Back on the lower deck, Peter quietly hid his tattered uniform, then reached into his satchel and felt the medicine bottle and oxygen tank again. The bottle held precious medicine he'd gone to great lengths to steal from the medical ward, hoping it would ease his little sister's cough. The oxygen tank was for the occasional leaks of toxic gas on the lower deck.
At that moment, he was walking with his head bowed, hurrying home across the lower deck. He did his best not to draw anyone's attention, his steps light and quick. The dim lights flickered, casting mottled shadows that seemed to speak of the endless misery of this ruined place. The air reeked of sweat, garbage, and rot, making it hard not to grimace.
Peter knew the lower deck had been growing more dangerous lately. For some reason, people aboard the ship had begun following strange faiths: the God of Courage, the Benevolent Father of Health, the Princess of Joy, the Prophet of Wisdom, and others. The names sounded absurd, yet their followers were utterly obsessed.
They painted strange symbols on their clothes, or even carved them directly into their skin with knives. The designs varied, but the most common was a star made of eight arrows. It had left the deepest impression on Peter.
Peter still remembered the first time he'd seen that Eight-Pointed Star. He'd been stealing something and hiding in a corner when he saw a group of people bearing the symbol snatch a dead child from a couple. The boy looked about four or five, Peter guessed. The couple clung to him, their eyes filled with despair and terror. The followers showed no mercy, threatening them with knives and iron pipes until they handed over the child.
When the couple refused, one of