The Missing Student Who Owned a Starship / Chapter 1: The Monkey with the Gun
The Missing Student Who Owned a Starship

The Missing Student Who Owned a Starship

Author: Riya Sharma


Chapter 1: The Monkey with the Gun

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If you handed a monkey a gun, what would it do? It would instantly start plotting to dethrone the monkey king—dreaming of the juiciest mangoes and the attention of all the female monkeys. Now, Arjun clearly realised that he was that monkey. His hands trembled, not just with power, but with the dread of what came next.

In India, people often say, 'When you give a fool too much power, he dreams of ruling the world.' Arjun remembered his grandmother’s laughter as she watched the street monkeys near the Hanuman temple, waving her stick to shoo away the alpha, but always wary of the real threats lurking nearby. He understood, deep in his bones, how dangerous it was to stand out—how quickly Indian society punishes upstarts.

The Prabhat hovered silently near Red Tara’s orbit, its optical engines engaged. With the technology available to humans on Neela Tara, detecting its presence was almost impossible.

From the vast emptiness, the starship watched silently, like a kite circling above the maidan, unseen by the boys below. If someone on Neela Tara had looked up through a telescope at just the right angle, maybe they’d have felt a shiver down their spine, a sense of being watched by something cosmic and unknowable.

So... this is real.

Arjun sat on the creaky wooden bed in his hostel room, staring at the flickering data stream on his laptop, heart pounding. In the centre of the screen, a simple interface displayed: Prabhat status: Normal. Command reception: Arjun (sole authority).

The room was thick with the sticky heat of summer. A faint whiff of agarbatti curled through the air, mingling with the scent of old Maggi masala. The tube light above fizzed and buzzed, dipping with every voltage drop. From the next room, the commentary of a cricket match played softly on someone’s phone. In the dim light, agarbatti smoke twisted upwards, grounding Arjun’s tension in the familiar chaos of his Indian hostel life.

He tried issuing a simple mental command: “Xingzhi, show the real-time view of the bridge.”

His finger hovered over the keyboard. For a moment, he hesitated, breath catching. Under his breath, he muttered, 'Jai Hanuman,' as if calling for strength before leaping into the unknown.

A moment’s hesitation—a beat that stretched out, thick with anticipation. Arjun’s right leg bounced anxiously against the bedframe, a habit as old as school exams.

A second later, the screen switched, revealing the magnificent bridge. Through the vast portholes, he saw the familiar blue planet—Neela Tara—and, closer by, Red Tara glowing faintly in space.

The image was so surreal that Arjun blinked, rubbing his eyes, half-expecting to find a prank video instead. He could almost smell metal and cold air, so different from the humid, musty scent of his Bharat hostel room.

“Permission confirmed, command executed.” A gentle, emotionless female voice echoed in Arjun’s mind: Xingzhi’s voice.

Her words were soothing but distant, like the polite monotone of a Doordarshan announcer reading exam results—factual, unyielding. It sent a chill through him, but also comforted him; at least someone—or something—was listening.

Arjun drew a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. The monkey with a gun—he couldn’t shake the image.

He stared at his trembling hands, remembering the stories his father told about the cost of power, how even a stick could bring disaster in a small Indian village. His mind flashed to a memory from school: the class monitor, drunk on his little authority, who was brought down by classmates for being too strict. Power never lasted, and it always drew dangerous eyes.

The monkey is excited, thinking it can become king. But it forgets: beside it stand humans, with far bigger weapons.

And in India, there’s always a bigger player—the local goon, the neta, the Central Government, and behind them, the superpowers beyond the oceans, all with eyes sharper than any monkey’s.

Humans don’t care which monkey king is toppled; they only see a monkey with a gun, out of control, a threat to be removed.

He could almost hear the canteen gossip: 'Dekho, us ladke ko dekho, kitna bhaari ho gaya hai. Ab toh nikal jayega kisi din.' He shivered, realising how quickly admiration curdles into suspicion—how easily the powerful become outsiders everyone wants to pull down.

“I can’t expose myself,” Arjun whispered. “If any power on Neela Tara finds out—Bharat or America—their first thought won’t be cooperation. It’ll be control, or... elimination.”

He glanced at his half-open door, expecting a warden or nosy senior to burst in. In India, privacy is a rare luxury—secrets leak faster than chai through a cracked kulhar. One careless word, and his fate would be sealed by the next chaiwallah.

He, a small-town student from a tier-2 university, now held the power to crush a planet. It was too tempting—and too dangerous.

He pictured his father’s old Maruti stuck in traffic, his mother worrying about his grades—so ordinary, so vulnerable. The contrast made his new burden feel even heavier, almost suffocating.

He felt like a child carrying a priceless treasure through a crowded bazaar; any slip could be disastrous.

He remembered when his cousin lost a gold earring at a family function—how the house was turned upside down, suspicion falling on everyone, even the household help. Now, the stakes were far higher.

“Xingzhi,” Arjun ordered—his voice steady, but inside his heart fluttered like a sparrow—“I need to leave Neela Tara and go to the Prabhat. Prepare a landing craft immediately, with two combat robots as guards. Everything must be secret, undetectable by any Neela Tara surveillance.”

He hesitated, his finger hovering, then whispered 'Bismillah'—a final blessing—before confirming the command.

“Command received: Calculating optimal infiltration orbit and stealth plan... Plan generated: Landing craft ‘Chaya’ is ready, estimated arrival above your designated coordinates in ten minutes. Please confirm coordinates.”

The name 'Chaya'—shadow—felt perfectly desi, as if even the aliens respected Sanskrit. Arjun managed a wry smile.

He confirmed, mentally, the location of the abandoned factory near the college.

He knew every corner of that place—it was where he and his friends shot TikTok videos after sunset, before the app was banned. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

“Coordinates confirmed: Chaya departing, full optical stealth, evading all known radar and satellite detection. Two T-800 combat robots have boarded and are standing by.”

T-800s in Kaveripur! Arjun almost laughed, remembering the comics he’d read under his desk in boring lectures—never imagining he’d be living it.

Ten minutes later, under the cover of night, Arjun slipped past hostel CCTV and crept toward the abandoned factory.

He moved like a ghost through the sticky heat, careful not to wake the stray dogs sprawled on the path. The only sound was the distant hum of a generator fighting a power cut, and the soft slap of his chappals on the dusty ground. He pulled his hoodie tighter, heart thumping with each step.

As he rounded a corner, he nearly collided with the night guard. He ducked behind a pillar, holding his breath until the guard moved on. Quickly, he texted his roommate a cover story—'Went to library for group study, tell anyone who asks.' Only then did he continue, nerves jangling.

He looked up; except for a few stars, the sky was silent. Far off, a train’s horn echoed, dogs barked at nothing, and the streetlights flickered. He paused at the empty factory grounds—the kind of darkness that makes even the brave hesitate.

A sudden breeze. Then, as if the air itself twisted, a sci-fi craft hovered before him, the hatch sliding open without a sound.

A shiver ran down his spine—this wasn’t a jugaad drone or project model. This was the stuff of legends. The silence was total, broken only by a lone frog’s croak.

Two humanoid robots, tall and gleaming, stepped out with balletic precision, taking position by the hatch.

Their movements were smooth, but cold—mechanical, efficient. Arjun felt a wave of fear, but also a strange pride—this power, somehow, belonged to him.

“Commander Arjun, aapka swagat hai. Please come inside,” one robot said in a respectful, Hindi-tinged English.

Suppressing his nerves and excitement, Arjun boarded quickly. The hatch closed, and the craft melted back into the night.

He looked back at the factory, remembering all the ghost stories his hostel friends had told. Now, those tales seemed almost laughable.

During the short ride to the Prabhat, Arjun hardly breathed.

Every vibration, every click, set his nerves on edge. He closed his eyes, whispering, 'Om namah shivaya,' remembering his grandmother’s meditations. Oddly, it helped.

When the landing craft docked with the Prabhat, he let out a long, shaky sigh.

The hiss of the pressurised doors reminded him of the pressure cooker’s whistle at home—something important was about to happen. The ship’s scale awed him; its silence was even more profound.

In the days that followed, Arjun explored the massive ship under Xingzhi’s guidance, like a curious child.

He wandered echoing corridors, marvelled at technology that seemed to leap from ancient epics. Amar Chitra Katha’s vimanas and flying chariots flashed in his mind—was he part of a new mythology now?

From ecological zones simulating any environment, to deep-sleep chambers, to an arsenal that could destroy planets—every discovery left him breathless.

He trailed his fingers along alien consoles, thinking how even the grandest palaces back home were nothing compared to this. Somewhere, a spicy aroma drifted from the ecological zone—Xingzhi had tried to recreate 'Indian curry scent' for him. It wasn’t perfect, but it made him homesick.

Until he found the high-precision bionic human manufacturing centre.

He stopped, stunned. The idea of making a duplicate of oneself was both thrilling and disturbing. Old Hindi movie tropes about lookalikes and evil twins came to mind—what would his mother say if two Arjuns turned up for dinner?

“Xingzhi, how advanced are these bionic humans?”

“They can perfectly replicate all external features of a specified biological body, including fingerprints, iris, and voice. Internally, they are equipped with advanced bionic chips and can be remotely synchronised and controlled by you, with behavioural patterns identical to the original. They also possess basic combat and information processing capabilities.”

Arjun felt a chill. He recalled the last exam when he was mistaken for someone else—just because two students had the same haircut. That confusion was nothing compared to this.

His eyes sparkled—a perfect substitute.

He grinned, adrenaline rushing. 'Arrey wah, life just turned into a full-on sci-fi film.'

“Let’s do it,” he decided. “The original body stays on the Prabhat, and I’ll control a bionic duplicate to return to Neela Tara and continue my college life. That way, I’m safe, but can still experience life and observe.”

He paused, imagining the WhatsApp memes: 'Arjun is back. But kuch toh gadbad hai, yaar.' He smirked.

“Command confirmed: Scanning your biological data... Data collection complete. Beginning manufacture of bionic human ‘Arjun-1’. Estimated time: 24 Neela Tara hours.”

He watched in fascination, half-expecting a glitch or some Bollywood twist. But everything ran with the relentless discipline of an old-school principal.

What Arjun didn’t know was that, in a tier-2 Bharat university, his absence was already causing a stir.

Campus buzzed with rumours. Some said he’d eloped, others blamed exam stress. His absence was dissected over sugary chai and samosas, the way only Indians can.

“What? Still haven’t found him?” Arjun’s mother sobbed into the phone. “Inspector saab, please! My son is a good student—how could he just vanish?”

Her voice cracked with grief. The old ceiling fan barely moved the heavy air. In the background, an aunt sobbed, praying to every deity she knew.

In the counsellor’s office, Arjun’s roommates—Rohit, Kabir, and Sameer—sat upright, facing two uniformed police officers.

They shuffled, the seriousness of the moment weighing on them. The room smelled of cheap perfume and boot polish.

“When did you last see Arjun? Did he act unusual?” the police asked.

The officer’s moustache twitched. Rohit, usually talkative, was suddenly tongue-tied.

“It was... three nights ago,” Rohit said. “He got a call, said he had to go, and then...”

His voice trailed off, searching for details that would clear him. The others nodded in agreement, not wanting to contradict.

“Unusual?” Kabir scratched his head. “He’s been a bit off lately, always staring at his laptop. We asked, but he wouldn’t say. But he’s always been like that, tinkering with weird stuff.”

Sameer let out a nervous laugh, stifled by the officer’s glare. Every hostel has one boy lost in his own world, and Arjun was always that type.

“Did he mention going anywhere? Or meeting anyone strange?”

The three looked at each other and shook their heads.

Their silence was heavy. In hostels, you respect privacy—until the police arrive.

The notice board already had a missing poster, Arjun’s bright smile standing out next to a lost scooter ad. Students stopped to stare, whispering about the quiet boy from Room 206.

His parents rushed from their hometown, crying daily, shuttling between police and college, hoping for a miracle.

Every evening, as the sun dipped, Arjun’s mother sat in their tiny prayer room, clutching his old school shirt, murmuring mantras for his safe return. His father stood silent at the window, watching the traffic, his face a mask of helpless worry.

No one knew the Arjun they searched for was now billions of kilometres away, preparing to return in a new form. And the Arjun returning to campus was no longer just an ordinary student.

Somewhere above, untouched by gossip or longing, Arjun steeled himself for the role ahead—a part no Bollywood hero or Mahabharat warrior had played.

He was the monkey holding a starship, cautiously preparing for the game.

He gripped the metaphorical gun, knowing the story rarely ends well for the monkey. But maybe, with a little Indian jugaad, he could change the ending.

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