Escape to Neso

Chapter 1

Chapter 1Sartre checked the console, made sure the pressurized jetway had pulled back, clicked the toggles, then disengaged the anchoring mechanism from the city-station. In the distance, Europa’s reflection captured his gaze for a moment. The small Jovian moon with red gashes resembling veins never failed to amaze him.

His G-class ship then drifted, as it was released from its namesake’s docking clamps. He didn’t have much time; soon, his delta-wing’s movement would be detected by Europa 11’s customs patrols. He didn’t have clearance yet to leave, but he didn’t want to ask for permission either.

A clanking noise within the ship alarmed Sartre, but he didn’t have the luxury of checking the source. Opis had been designed to be manned by two people. It took all of Sartre’s attention to maneuver it out of dock and not strike other ships parked close to him, and other moving ships. Another tinny noise followed then inexplicably stopped.

Sartre tensed as an A-class ship appeared to his right. He shut the engines off to slow down. Based on its size and engine, the larger ship displaced more fuel volume. He didn’t want to be caught in its space wake. If some accident were to happen, it would be Sartre’s fault since he jumped the line.

Opis was one-tenth the size of the methane cargo ship that cleared Sartre’s line of sight. Undoubtedly the large tanker vessel had been to Europa to trade for water. Trading and bartering used to be frowned upon; but out here, outside Terra’s regulatory influence, currency was no longer king. Now, it was common practice between the space craft that plied between Titan, Saturn’s moon, and Jupiter’s moon, Europa, and the city-stations between the gas giants to trade goods or supplies. Yes, coin was good in terms of iron, or minerals. But product was more important.

Europa 11 was especially valuable. Everyone depended on Europa 11’s greenhouses for food, especially the different city-stations circling Titan. Sartre counted on the busy nature of this station to slip away unnoticed. He didn’t think he’d be so lucky when he got to Enceladus 2.

Once the large tanker moved a safe distance, Sartre followed behind. He held his breath. He couldn’t risk being blocked by patrol ships which kept the varied ships in line, and which maintained the safest route out. He checked the monitors to make sure his ship was maintaining the ordinary flight plan. Any divergence would get him noticed.

No one wanted to get pulled by Europa’s slight gravity. The standard course showed a path out of the rings of circling ice, dust, and the seventy-nine moons that circled Jupiter. Everyone took the turn toward Callisto, avoiding Ganymede and Ganymede’s magnetic pull. It was bad enough that most ships had to have heavy shielding to reduce radiation exposure by the red giant, but the shielding made the ships prone to be lured to Ganymede’s magnetic field.

Minutes passed, and after two more ships followed Sartre, his shoulders relaxed. He didn’t relax long though. A warning light came on for the lower compartment. Shifuck, he said under his breath. He remained in his seat, waiting for the moment that he was sufficiently away from Europa 11 and distanced safely from other ships before he engaged the autopilot with a course for Enceladus.

With the course safely locked in, Sartre stood and grabbed the large J-knife that hung on the wall, behind his seat then he walked down the metal stairs toward the ship’s loading doors. Once he got close, he froze. A scraping sounded tipped him off. There was someone there. Sartre tensed; his hand gripped the J-knife. His heartbeat quickened. Out here in space, it was act first, ask questions later.

“Don’t hurt me,” a man’s voice cried out. “I really didn’t have a choice.”

Far from relaxing, the interloper’s words only heightened his anxiety and Sartre gripped his knife even more tightly. The stranger spoke Terran English with a lilt over the word, ‘choice.’

A Martian.

“Please, I know you can easily kill me.” The voice rose. “I saw you make that trade. I mean, I couldn’t see your face because of the helmet, but I know what you are. Who you are. And I overheard you’re going to Enceladus 2.”

The stowaway’s comments angered Sartre. He thought he’d been discreet. The alley behind the noisy row of bars on Europa 11 was hardly used when the bars were open, and that’s why he chose that location for the exchange.

Luckily for Sartre, the nervous man’s voice betrayed that he was close to the door, so Sartre took a half step into the compartment, his eyes easily adjusting in the darkness. He swung his arm out, then yanked the man by his collar, throwing him against the metal wall of the narrow walkway.

Sartre easily towered over the man who barely stood more than one and half Terran meters. The man threw his arms out to keep Sartre back. “Please, don’t hurt me. I had to get away from Europa 11.”

Sartre moved close enough to see that the Martian’s eyes had widened with fear. He hesitated. Rather than hitting him, he pushed the man against the wall then shoved him to the floor, so he was within easy kicking distance. The stowaway closed his eyes, and his arms shielded his face, clearly expecting an attack from Sartre. Instead, Sartre crossed his arms, his J-knife tucked under his elbow. “Why? Why’d you stowaway here?”

“I just had to,” the dark-haired man said, slowly opening his eyes.

“I can easily turn around and drop you back off at the city-station you jumped from.”

“I’m hoping you won’t.” The man paused. “If you do, I might tell them you traded for some biochemical stuff. And because you both tried to hide yourselves in the dark, I bet it was a secret. I don’t know what you got, but since it involves you and that lab, it’s probably something you or they don’t want others to know. Maybe illegal pharmaceuticals?”

Sartre took a half step closer, and the stowaway flinched. “I don’t trade in drugs.”

“Maybe, but a patrol could search your ship. All that’s needed is someone to tip them off. Doesn’t even have to be a valid lead. I’m guessing you don’t want anyone to know why you need biochemical stuff or whatever it was you were doing with the Tarazen bio lab. Or why you wear a helmet when you’re off the ship because obviously you’re—”

Before the stowaway could say anything else, Sartre grabbed the man’s collar hard and lifted him up for a moment, enough to stop him from talking. “If you know what’s good for you, space trash, lie on the ground with your hands behind your back.”

The man grunted, knelt, then complied. Sartre grabbed plastic ties from near the doorway and placed his foot on the man’s back. The stowaway groaned as Sartre yanked the stowaway’s arms up, but the man didn’t make any other moves.

Sartre then restrained the man, who was compliant, and grabbed the intruder’s elbow, lifting him up.

The man’s face was flushed. “I’m Madsen, by the way.”

“I didn’t ask.” Sartre planned on shoving the man back the in the supply room and locking it up with him inside when he eyed a strange green bag where the stowaway had been hiding. “What’s in the bag?”

“Nothing.”

Sartre pushed Madsen back into the supply closet and picked up the bag that was on the floor. Its heavy weight made Sartre curious.

“There’s a lock on it.”

“Yes, Captain Obvious. There is.”

Sartre was tempted to knee the sarcastic Madsen but thought better of it. He could turn the ship back to Europa 11, and report him as a stowaway. Back on Terra, Luna, or even Mars, Madsen would be questioned. No one liked stowaways; they used up fuel, and food.

But Madsen was right. Europa 11 didn’t have a lot of laws but going back and dropping off a stowaway raised alarms with the docking crew. And as an enhanced human, Sartre himself would be immediately arrested. If they had any idea who Sartre was, then he would be tortured for information.

“Please. I won’t be any trouble,” Madsen pleaded, his voice low, without sarcasm this time.

“What’s the combination to the bag’s lock?”

“If I give it to you, can I stay on the ship? At least until Enceladus 2?”

Again, Madsen’s voice took on a more begging tone. Sartre hesitated. His worst fear made him wonder if Madsen had brought a bomb on board. If it was just units of metal currency, he wouldn’t care. But he worried about the safety of his mission and getting this ship eventually to its destination, plus the sarcasm was gone. The man on the floor seemed desperate, so Sartre nodded.

“Thanks. You won’t be sorry,” Madsen whispered. “So, I have your promise to take me to Enceladus 2?” Madsen’s tone no longer had the insolence.

“Yes,” Sartre said.

“It’s my birthday: 01012975.”

Sartre punched in the code, and the lock clicked open. After unzipping the bag, he dropped it once he recognized the contents. “You’re trading pressed beryllium?”

“It’s an important commodity. It’s easier to trade than mined platinum on an asteroid, or even rhodium.”

“And you had to hide in my ship to do this?”

“It’s a long story. It’s actually collateral for a bet I won. But I couldn’t wait to get a vouchered transport off the floating city by regular means. I took a hunch when I saw you talking to that bio lab person.”

Sartre pushed Madsen back in the compartment and locked it.

“Wait! You can’t leave me in here!”

Sartre laughed and put the bag of beryllium in a small cubbyhole.

“Seriously, I won’t be any trouble! I promise.”

“I’m making sure of it,” Sartre shouted. “Besides I’m still not sure that I don’t want to turn back to Europa 11. I bet this beryllium is stolen, and I don’t want mining security detail after my ship.”

Madsen kicked the door, then kicked it again. It didn’t budge.

“Stop, or I’ll throw you out in space through one of my loading bays.”

Madsen kicked the door again. “That’s my beryllium!”

“I’m serious. Kick it again and I’m throwing you out in space!” The kicking stopped. Sartre relaxed. He was glad his threat was persuasive, even though he would never have pushed Madsen out through an empty torpedo bay.

“What if I have to use the toilet?” Madsen shouted.

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Sartre said, noting the frustration in Madsen’s tone.

“No, seriously. I have to go the use the facilities,” Madsen’s voice was lower, almost exasperated.

Sartre smirked. Madsen’s attitude had resurfaced. “If I take you to the toilet and you can’t urinate, you’ll be missing your appendage. Now, ask me again to take you to use the facility.”

Madsen was silent. Sartre then harumphed and walked back to the cockpit. He couldn’t believe the gall of Madsen, a stowaway, now playing off a stupid reason to be out of the compartment. He really thought about turning around and going back to Europa 11. But by the time he buckled himself in the cockpit, Sartre subconsciously massaged his own neck. It hadn’t been that long ago when he was under the threat of imprisonment and slavery. He’s never had a stowaway before, even though Sartre himself had almost been one himself a long time ago.

Trusting humans wasn’t easy anymore. They were the cause of many problems in the solar system. Sartre absentmindedly rubbed the double-sided medallion he wore.

Sartre thought about his temporary prisoner. He’d met men like Madsen before. So full of themselves, thinking that wit and charm would make everything okay when in fact it didn’t go very far out here. Living and surviving in space was hard work. Sartre considered it more luck than science that humans had even made it as far as Saturn, and her moons.

He sighed. What was he going to do with Madsen? It took him several minutes to decide.

After confirming the ship was still following the plotted path, Sartre toggled the microgravity switch off. The spinning hypergravity machines hummed to a slower sound, and then shut off. The loose items on the ship then floated with the loss of internal gravity.

“Hey, hey!” Madsen shouted.

Sartre guffawed, then switched the microgravity back on again. Sartre was rewarded with a large thud, which he guessed was Madsen falling to the ground. Sartre couldn’t help it; he belly-laughed. His smile grew even wider when Madsen yelled and asked to be let out.

Sartre wasn’t turning back to Europa 11, but it didn’t mean that Sartre couldn’t have fun with his jerk of a stowaway.