(Journal — Robby, Age 8)

  I cut my strings today.

  The little chip in my hand. The debt counter. It wasn’t just a number. It wasn’t just blinking. I realized… it was a locator. A way for them to know where I was. Every step I took, every time I ran from a guardian, every time I went into town… probably logged. Someone could follow me. Someone could make me pay even if I tried to hide.

  I cut it out.

  It hurt. My hand burned. ARKNAD told me to heat the knife first. “Captain, if somebody tied your ship to port against your will. Well sometimes ya gotta burn the ropes to be free.” I did. I didn’t care about scars. ARKNAD said, “Girls like scars. Marks of bravery.” I laughed, bit a stick again, tried not to scream. The skin sizzled. My fingers stung. Blood bubbled a little.

  I pulled the chip out then touched my hand again with the hot knife. When it was gone… quiet. I still have some of the yellow gooey stuff left and put that over the burn. Just wanted you to know i did it right, i read the book a bunch of times before doing it.

  No beep. No little warning. No blinking. Just nothing.

  Freedom.

  And fear.

  Fear that someone will notice. Fear that I did something dangerous. Fear that I’m on my own now. But also… power. Control. My life. My rules. But you can visit if you want, I have corn and green air.

  Corn first. Always corn. Every kernel counts. I went back to the field. Picked what I could carry. Boiled some. Left most in the car to dry. ARKNAD says, “Captain, even a pirate’s belly has to plan ahead.” I like that. Hunger doesn’t get easier, but at least I can do something about it. Corn is getting boring.

  Found some blackberry bushes, lots of berries but not ripe yet. So I marked it on my mental treasure map to keep coming back to check. Collected more “broadleaf plantain’s”, that’s what the book called them. Just thought you should know they are not really called green air.

  I get the broadleaf’s, dandelion’s, daisies, and sometimes some chicory if I can find it. It will fill you up but you have to eat a lot of it to keep going so I have a small bag on my belt I store them in as I go around through the day.

  I walked the creek for a long way looking for things I can use or eat. I found cat-tails, so I cut a butt load of them. Will come back for more, lots in this spot where the river gets really wide and slow.

  I also found a salt lick someone left behind. Big chunk. I carved off a piece heavy enough to bruise my wrist. Carried it slowly back to the fort. ARKNAD saluted: “Every pirate needs seasoning, captain. Even in a dugout.” I nodded and grinned.

  Then the old abandoned house. Creepy. Quiet. Full of treasure. A pot, pan, dishes, silverware. Soap. Rug. Rolls of padding. I considered the mattress… smelled funny. Left it. Everything else fits in the dugout. ARKNAD says: “Function over fancy, captain. Always.”

  Back at the dugout. I spread the padding across the floor. The rug goes near the bed. Clay on the woven walls is still hard to smooth, but thicker now. I layered the tent over the tarp on the roof. It won’t stop all the rain, but it keeps the wind and water off my shoulders.

  I moved moms car seat into the dugout too, I put it by the bed so when you visit you can tell me a story again. One hand on the wrench, one hand on the seat. ARKNAD called it a “space siege engine.” I laughed. It fits as a chair. As a bed. As a command post.

  That chair is for you when you visit. I promise i wont touch it. Sorry dad you’ll have to sit on the couch with me. You can be my pillow so its fair.

  I practiced stacking rocks for the fireplace. Clay crumbles, mud sticks. Sweat in my eyes. Dirt in my hair. Blisters on my good hand. ARKNAD says, “Every rock is a shield, captain. Every stick a weapon. Build your ship.”

  I tested the salt on my corn. Little taste. Salty, good. Makes the boiled kernels taste less… plain. Every little thing matters.

  I’m recording again on the OmniPad. Songs first. Then stories. ARKNAD SPACE PIRATE battles guardians, steals seven dinners, launches missiles at imaginary space krakens. I laugh quietly. No one hears me. Feels good. I tried to record everything you taught me too, on how to be brave. It’s hard to remember it now.

  I clean the solar panels again. Dirt, dust, leaves. Car only gave me an hour-long radio last night. I can’t let that happen again. Panels shine now. ARKNAD says, “Clean panels, captain, or the music dies. Swab the panels or yer be swabbin the deck!”

  The dugout feels mine. Hidden. Safe. My corner of the universe. I am eight. Still here. Still brave. Still counting. Still me. Will you ever come back? Still waiting.

  Salt. I don’t know how to use it yet. I mean, I can eat it, but I want it to last longer. ARKNAD says, “Captain, you grind it. Tiny pieces go farther.”

  I walked up and down the river looking for good stones. Round, flat, smooth… maybe a pair that could be a grinder. Took forever. My hands blistered carrying rocks. But I found two. Big enough to press together. Heavy enough to stay put.

  Back at the dugout, I grabbed a small table from the abandoned house. Placed it in front of the car seat. Solid. Stable. Sturdy enough for the stones. I put the salt chunk between them. Chipped away slowly. Tiny bits fell on the floor. Sparkly. Shiny. Like little stars.

  I looked down at the chips and thought… maybe I can use more stones to make the floor less dirty. ARKNAD cheered. “Every chip counts, captain! Clever pirates always look down!”

  Mortar next. Another book told me how. Mostly water and ash. But also limestone. Limestone I had to cook. Cook a rock. ARKNAD said, “Why not, captain? Space pirates experiment with everything!”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  I found the right rocks up on the hill. Took hours. Heated them in the fireplace all night. Tossed one into the creek to see what happens. Fizzled! Melted! Whoa. Didn’t expect that. Had to read the science books more, i think that part might be almost as important as the math part for the spaceship.

  Now I’m mixing water, ash, and limestone powder. Making mortar. Using it on the flat stones for the floor. The dirt doesn’t stick as much. ARKNAD keeps shouting, “Better floors, better fort, better captain!”

  Even while cooking dinner, I worked on the stones. Corn boiling in a pot. Mortar drying under the car seat. My one hand learning to do a lot at once. ARKNAD says, “Multitask like a pirate, captain!” I laughed. Pain in my arm, but I keep going.

  Have to do this right in case mom and dad come back.

  I put a bunch of little stones in the front door and spelled WELCOME. Just so you know you can come and visit my house when ever your not busy with your life without me.

  School work. I’m still doing it, I promise mom! Math. Numbers make sense. 27 times 48 is 1296. Always. Writing still hurts with my arm, but I practice its almost healed. Reading, science, spelling. One hand or two, I have to keep going. ARKNAD says, “Even pirates study, captain. Knowledge is a weapon.”

  I can write with both hands now though, I had to learn to do it with other hand. So now I practice with both. ARKNAD says you never know if one of your limbs gets turned into a peg by a kraken so you should be prepared.

  I watched the sky today. That bright star is still there. Daytime, but bigger than Venus should be. ARKNAD says it may be a space kraken. I drew it in the dirt with sticks, measured angles. Made a compass out of rocks. North, south, east, west. Checked the books. Not Venus. Not Mars. Nothing I’ve read. Big. Bright. Weird.

  I cut my hand free, collected my corn, gathered supplies, patched the fort, built the fire. I am on my own. ARKNAD yells at me to keep moving. I do.

  I fell once carrying a heavy pot back from the old house. One hand weak, arm sore. Bruises forming. ARKNAD laughed. “Even broken pirates survive.” I laughed too. I promise i didn’t cry.

  Every day I feel more like a captain. Less like a kid who has to hide. The dugout is mine. My rules. My space. My ship. But you can visit still.

  Fishing hook! Finally. Took a rabbit bone, filed it, bent it, sharpened it. I practiced tying a line from the leftover string. ARKNAD called it “micro-surgery, pirate style.” I laughed.

  I caught some worms first. Tiny little guys, wiggly. Then I went to the creek. Patience. Quiet. I felt the tug. My first fish! Small, but alive. I cooked it with corn and cat-tail stalks. Salt on top, ground fine with my new fancy grinding stone. ARKNAD saluted: “Captain, that’s a feast! Even the space kraken would be jealous!”

  I ate slowly. Corn and fish. Tasted like freedom. My arm throbbed, my fingers smelled like ash, salt, and fish. But I smiled. I am eating on my terms. My fort. My food. My rules. ARKNAD laughed too. I didnt save you any sorry but I promise I will get you all the fish you want.

  The floor! I finished laying the flat stones with the mortar. I waited for it to dry. ARKNAD kept shouting, “Patience, captain, even pirates don’t walk on wet treasure!”

  I stepped onto it first. Careful. I had a stick and kept poking the floor to see if it moved. Solid. Strong. Not perfect. A little uneven. Some stones chipped under my weight, I will fix those but have to make more mortar. Tiny sparks of dust. I laughed. ARKNAD laughed too. “Even when things break, captain, you keep building!”

  I walked across again, slower. The stones held. The mortar didn’t crumble. The floor stayed solid. I think dad would have been proud. Wait, I need a broom now that i have a real floor. I don’t know how to make a broom.

  My little fort feels more like home now.

  ARKNAD says, “Every good pirate needs a solid deck. Checkmate, universe!”

  I sat on the car seat for a long time, arms resting on my knees, staring at the stones. Sunlight glinting on the edges. My hands hurt. My arm aches.

  But I built it.

  My fort.

  My floor.

  My rules.

  Radio Night…

  The car smelled like dirt, smoke, and salt.

  Robby sat cross-legged in the driver’s seat, the borrowed jacket pulled tight around his shoulders. His injured hand throbbed faintly where the chip had been cut free.

  He turned the radio knob.

  Static.

  Then a voice cut through, sharp and hurried:

  “…Mars front collapsing… forward units retreating… UE civilian evacuations still ongoing…”

  Click.

  Another station, weaker, distorted:

  “…lunar shipyards under bombardment… orbital defense grids compromised… unknown losses reported…”

  Static again.

  Music bled through the noise, warped but recognizable:

  “…There’s pictures, too, though they are old. Of city lights and fields of gold…”

  Click.

  “…UE fleet casualties rising… production slowed… planetary supply convoys delayed…”

  Click.

  Another song fragment, almost gentle:

  “…So I'll sing to the stars where your dreams used to drift,…”

  Robby turned the dial again and again. Broken broadcasts. Half-sentences. Reports from Mars, the asteroid belt, the Moon. Panic bleeding through clipped voices. A war too big to understand, too far to see, but close enough to sit heavy in his stomach.

  One station cut in clearly, just for a moment:

  “…lunar bombardment continues… civilian zones evacuated… forward bases destroyed…”

  Robby pressed his forehead to the glass.

  He pretended the voices were talking only to him.

  Pretended the songs were messages from somewhere safe.

  Pretended the world outside hadn’t noticed him yet.

  The solar panel gave just enough power for the radio to whisper for a while. An hour. Maybe two. Warmth pooled faintly inside the car. Robby balanced the OmniPad on his knees, slowly flipping through the dictionary, tracing words with one finger as the music faded in and out.

  The dugout waited.

  Corn waited.

  ARKNAD waited.

  Hunger waited.

  Morning waited.

  And Robby.

  Robby was still here.