hear that, Don?"

"Aye, I did, Ron—it’s amazing the captain lets him near the bridge with intelligent statements like those," Don says cynically.

"Alright, alright, you guys can go screw yourselves—" Nev responds contemptuously. "So, if it wasn't me or Lora, then who opened it?" he asks.

I lean forward a bit to get a better view and catch sight of the twins standing in the same exact position with their hands situated just under their chins, deep in thought. They glance at each other, nodding almost simultaneously.

Ron turns toward Nev. "So, we talked about it—"

"And—we think there is a stowaway on board the Confessor," Don finishes.

You’ve got to be freaking kidding me! Who are these guys, detectives? Nev's face scrunches into an odd combination of disbelief and confusion, which I imagine is what my face looks like at the moment. Well, there goes the plan to hide out for several days. Just then, one of the twins turns in the direction of the crates where I am hiding. I drop to the floor as fast as I can, hoping, even pleading, that they didn't see me.

"Really, a stowaway—how do you figure? Cause I'm not seeing it," Nev says in a skeptical voice.

There is a pause in which Ron and Don probably formulate a response that wouldn't confuse the likes of Nev; however, I'd also like to hear how they determined the same conclusion.

"Aw, well, the hydraulic maintenance hatches on the 0400 series of the Multi-use Drop Vessels lead to a spacious, although uncomfortable, area situated right under the walkway of the cabin," Don says.

"It is plausible for one, maybe two people to sneak in and hold up in there for the duration of the flight, however," Ron elaborates. "It would be difficult for such individuals to simply hustle up that the ladder without being seen by someone, says the senior security officer of the vessel. So there must've been a big distraction in order to allow someone to slip past the likes of such a senior security individual—isn't that right, Nev?" He finishes with a cynical tone.

Now I don't have to see Nev's face to know he probably looks just as dumbfounded as I do. I have to give these twins credit. They really know their stuff.

"Yeah, but these are all assumptions—there is no way you could know without a doubt. I mean, I might have looked away for maybe two seconds," Nev argues.

"You are completely right—don't you think, brother?” one of the twins says.

"Yup, yup, however, we left one detail out—" There is a pause, probably deliberate to convey a sense of drama. “I think that if you take into account the information we just gave you in tandem with the fact that the stowaway is hiding behind the crates over there—you'll find that our assumptions are very well placed."

It takes a second for the information to sink in; apparently, they saw me long before and were simply screwing with me like they were with Nev. I jumped to my feet and began to run for the door, but Nev was waiting for me with his pulse Pistol drawn and pointed at my face.

"Ok, ok, hold up..," I say, putting my hands slowly up. “There is no need for that—I’m not going to run. I have no place to go."

I can see Nev's face twisted with anger. "Or, I can waste you here and now and call it a job well done.”

"Nev— “ Don says behind him. "We should really let the captain determine what to do."

It isn't much, but I’ll take it. "Yeah, take me to your captain—"

I expected Nev to look angrier, but he smiled from ear to ear, lowering the Pistol.

"Turn around!" he says, cuffing me with some carbon bands. "Oh, and sorry."

I think for a moment about what he meant by sorry when a sharp pain shoots through the back of my head. Everything blacks out after that, and when I regain consciousness, I realize I’m strapped to a chair in a room that looks similar to a bridge. Nev is standing off to the side near the door with the twins flanking him. In front of me is a large intimidating man. He approaches me, grabbing my face with one hand and brandishing a pulse revolver in the other.