The woman with piercings leads the way, I follow with my hands tightly handcuffed in front of me, and Doctor River brings up the rear. I contemplate stealing the elec from one of their belts, but the bindings will make that maneuver extremely difficult. Also, both women are older and, I speculate, more experienced than me in combat. The several curious gazes we’ve passed so far are additional barriers to overcome. If any escape plan is to work, Timour must be awake and stable on two feet, so for now I content myself with memorizing the ship’s layout and exit locations.

We take an elevator down dozens of levels and eventually arrive at a bland door. Doctor River disappears, and the other woman takes my arm and opens the door by swiping her hand in front of it, leading me into a dimly lit room with a rectangular pendant light hanging from the ceiling above a bare tabletop.

“Sit.” She gestures to one of the metal chairs, the door behind us closing automatically.

I comply. She unlocks my handcuffs, loops them through her belt, then takes the seat opposite me. She leans back, putting as much space between us as possible in the small room. I rub my red wrists and look to my left, where a mirror reflects my gaunt face and sleepy eyes. I’ve certainly had better days. I wonder if Doctor River or someone else is watching through the one-way mirror, ready to jot down my “confession.”

A throat clears, and I look back to the woman with the pixie cut. She holds out a white helmet—a brain scan that doubles as a lie detector—and I’m baffled from where she got it. “I am Detective Nupan, and I will be conducting the interview today. Put this on, please.”

I lace my hands together under the table to keep them from trembling. “I’m willing to cooperate,” I say, “but I need to know what crime you think I’ve committed.”

“Well…” she runs her hands over the tabletop, looking as though she’s searching through files of electronic data. From my point of view, however, the table is clear. No pictures or words to be found. “For one, you trespassed into our territory. That is enough to get you executed, but depending on the information you provide, we may be willing to… overlook your offenses.”

Deep down, I know what she’s saying is bogus. Pirates don’t own any territory of space. They’re criminals and murderers. No amount of information or secrets I disclose will acquit me from punishment. “What do you plan to do with us?”

She ignores me. “Think of this as more of an investigation rather than an interrogation.” She smiles deceptively. “We don’t have to be enemies. I could be your friend.” She holds out the bran scan again, and this time, I take it from her and hesitantly place it on my head. It’s a bit heavy, but nothing out of the ordinary happens. Detective Nupan looks at the table again, apparently satisfied with what she sees. Grabbing an orange bottle from under the table, she twists the cap off, shaking out a white pill and offering it to me in the bowl of the cap. “Here.”

“What is it?”

“Truth serum.”

I stare at the pill warily. “There’s no such thing.”

“Maybe not where you’re from, but the Martians have this in abundance.”

“You’re from Mars?”

She smashes her lips together, arm still stretched toward me. I inwardly sigh, pinch the pill between my middle and ring finger, and swallow it. It slides down my throat easily, and there’s no point panicking about the decision since they’re going to kill me anyway. Satisfied, Detective Nupan leans forward and asks, “Can you state your name?”

“Ailee,” I reply, my heart skipping a beat. “Sergeant Ailee Chambers.”

Her brow furrows as she scrutinizes the table. “Your name is Ailee Chambers?”

“Yes.”

She remains perplexed, glancing at the one-way mirror briefly. I’m puzzled. Doesn’t she already know who I am from facial recognition? Perhaps she’s trying to throw me off. She moves on, “Your father is Starship Admiral Gunther Chambers of Earth’s Interstellar Force?”

“Yes.”

“Did you attend the University of Leonardo?”

“Yes.”

“Did you graduate with a doctorate in computer science?”

“Yes.”

“What age were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“And you are currently seventeen?”

“Yes.”

“You must be a prodigy.”

“Hardly, I’m just lucky.”

“Would you prefer I call you ‘Doctor Chambers’?”

Why do you care? “No. In formal settings, it’s ‘Sergeant Chambers,’ but my friends call me ‘Ailee.’”

She nods at the hint. “What was the topic of your dissertation?”

I’m not telling her what I researched or invented—that’s confidential information that could put my peers in danger, so I lie, “Implementing and Evaluating a Heuristic Algorithm for Computing Association Rules.”

A wave of nausea—probably from the “truth serum”—causes my head to spin, but Detective Nupan doesn’t notice, nor does she catch my untruth. I’m surprised, because polygraphs are almost one hundred percent accurate and used often to implicate criminals. I remain expressionless, and she questions, “Who are you loyal to?”

“The United Empires.”

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She tilts her head. “But ethnically, you’re not fully Empirical, are you?”

“No.”

“Who is your mother?”

“My mother’s dead.”

“My condolences. What was her name?”

I lie again, “I don’t know. She died in childbirth.”

One side of her lips lift up. “Not likely.”

I mentally kick myself. Nobody dies from childbirth anymore. I shrug and elaborate nonchalantly, “That’s what my father told me. I can’t provide you with any more information than that.”

“I wouldn’t ask you a question I didn’t already know the answer to,” she declares, dark eyes boring into mine. I focus on keeping my breathing steady.

She’s calling my bluff. She has to be. The only other people who know anything at all about my mother are my father and Timour. My mother doesn’t exist in any databases, and if she were still alive, I doubt facial recognition would find a match. She’s a true enigma.

After a bout of silence, Detective Nupan repeats, “What was your mother’s name?”

“I don’t know.” Sweat beads my hairline.

Her mouth sets into a hard line, and her eyes rake over the table furiously. She’s looking over the polygraph results, I think, and not believing what she’s seeing. She stares at a random spot for a moment, her eyes glazing over as she battles some sort of internal conflict. Finally, she asks, “Why were you in our territory?”

It’s not your territory. “The electricity went out, and we lost control of our ship.”

“How did the electricity go out?”

“The Martians shot our ship with something.”

“Why did they shoot at you?”

“They were chasing us.”

“Why were they chasing you?”

“We were traveling to Mars to celebrate their founding,” I lie. “Out of nowhere, they attacked us.”

“That doesn’t sound very Martian.”

I nod. “We were caught by surprise. I thought we were going to die…”

“You’re safe now,” she says, her tone filled with suspicion. I sure don’t feel very safe. She’s silent for a few seconds, approaching the next question with caution. “The man you arrived with… who is he to you?”

“He’s a fellow Keeper.”

“Do you care for him?”

“Why are you asking?”

“We’re just trying to understand the relationship.”

I deliberate for a few moments about why this is information they want. If I answer “yes,” will they use him as leverage? If I answer “no,” will they deem him disposable? I decide to respond truthfully, “Yes, I care for him.”

“Do you love him?”

Pain spreads through my chest. “I don’t know.”

“The IF doesn’t allow relationships between Keepers,” she states factually.

“Technically.”

Her brows shoot up. “What do you mean by ‘technically’?”

I falter, unsure of how to respond. This is definitely going to get me into trouble. “It’s frowned upon, for sure, but as long as you’re discreet about it, it’s not that big of a deal.”

She doesn’t speak for a while. Then, she nods and composes herself, content. “Are you and him… discreet about it?”

I laugh. “We’re not together.”

“What’s his name?”

I lie, “Dimitri Stenov.”

She stiffens, her demeanor instantly colder. She tears her gaze from the table and shoots up onto two feet. I flinch, but she simply turns around and strides away without incident. “Stay here,” she hisses, the door closing behind her, leaving me in too quiet silence.

I stare at the table, wondering what set her off. Did I use a name she recognized? I completely fabricated the combination. An argument ensues from behind the one-way mirror, but the sound is too muffled to discern what they’re saying. Two minutes later, it quiets down, and someone enters the room.

“Alright, time to end the masquerade,” an impatient voice announces.

Felix strolls in like we’re best friends and plops into the interrogator’s chair. He puts his feet up onto the corner of the table and crosses his legs. Inspecting the multiple gem rings bedazzling his fingers, he curls the appendages into a fist one at a time, his gaze finally lifting to meet mine. “What do you mean?” I question.

He flicks his gaze above my head and holds a hand out expectantly. “Give me that. You won’t be needing it.”

I reach up, lifting the brain scan off my head and turning it over to him. “You trust me?”

He snorts, but transports the device from my hands to below the table, where it disappears. Where are they storing these items? “On the contrary, the lie detector doesn’t work on you, which is precisely why we can’t trust you.”

“I… that doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t it work?”

He waves his arms in an exaggerated flourish. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

I shake my head. “I’ve never used a brain scan before.” Maybe it’s broken.

“Right.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve never taken any illicit drugs before either.”

I start with conviction, “I haven’t.”

In one fluid motion, he uncrosses his legs, places them on the ground, leans forward with his chin in one hand, and lowers his elbows onto the table. I shift slightly as his face drifts too close to mine. He honestly doesn’t comprehend the meaning of personal space. “And you expect me to believe that?”

“Do I look like a drug addict to you?”

“Yes.” He shrugs. “If it’s any consolation, you’re the most beautiful barbiturate user I’ve ever encountered.”

“Gee, thanks. It’s not like I just came out of the ICU after almost dying or anything like that.” I suddenly feel self-conscious, which is ironic considering Felix perpetually smells of alcohol. “I don’t do… barbiturates.”

“Opioids then.”

“No.”

He narrows his eyes. “Enlighten me. The truth serum that Detective Nupan gave you earlier… how does it make you feel?”

My stomach rolls on cue. “Sick. I’m either going to throw up or pass out.”

His eyes widen, darting around. “Well… that’s not supposed to happen.”

“What’s it supposed to do?”

“Not that.”

I sigh, frustrated.

“The problem, darling, is that now we cannot trust you. Who’s to say your story is true? Maybe you were invading our territory after all.”

I give him a pointed look. “When the other Keeper wakes up, you can put the brain scan on him, and deduce for yourself whether or not I’m lying.” Although, I secretly hope Felix doesn’t. While I have faith in Timour, who knows what this “truth serum” actually does? He could reveal the IF’s secrets. My secrets. “Also, you can’t really believe that we would try invading you with a broken ship.” I scoff, “We were half-dead by the time you found us.”

He rises from his seat and circles around to my side. I prepare to jump out of my chair if he gets any closer, but he simply leans against the edge of the table, peering down at me. I attempt to look indifferent, but to be candid, I’m stressed and intimidated and annoyed. In a wan voice, he notes, “Unfortunately, you’ve seen our faces, so we very well can’t let you go now, can we?”

And whose fault is that? I grind my teeth together. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything. Boss wants us to bring you in. It appears you’ve… piqued his interest.”

“What about the other Keeper?”

“Him too.” He leans down, and I begin to move away, but his arm shoots out and grabs my forearm, forcing me back into my seat.

“Hey—”

His lips are already at my ear as he speaks hushed, incessant words, “Don’t worry. Whatever happens, I’ll work out a way to save you.”

I’m so befuddled that I don’t even realize he’s left my side and halfway across the room before I chase after him and catch his arm. “Timour?”

His eyes lock onto my fingers wrapped around his wrist—slowly trace up my arm, shoulder, neck, cheek, and finally meet my eyes. His stare hardens. “No promises.”

I release him as though he’s made of hot copper, and he saunters out of the room.