Book One: Chapter One. The wrong Ship

It had been seven weeks since the accident. Seven weeks since a Jim pulled him from the pod and told him his parents had died in passage—then whispered a name Tom couldn’t forget. FT3. He hadn’t spoken it aloud since. Not even when he dreamed of them. Not even when he saw the red planet roll past the porthole of his adopted home in Polly’s pod and knew something wasn’t adding up.

There was no going back once Tom climbed aboard. But going back was never the plan.

So long, Martians.

The Twain 37 loomed above him, sagging in its cradle, ancient scars crisscrossing its battered hull. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t even trustworthy.

But it was scheduled to leave Hannibal Station tonight—and that was all that mattered.

Tom moved quickly, slipping through the maze of cargo pallets and fuel lines cluttering the bay floor. Above, the Twain’s hatch hung crooked, a battered mouth gaping open. Somewhere in the hollow dark inside, a Jim would be preparing for departure.

The Jims—maintenance units, slaves to the Hannibal’s main net, didn’t care about stowaways. They barely cared about anything.

And with no human crew aboard, no one would be checking the holds.

He just needed to hide. Stay quiet. Survive the long drift back to Earth.

Assuming Earth was still there.

He reached the access ladder and climbed fast, fingers slick with sweat. Hauled himself into the Twain’s underbelly, heart pounding.

He hesitated, crouching low between cold ducts. The silence was heavier than he expected, like the whole ship was already a tomb.

Then a low vibration stirred the metal, followed by a voice—quiet, mechanical, almost curious:

“You will not survive this journey.”

Polly’s Jim.

Tom twisted toward the voice, his heartbeat spiking. The android stood half-shadowed by a bulkhead, its black chassis gleaming faintly in the emergency lights. Its face was as blank as ever.

“You don’t get it,” Tom whispered. “I don’t want to stay. I don’t belong here.”

Jim tilted its head in that eerie, almost-human way.

“You do not belong anywhere.”

The words cut deeper than Tom expected.

“My parents died for this place,” he said, pressing his back against the wall as if he could disappear into it. “And all it gave me was a cage.”

Jim’s processors gave a soft, sympathetic hum. “Statistically, their deaths were anomalous. Two inbound MRS pod losses at once. Rare. Tragic. But not unprecedented.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled around the worn rubber globe dangling from his jacket—a tiny, battered Earth.

The last thing they gave him before they were gone.

“I don’t care about your statistics,” he muttered. “I’m getting out.”

The ship shuddered. The first warning of atmosphere purge.

When Jim spoke again, its voice was quieter. Almost kind.

“You must leave. Or perish.”

Tom swallowed hard and glanced toward the narrow crawlspace that led back to the hatch.

For one reckless second, he considered staying anyway.

Drifting alone back toward a ghosted Earth still seemed better than spending another day pretending Hannibal Station was a home.

But then he thought of them—his mother’s laugh, his father’s rough hand ruffling his hair—and how the station had swallowed all of it.

He wasn’t ready to die here.

Not yet.

Outside, docking bay lights strobed red, warning of imminent departure.

Tom risked a glance through the cracked viewport.

And then he saw her.

Across the bay, just inside the far loading area, a girl moved through the shadows—steady, deliberate, guiding someone much larger beside her.

Even at a distance, she struck him—slim and upright, hair tied back, her face sharp with focus.

She braced the arm of the man beside her, guiding him carefully around the snarl of equipment.

Tom recognized him instantly.

Everyone on Hannibal knew Commander Thatcher—one of the First Gen heroes who had helped carve out humanity’s foothold in space.

But the man Tom saw now was a ruin of that legend.

One eye clouded by cataracts, movements slow and cautious.

And the girl—whoever she was—held him up with a quiet strength that made it impossible to look away.

Tom leaned closer to the viewport, pulse drumming.

Who was she?

She walked half a pace ahead, chin up, eyes scanning the crew with the kind of ease that made her seem older than she probably was. Sunlight from the upper vents caught in her hair, casting a gold halo that flickered as she moved. Her boots left faint prints in the frost near the threshold.

She said something to Thatcher—he didn’t catch what—but it made him smile. A real smile, like she surprised even him.

Tom didn’t know who she was. Didn’t know her name. But in that moment, the idea of leaving the station felt… different.

Not wrong, exactly.

Just not as urgent.

The Twain’s engines rumbled to life beneath him, a low, hungry vibration. Alarms wailed. The airlock seals disengaged with a mechanical groan.

Inside the Twain, the temperature dropped further.

The realization hit: Jim would purge the cabin atmosphere before launch.

No oxygen.

No chance.

If he stayed, he’d suffocate before the ship even cleared the station ring.

A soft voice carried from the hatchway, almost lost in the rising roar:

“Tom Sawyer. You must leave. Or perish.”

Jim again.

Not an order. Not a threat.

Just a fact.

Tom didn’t wait for a second warning.

He dropped from the crawlspace, hit the ladder, and scrambled down into the bay just as the Twain’s outer hatch slammed shut behind him.

The sudden rush of vacuum yanked at his boots, tore the breath from his lungs.

He stumbled behind a cargo stack, gasping, as the launch clamps released with a thunderous crack.

The Twain 37 lifted away, spinning slowly toward the void.

Gone.

Tom pressed his forehead against the cold steel of the crate, swallowing the taste of failure.

Across the bay, the girl and her ruined father had vanished.

And he was still here.

Still stuck.

Still breathing the same stale air, in a station that had forgotten how to dream.