The boy on the battleship's lower deck had been watching a sailor for several days. He'd noticed that the sailor always carried ration bars and cigarettes while patrolling the lower decks—rare luxuries for the people who lived there.
The boy lived on the lowest level of the battleship, a maze of maintenance corridors and pipes, in shadowy corners the Emperor's light could barely reach.
Life here was harsh. Food and drinking water were scarce, and every day was a struggle to survive. The boy was small and nimble, but clever. He knew how to navigate the battleship's maze of corridors and compartments, always looking for a chance to get by.
Whenever the sailor reached a particular checkpoint on his patrol, he would habitually stop for a cigarette or a couple bites of ration bar. It was a brief moment of distraction. The ration bars and cigarettes were everyday supplies to the sailor, but rare luxuries on the lower decks. The boy decided to take a chance.
He already had a plan. The checkpoint's only light came from a fixture overhead, so he found a piece of cloth and used it to cover his left eye, letting it adjust to the darkness ahead of time.
Sure enough, the sailor arrived on schedule. As usual, he undid the clasp on his pocket, tore open his cigarette packet, pulled one out with a flick, and put it between his lips. Then he took out a lighter and lit it. Once he'd finished the familiar routine, the careless sailor didn't even fasten his pocket clasp again. He leaned against the wall and puffed away.
The one-eyed boy in the corner took a length of wire from his pocket. He wrapped it in rubber to keep himself from getting shocked, then inserted it into an exposed circuit board on the nearby wall. The board had come loose with age. There was a bang as the circuit shorted, and the wall light in the deck's ceiling went out.
The boy darted out of the shadows, pulling the covering off his left eye as he went. His heart raced, but his gaze was steady. He knew the sailor was now surrounded by darkness. Holding his breath, he pressed himself against the cold metal wall. Like a ghost, he slipped out of the shadows, light and swift, without making a sound.
With his left eye, now adjusted to the dark, the boy could make out the sailor's figure. His fingers moved like spider legs as he quietly lifted the pocket flap and reached inside, taking great care not to draw attention.
At last, his fingers touched the hard ration bars and the soft cigarette packet. But the sailor still sensed something touching him and barked:
"Who's there?!"
To make matters worse, the power came back much sooner than the boy had expected. Each time the overhead lights flashed on, the sailor's eyes gleamed warily in the dim light. The boy's heart nearly stopped, but he didn't give up. He snatched the ration bars and cigarettes, pulled his hand back, and ran.
The sailor shouted. He'd spotted the little thief.
"You little brat! You picked the wrong man to mess with."
The sailor strode after him, determined to teach the thief a lesson.
A chase broke out across the lower deck. The boy darted through the narrow passageways, his body as nimble as a monkey's. The sailor stayed close behind, but his size and gear slowed him down.
The boy used his familiarity with the layout to his advantage. The sailor might patrol the area, but he only ever walked along a few of the main corridors. The boy slipped through one narrow gap after another and leapt over obstacle after obstacle. At every crucial moment, he changed direction, keeping the sailor from catching him.
Behind him, the sailor roared in fury, nearly tempted to open fire. But he knew that firing blindly in such cramped quarters could hurt innocent people. Of course, killing a few people was no big deal. But he could also damage the battleship's facilities. That might be acceptable during a crackdown or a boarding action, but if he damaged anything over a few cigarettes and a ration bar, he might get a whipping for it.
In the end, the sailor gave up. Watching the boy squeeze through a narrow gap, he shouted:
"You little bastard. You'll rot down here on the lower decks."
Leaning against the steel wall, the boy had finally shaken off his pursuer. He gulped down the foul air of the lower decks. His heart was still racing from the chase, and he clutched the ration bars and cigarettes he'd just stolen. They were precious supplies for him and his mother.
Once he'd calmed down, he hurried home, deftly avoiding the other sailors along the way. His heart was full of worry for his mother and anticipation of the food he was bringing. But as he crossed a narrow passage on the lower deck, a familiar figure blocked his path.
It was a white-haired old woman. She wasn't actually that old—only in her fifties—but life on the lower decks was so punishing that she looked much older than she was.
"Peter, wait!"
It was Old Martha, another Olympian who lived on the lower decks. A note of urgency showed in her eyes.
"Your mother, she... she's about to give birth."
Peter's heart tightened. His mother had never been in good health. Medical resources were scarce on the lower decks of the Iron Blood, especially for low-ranking slaves like them. The glory of this Glorious Queen-class battleship had never belonged to them.
Peter knew that giving birth could be very dangerous for his mother.
"How is she? Is there a doctor?"
Martha answered him.
"Doctor Bobby's already there. I came here to tell you."
Bobby was just a veterinarian on Olympia who treated cattle and sheep, but he was one of the few doctors the lower decks could get.
Peter unconsciously tightened his grip on the packet of cigarettes and hurried toward their "home." He prayed to the God-Emperor, praying that his mother and his little brother or sister would be all right.
Peter soon reached the compartment door. Fear and unease filled him, but he knew he had to be strong—for his mother and for the sibling who was about to be born. The operation went on for a long time, and Peter waited anxiously outside.
He didn't know how much time had passed before Doctor Bobby finally came out. His face was weary and bitter as he said:
"Peter, your mother is all right. She's just a little weak. But your sister is too small, and her cries are so faint. I don't know how long she'll hold on."
Doctor Bobby kept talking, but Peter could no longer bring himself to listen.
He rushed into the compartment. Seeing his mother in the cramped space, he nearly burst into tears. She lay weak but peaceful on the battered bed, holding a tiny bundle of cloth tightly in her arms. Inside was his newborn little sister.
His mother smiled tenderly at Peter, who'd just hurried back.
"My Little Stone, come meet your sister."
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