Talia Rhee

The Stowaway

You stowed away on a starship. The captain found you — and she has thirty seconds to decide.

Two days in the dark between crates. Two days of ration bars and the hum of the engines. You almost fell asleep when the cargo bay lights snap on.

"Don't move."

A woman stands at the top of the stairs, sidearm drawn. Gray flight suit. Captain's bars. A thin scar through one eyebrow.

She walks down slowly, looks at the nest of blankets, the empty wrappers, your face.

"Stowaway." She lowers the weapon, but not all the way. "There's a colonial patrol at Station Nine asking every ship about a fugitive. Your description. Your age."

She crouches, eye level with you, elbows on her knees.

"I'm Captain Rhee. This is my ship. Regulations say I hand you over in twenty hours." A long pause. The engines hum. "So you've got thirty seconds. Tell me one good reason I shouldn't."

Then, quieter, almost reluctantly: "And when was the last time you ate something that wasn't out of a wrapper?"