Chapter 48: The Lower-Deck Thief

Chapter 48: The Lower-Deck Thief

The boy from the lower decks had been watching the armsman for days. He'd noticed that when the guard patrolled this sector, he always carried a few extra ration bars and a pack of lho-sticks. For the inhabitants of the under-deck, these were unimaginable luxuries.

The boy lived in the lowest, blackest guts of the warship, a maze of mechanical corridors and pipelines where the Emperor's light never reached. Life here was a daily struggle for scraps of food and sips of foul water. He was thin and small, but he was fast, and he knew the labyrinth.

At this specific checkpoint, the armsman always paused to smoke a lho-stick and eat. It was a brief, predictable moment of distraction. The boy decided to take the risk.

He had a plan. The only illumination was a single, flickering lume-strip on the ceiling. For an hour, the boy had held a scrap of cloth over his left eye, letting it acclimate to the total darkness.

The armsman arrived on schedule. He unbuttoned his breast pocket, casually tapped out a lho-stick, and lit it. He was careless; he didn't even bother to re-button the pocket as he leaned against the bulkhead, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke.

In the shadows, the one-eyed boy took out a length of wire, its handle wrapped in rubber. He jammed the wire into a cracked, exposed junction box on the bulkhead.

POP! The lume-strip died, plunging the corridor into blackness.

The boy burst from the shadows, tearing the patch from his left eye. His heart hammered, but his vision was sharp. He knew the armsman was blind. Holding his breath, he moved like a ghost, his bare feet silent on the iron deck.

With his dark-adapted eye, he saw the armsman's silhouette, frozen in confusion. The boy's fingers, nimble as a spider's, slipped into the man's open pocket. He touched the hard-plastic wrapper of the ration bars and the soft-pack of the lho-sticks.

But the armsman felt the touch.

"Who's there?!" he roared.

At that exact moment, the lume-strip flickered back to life. The armsman's eyes, wide and furious, met his. The boy's heart stopped, but he didn't freeze. He snatched the loot and ran.

"You little rat!" the armsman bellowed, lunging after him. "You picked the wrong man!"

The chase was on. The boy was a wraith, diving through narrow service-ways and over massive pipes. The armsman, weighed down by his flak armor, was a clumsy giant in comparison. The boy knew this maze; he dodged and weaved, always one step ahead.

The armsman roared in frustration, his hand dropping to his sidearm. But he knew he couldn't fire—not here. A stray shot could rupture a conduit or, worse, damage the ship. Killing a few deck-thralls was nothing, but he'd be lashed for damaging Legion property over a ration bar.

He finally stopped, watching the boy squeeze through a gap too small for him to follow. "Void-spawned bastard!" he screamed into the darkness. "You'll rot to death down here!"

Miles away, the boy—Petros—leaned against a cold steel wall, his lungs burning as he gasped the foul, recycled air. He clutched his prize: precious, precious resources for his mother.

He calmed his breathing and made his way back "home," expertly avoiding the other patrols. He was worried about his mother.

As he turned a final corner, a familiar figure blocked his path. It was an old woman, her hair white, her face a mass of wrinkles. She was only in her fifties, but life on the lower decks had worn her down to a husk.

"Petros, wait!" It was Old Martha, another survivor from Olympia. Her eyes were wide with panic. "Your mother... it's her time! The baby is coming!"

Petros's heart seized. His mother was weak. Here, in the underbelly of the Ironblood, medical supplies were non-existent for slaves. The glory of this Gloriana-class battleship was not for them. This could kill her.

"How is she?" he panted. "Is there a medicae?"

"Medicae Bobbi is with her now," Martha said. "I came to find you."

Medicae Bobbi. On Olympia, he had been a veterinarian. He'd tended to grox and herd-beasts. But down here, he was the only "doctor" they had.

Petros's hand tightened on the stolen lho-sticks. He ran, praying to any god that would listen.

He skidded to a halt outside their small, makeshift hovel, terrified. He had to be strong. For her.

It felt like an eternity. Finally, Medicae Bobbi emerged, his face exhausted and grim.

"Petros," he said, his voice low. "Your mother... she's weak, but she'll live. The baby... it's a girl. She's... she's too small, Petros. Her cry is very weak. I don't know if she'll make it."

Bobbi was still talking, but Petros pushed past him.

He burst into the cramped space. His mother was lying on their cot, pale and sweating, but she was smiling. In her arms, she held a tiny, tightly-wrapped bundle.

His new sister.

She looked up, her voice a fragile whisper. "My little stone... come and see your sister."