Tim's Arc

Chapter 3 of 11

The jammed hatch mocked Tim. Even if he forced it, nothing waited past it but open ground and a sweep closing in. His sister slept on his folded jacket. She had no ship, no passage, no way off this world. Tim had spent two weeks building a crate to hide her as cargo. A crate meant nothing without a ship to carry it. He pressed his eye to the gap. The worker light did not move. Beyond it he saw a wide dock, and on that dock sat a starcraft. Its hull gleamed under the lamps, engines clustered at the rear, docking rings ready. A loading bay stood open. Pallets waited to be carried aboard. "That's a ship," Riley whispered. "A real one." Tim's pulse jumped. If he reached that bay, he could still list his sister as cargo. The crate plan could work. But the hatch held. He gripped the wheel and threw his weight down. Rust cracked. The jam stayed. Max pushed close and pointed low. A thin seam ran along the hatch base, where a small panel had been bolted shut. "The marbles went under," Max said. "Small things fit under." Tim knelt and pried the panel. Four bolts. He had his tool. He worked fast, sweat stinging his eyes, while Riley watched the light for any shadow. The last bolt dropped. The panel swung free. The gap was low and tight, wide enough for a child to crawl through. "Max, Riley, go first," Tim said. "Stay against the wall. Get behind the pallets." Riley hesitated. "What about you? You won't fit." "I'll push her through, then follow the wheel. Go." Max slid through on his belly, hugging the shaggy toy. Riley followed. Tim lifted his sister and eased her into Riley's reaching arms. Then he set both boots on the wheel and hauled. With the panel gone, the jam shifted. The wheel turned one notch. Two. The hatch groaned open a foot. Tim squeezed through into cold dock air. The starcraft towered over them. The loading ramp stood ten steps away. A worker stepped out from behind a pallet. Not a guard. A tired man in a stained jacket, a scanner clipped to his belt. He saw three children and a baby, and his hand went to the scanner. Tim raised both palms. "Please. The sweep took their parents this morning. She's not logged. Scan her and she's gone." The worker looked at the baby. He looked at the open loading bay. For a long moment he said nothing. Then he unclipped the scanner and set it face-down on a crate. "Cargo manifest closes in an hour," the worker said. "I didn't see you. Get in the hold and stay quiet." Tim had a ship. The window was an hour, not three days. He carried his sister up the ramp into the dark hold, the children at his heels.