Chapter Four: The Titan’s Past

Night has fallen on New Horizon by the time we reach the entrance of the docking hub. In a way, this was better because Horizon comes to life at night, and more people mean better cover. Jurin and I make sure to stay out of the main streets, avoiding as much attention as possible. But even I am starting to worry that we have exhausted our life's allotment of dumb luck just getting this far. A sinking feeling starts to grow in my lower stomach when we walk past the Miranda Docking Hub entrance.

Thousands of people are coursing between various sized vessels known simply as skips. Every few seconds, one or two of these skips jets upward through the energy shield protecting us from Titan’s unforgiving environment and into space to rendezvous with their larger ships. The whole place is mesmerizing, and all I can think about is the growing pit in my gut as we begin to search for the skips that match the list I acquired earlier.

I attempt to keep up with Jurin while looking down at the list of transport skips, but I notice that he is getting further and further from me. I call out his name in a futile effort to catch his attention before I lose sight of him completely, almost as if the crowd has swallowed him. I close the list and start searching for him. After a while, the pit in my stomach begins to ache as the realization that I’m completely lost comes to mind. Dread sets in, and I stupidly begin running around aimlessly, shouting Jurin’s name at the top of my lungs.

I stop to catch my breath when a hand grabs my shoulder. "Hey! You're that kid from the orphanage!” the voice is stern and militaristic, which means one thing. I frantically look for Jurin because he’d know what to do in this situation, but there is nobody there.

"I have no idea who you're talking about," I say flatly, attempting to shrug off the hand that remains firmly planted on my shoulder.

"Turn around and show me your papers!" the voice demands.

"Listen, I’m not the one you’re looking for." I try to pull free of the hand, but it squeezes even tighter.

"I said turn around and show me your papers!" the man yells, pulling me around to face him. The pit in my stomach deepens as the Coalition Fleet Drafter grins. “Why can’t I scan you, boy!?” he demands in a sharp rigid tone.

I shrug. “Maybe it’s broken,” I say sarcastically. “I’ve heard a lot of men have this kind of issue.”

The man sneers, grabbing my left forearm with his hand. I feel a slight buzzing sensation and a holographic screen appears on the drafter’s right forearm. He promptly reads the display, then a subtle smirk forms on his thin lips, and he finishes before unclasping my arm.

"Turn around and put your hands behind your back," he demands, reaching for a set of carbon bands.

"You don’t understand. I need to get out of here before some bad people come looking for me." I do my best to convey a sense of urgency in my voice, only for the Drafter to snort with amusement.

The carbon bands tighten around my wrists, slightly cutting off the circulation to my fingers. The Drafter takes me by the upper arm and begins leading me through the crowd toward a large skip with ‘Coalition Fleet Standards’ painted across its hull.

This is almost exactly what happened to Keida a little over a month ago. She aged out and wasn’t outside the church’s doors for more than an hour before the Coalition grabbed her. That was the last I heard of her as if she had never even existed. I didn’t get to say goodbye, and I probably never will.

Then there was Frang, a year before Keida. He was the genius of our little family back then. But unfortunately—instead of the Coalition—he was conscribed as a Sifter for the Jovian Mining Corporation. Basically, long hours of toxic waste cleaning without the proper protection. And if, through some miracle, you survive two years of Sifting, then maybe, just maybe, you could be promoted to a position that didn’t involve handling radioactive waste. Frang, however, died on the third day because of a tear in his hazmat suit. But they didn’t find him until the eighth day, and by then, there was barely enough of him left to identify.

The Drafter pushes me in line with about a dozen other draftees, some in cuffs like me. The others without cuffs probably volunteered, hoping for a better life, I guess. Two soldiers were leaning against the back of the skip, probably exchanging tall tales of their various exploits. I look around, avoiding eye contact with the other miserable prospects, hoping to catch sight of Jurin, but he’s nowhere. What the hell happened to him? Did he just take the money and run, or was he looking for me? My thoughts continued to contemplate the possibilities for his disappearance.

Jurin was different from Frang; he was street smart. When he aged out two years before Frang, he went directly to Cheever and vowed his loyalty to him. After that, no Drafter would touch him without fear of reprimand from the Baron. Jurin’s plan was simple; work long enough to get off Titan. But he soon realized that when you work for Cheever, you don’t quit until he is done with you. And when Cheever is done with someone, they typically end up dead.

That notion sent my mind into a downward tailspin leading to Genna. She was the first to age out of our little family and was like a big sister to us all; she practically raised us. It had already been five years since she left the orphanage. Genna wasn’t drafted. Like Jurin, she started working for Cheever, but sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if she was drafted instead. She was working as a waitress for one of Cheever’s more reputable businesses. However, it was only a matter of time before she succumbed to the appeal of money and power. Genna became hooked on Zeek and started selling her body in order to fuel her addiction. That went on for a few years, constantly in and out of rehab and attempting to get her life straight. She got close too. A year ago, she told me she had found a way out and that she would leave and come back someday for us. But the very next day, she was found beaten to death in an alleyway not far from the orphanage.

My mind continues to reminisce on the things I have lost and the truths I may never know, culminating with the question of how I ended up on Titan in the first place. My origin is a mystery. Unlike most orphans who were born to drug-addicted prostitutes, I wasn’t born here. I was found on the doorstep of the church’s orphanage when I was three. According to Genna and the others, I didn’t speak for nearly three months, and when I finally did, I didn’t know anything about my past. It was as if I was wiped of all my information. They checked my Aug, and nothing was there, no name, no date or place of birth. It was like I just appeared out of thin air.

I shake my head, attempting to get my mind off the sadness. It was just Jurin and me now, and there was no use dwelling on the past. I need to deal with them now. Another Drafter begins leading a few more recruits up the path toward the skip. One of them starts screaming about how he doesn’t want to join and runs for the fence line. A few of the others begin to follow him when a single pulse round erupts from behind me, nailing the first runner in the middle of his back. The poor bastard flew forward, hitting the ground and sliding about a meter before coming to a rest. The other recruits that were following him stopped dead in their tracks, some falling to their knees in disbelief.

And here I was starting to think joining the fleet would be a good thing; at least Cheever wouldn’t be able to get to me. Even a psycho like the Baron knows better than to pick a fight with the fleet. Neither side will ever admit it, but they need each other. Cheever offers the wary, homesick squids certain amenities that their commanding officers cannot. Basically, as long as the Coalition supplies Cheever with fresh new customers, then Cheever won’t step on the fleet’s toes.

The Drafters grab the few stragglers and return them to the line, leading them the rest of the way up the path. That’s when I catch sight of Jurin.

"What the hell?" I whisper as he flashes me a brimming grin.

"Oh, hey, John. What a coincidence, right? Man, small solar system," he says sarcastically, joining me in the ranks.

I look at his hands and notice he isn't bound by cuffs. "So you volunteered?" I ask.

He smiles again, pointing across the docking hub to a small outdated skip. "That is our ticket out of here..," he says. "All we gotta do is get there in an hour—that’s when they launch." He flashes me a hopeful expression.

I look at him, wondering when he‘ll get to the part about us getting away from the Coalition without being shot. But before I can ask, he shrugs and nods his head toward the two soldiers leaning against the back of the skip.

"But how?" I ask.

"No worries, I got this," he responds and begins walking toward the two soldiers.

As soon as he gets about a meter or two away from them, he puts his arms up. The soldiers point their pulse rifles at him and force him against the skip. At this point, I can’t see Jurin’s face, but one of the soldiers lowers his rifle and glances my way while the other begins walking toward me. He takes me by the arm and leads me to the end of the craft, where the other soldier and Jurin are standing.

"Is this the one?" the soldier asks Jurin.

"Sure is—" he responds with a grin. “Now, just as we discussed, a hundred thousand creds after you get us out of here—deal?" The two soldiers look at each other and then nod.

They lead us to the other side of the skip and cut me free while one of the soldiers keeps an eye out, waiting for the opportune moment to let us go.

"We need to hurry, Miller. A few more Draftees, and we are on the up-and-out,” the soldier closest to me says.

"Roger," the other responds, almost in a robotic manner. "Looks like we have an opportunity in thirty seconds," he adds.

I glance over in the direction the soldier is pointing; a single guard is walking the perimeter fence where there’s a hole big enough for a person to slip through. I can feel adrenaline starting to pump as I slowly count down from thirty. The guard passes the hole, and I feel a forceful push launching me from the cover of the skip. "Move!" one of the soldier's whispers. Jurin, the soldiers, and I quickly dash across the flight deck, reaching the opening moments later. We wiggle through and begin sprinting toward the cover of some spacing containers.

We jog along the spacing containers, getting as far away as possible from the Coalition, and finally, come to a stop between some stacked containers. The two soldiers point out the best route to reach the skip Jurin arranged for us without encountering any Coalition.

Jurin thanks them and hands over a credit chip loaded with Cheever’s hundred-thousand creds. “There you go, try not to spend it all in one place,” he says sarcastically.

We turn and begin walking when one of the marines stops me. "One more thing," he says. “We will have to report you're missing—nothing personal, but it keeps our Commanding Officer from getting suspicious.” He pauses and looks at his friend, then back at us. “Don't worry, though. We’ll head in the opposite direction." He ends with a salute, and the two disappear in the dark.

Jurin lets out a triumphant grunt. "Jeez, that really worked out, didn't it?" he says, jabbing an elbow in my side.

"Yeah, I honestly didn't think you were capable of such ingenuity," I retort with a mocking tone. "So now that we’re broke again, any idea how we’re going to pay our way on that poor excuse of a skip you showed me earlier?"

Jurin smiles. I'm starting to get really worried when he smiles. “See, that’s the beauty of it. I convinced the pilot that you and I are some expert maintenance men, so we will work our fare off."

He clearly feels very proud of his barging skills, so I won't be too rough. "Yeah, that’s great. besides the fact that we have never been on a ship before, so your plan is going to blow up in our faces." Ok, so that was a little rough.

Jurin's smile fades at the realization. "Well, damn—looks like we will have to be adaptable."

Adaptable, he says. What the hell? It takes years to learn how to work on Fusion Cores. One wrong setting or miss-configured containment field can spell disaster almost instantly. There is no way we could wing our way as part of a crew on an actual spaceship. But from the looks of it, we have little choice. Either we lie and hope the ship’s crew finds out long after we depart, or we stay on Titan and get killed by Cheever or the Coalition Fleet. It’s not every day you get both the Baron and the Fleet vying for your death certificate. So if we have to fake it, we might as well get a ride first.

I bump into Jurin, who has stopped dead in his tracks. "What’s the matter?" I ask, but he doesn't respond.

A familiar voice sends a chill down my back. "Remember when I told you I don't like liars and cheats? I bet you thought you got away—bet you felt you pulled a fast one on good old Cheever, huh?" I turn toward the voice as Cheever follows through with a punch, so hard everything fades to black.