The elevator ride is brief compared to last time. Felix and I descend fewer than fifty floors and enter a metallic hallway lined with red and white lights. Names are engraved into the several burgundy doors we pass.

I peek up at Felix. His jaw is set, and his stride’s robotic, contrasting his usual at ease nature.

He catches me staring. “I’m not fond of what that boy of yours said back there. Insinuating something he knows nothing about,” he states, unamused.

“I wasn’t aware you had supersonic hearing.”

“No need. It was written all over the bastard’s face.”

“What was he supposed to think? What is it you want me to do, anyway?”

“Almost there.” We turn a corner into a short hallway leading us to one door at the very end. As we near, I read the name engraved.

“Who’s ‘Pereira’?” I inquire.

“The poor bloke I stole these quarters from,” he replies, easily pushing the door in to reveal a vast cabin. An unnecessarily large bed hugs the far wall, perfectly centered between two black and white drawers with gold handles. A violet quilt lays crooked atop intricate gold flowers weaving through an indigo comforter, and silky white throw pillows are strewn randomly around the bed, but some tend to favor leaning against the platinum silver headboard. Facing a long white and black desk adjacent to the right wall is a gold chair, overlooking the expanse of space. Through the window, tiny incandescent dots—stars—wink at me. Sixteen circles cut into the ceiling enshroud the room in light, thus the various golden wall lamps exist only to enhance the pompous decor.

Let’s not forget the final touch, a silver and white marble treasure chest spanning the foot of the bed.

I doubt a Martian would choose to live in this cabin, much less be allowed to. Felix sure has interesting taste. Despite the room’s grandiosity, it’s not very well organized. Clothing, electronics, tools, ancient weapons, half-empty bottles of alcohol, food packets, and jewelry cluster along all four walls.

An auto-vacuum travels across the lavender rug onto the metal floor, staying low to the ground and sucking up dust. When it reaches a pile of knives, it pauses like a confused child, turns ninety degrees to its left, and continues on.

“This way.” Felix gestures into the cabin.

A flash of fear pulses through me. I cover it up with incredulity. “Seriously? Your bedroom? I’m out of here—”

I take a step back, but he grabs my wrist in a death grip. Dread strangles me, and I freeze, trying to focus on keeping my breathing even. My heart pounds in my ears, about to explode. I don’t know what to do.

He looks toward the opening of the hallway, checking that the coast is clear. He leans down, and I close my eyes. Startling me, he whispers harshly against my ear, “Do you or do you not want us to speak privately? Because this is one of the few places you’re going to find on this ship without cameras or mics.”

“Then why can’t we talk out here?” My voice is steady until the last note. I remain motionless.

“Nothing improper is going to happen between us in there.” He pulls back to look at me, then he smirks, unable to help himself. “Not today, at least.”

“Then why?” I push.

“You need a shower. And something decent to wear.”

“Actually, you know, I’m quite comfortable—”

“Blimey! Ailee, it’s adorable that you think you have another option. It’s not healthy for you to—”

“Are we friends?”

He cuts off, recalling our earlier conversation regarding the use of my name. “Do you want to be?” Coffee liqueur eyes bore into mine, and I find myself analyzing every inch of his face, searching for a hairline crack in his earnest facade.

His grip is looser now, so I hold up my handcuffed wrists. “Yes, but only if you take these off.”

His gaze fixates on the restraint devices, travels down my forearm then up my shoulder, and finally meets my eyes. “I don’t have the key.”

I shrug. “Then I guess my answer is ‘no.’”

He sighs, retorting, “What about the rest of my crew? You think they’ll fancy my decision to let a convict run amok?”

The word “prisoner” doesn’t sound too bad anymore. I tell him, “You’re the Captain of this ship. I’m sure they’ll think you did it for a good reason.”

“I already regret telling you that.”

“Besides, how am I supposed to shower and put on new clothes if I’m bound?”

His eyes widen into saucers. “I… that’s a good point. Um…” He reaches into his back pocket and fetches out a metal rod. “I’m removing your restraints. I trust you have self-preservation and enough altruism for your boy-toy to not attempt anything foolish.”

* * *

I walk out of the lavish shower with damp hair, once again questioning why the extravagance is necessary. Undoubtedly, it’s not, but it’s quite rare for an astronaut to care about such trivial decorations. On top of that, Felix is a hoarder, another anomaly among those who trek through space. Perhaps there’s an exception for pirates.

The other side of the bathroom door stands Felix, who’s leaning against the doorframe and blocking the entrance of a walk-in closet. He gapes at me and sputters, “Why did you put that back on?!”

I look down at my thin hospital gown. “What else was I supposed to wear?”

“That defeats the purpose of having a shower! You could have just wrapped a towel around yourself.”

I cross my arms. “No, I don’t think so.”

He rolls his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. “It’s dress-up time, come,” he beckons, and I follow him into the closet. We pass spacesuits, athletic gear, fancy attire, bandanas, a couple of scarves, vests, and multiple drawers which I assume host his makeup and jewelry. They’re mostly black amidst hints of purple and white, contrasting with the gold furniture and black metal walls. As expected, the closet harbors no sign of organization, and clothing along with pieces of jewelry dot the floor. Felix expertly dances around the fallen material while I copy his movements.

When he reaches a large violet armoire running from floor to ceiling, he stops and flashes me a gleaming, slightly impish, grin. Flourishing his hands, he opens the two doors in one swift motion, revealing a sorted-by-length line of… dresses?

“Why do you own a bunch of women’s clothing?” I question.

“First of all, some men like to be in touch with their feminine sides. Second of all… take a guess.”

Well, after what he just said… I wonder, “You like to cross-dress?”

He snorts. “Try again.”

“You own a life-sized dress up doll?”

“No.” He frowns. “You’re bad at this game.”

“Ex?”

“Bingo!” He drags his finger down the tip of my nose. “Boop. Technically, each one is from a different ex.”

I jerk back. “How did you manage that?”

“Because I’m irresistible, darling.”

“Yeah, to those who are deaf and blind,” I counter. “So you buy clothing for them to wear…” In case their clothing gets ripped? Or is it a reward? Why the hell is he showing me this?

“Nonsense,” he scoffs. “They give me their clothing.”

“Why?” How different are the words “give” and “steal” in pirate vocabulary?

“You’re not aware?” He places his hands on his hips and dramatically shifts to lean on one leg. “You work for the IF, and you don’t know anything about Cosmic culture?”

“We usually throw the ones that talk excessively out the airlock first, and ask questions second.” Honestly, we don’t generally ask any questions. Pirates are considered enemies to all since they don’t abide by the Law of Space. The law lists many rules and requirements for interplanetary space travel, many of which pirates break, but ignoring two are most treasonous. One, if a ship is stranded in space and you have room on board, you must take them in regardless of country or planet origin. Two, due to the hostile environment, robbing another ship’s source of energy, food, or water is punishable by death. Because pirates typically do worse—steal the ship and leave the crew spinning through space’s vacuum—we return the favor.

After a fair trial, of course. Ideally, one that doesn’t take too long.

By targeting ships in space, the pirates are declaring war, but we all know they aren’t looking to fight entire countries. They simply want a steady supply of goods and entertainment. Keeping ourselves ignorant of pirate culture makes them easier to get rid of.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Bringing me out of my thoughts, Felix states, “Pity. The IF should spend more time studying Cosmic history. After all, each and every Cosmic has a fascinating backstory.”

“What’s yours?”

One side of his mouth twitches into a smirk. “Maybe some other time.”

“You mentioned earlier that Titan is your headquarters… you guys have a headquarters?” I ask in disbelief.

He nods. “We have many. Titan simply happens to be the one I like best.”

My head shakes slowly. “I didn’t know Cosmics were organizing at such a large scale. How do you keep from attacking each other?”

He laughs, exclaiming, “Do yourself a favor and find some better resources, darling, because that is an extremely timeworn belief! We formed an alliance long ago to protect ourselves against Earth and Mars. It makes trading a hell of a lot easier too.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I murmur.

The IF left pirates alone specifically because they weren’t a threat. But now…

Historically, pirate ships who came into contact with one another would attempt barter and inevitably break out into battle. It’s difficult to enter Earth or Mars without jurisdiction, and the IF assumes all pirates will eventually be arrested by police upon atmospheric entry or die out in space.

But access to stealth technology—the kind that comes with this Martian battleship and is admittedly better than the UE’s—plus stable headquarters outside the planets is a game changer. A dangerous one.

I change the subject, “You didn’t answer my original question. Why the dresses?”

“It’s customary for Cosmics to give clothing to their beloved as a sign of intent.”

I raise my eyebrows. “As in marriage?”

He nods.

Perhaps I do need to brush up on my pirate culture after all. I laugh.

An annoyed expression crosses his face. “What’s so funny?”

“I find it hilarious that you hoard other people’s clothing like they’re collectables. Don’t you have somewhere to put them back—wherever you normally live?”

“Oh, I assure you, back on Titan, there’s more where these came from.” He fiddles with a hair scrunchy and stares at it like he doesn’t know what it’s for. I bite my tongue to keep from smiling too big.

“Why don’t you return them?” I wonder.

His eyes widen. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. That would imply I accept their proposal.”

“Throw them away?”

“But they’re so useful in this type of… situation.” He gestures to the space between us.

“You do this often, Romeo?” I imitate his gestures.

“Never.”

“Have you ever given anyone your clothing?”

“Not until now.”

“We’re not getting married, are we?” I query in a light tone, although my heart constricts when he doesn’t promptly answer.

Felix smirks and interrupts the silence, “No worries, love. Just remember not to return it.” He turns away and combs through the line of dresses, pulling out two by their hangers, one in each hand. He holds up a red, sleeveless sweetheart dress with a short hemline in his right hand and a black, spaghetti strap, plunging neckline mini dress with an even shorter hemline in his left. “Betty Boop? Or Fallen Angel?”

“Very funny.”

He stares at me blankly.

“In your dreams. Can you give me something else to wear? Or better yet, can I choose?”

Frowning, he glances back and forth between the two dresses. “What’s wrong with these?”

My nails dig into my palms. “They’re beautiful… I just don’t think they suit me.” It’d be easier to fight and run in my birthday suit than in skin-tight pieces of… lingerie.

“Nonsense! If anyone can pull these off, it’s you.”

“I think they might draw attention.”

“No sin in that.”

Timour would beg to differ. “We can either argue about this all day, or you can pick an ‘outfit’ that doesn’t make me look like a prostitute.”

His expression darkens as he shoves the two dresses back onto the clothing rack. A vein pops out of his neck, and he clenches his jaw to keep his mouth shut. Silence screams against my eardrums while he sifts through the dresses rather aggressively. Stopping near the middle of the clothing rack, he lifts up a white, A-line, halter dress of medium length and softens his gaze. “How about this one?”

Not bad. I nod. “Okay.”

He doesn’t meet my eyes when he hands me the dress, quickly turning on his heel and stalking back to the bedroom. “You return in five, or I’m coming in there,” he threatens, then shuts the closet door.

My stomach churns as I replay his sudden change in demeanor over and over again. I don’t think the problem was my refusal to wear his choice of attire. It’s what I said. Maybe I insulted his lady friends.

I sigh. No, I’m not going to feel sorry. I don’t owe him anything, but it doesn’t hurt to be on his good side. Lower his defenses.

Stripping out of the hospital gown, I slip on the white dress. The bodice is a bit more sheer than I would like, but the loose fit of the skirt will make the dress effortless to maneuver in later. Opening the shoe cabinet, my eyes lock on a couple pairs of running shoes; checking the size leaves me disappointed. My head jerks back when I spot heels and flats. They don’t exist outside shopping malls on Earth. Perhaps Mars has them too, but they’re wholly impractical on a spaceship.

Rely on pirates to care about fashion when you’re hurtling through a deadly vacuum.

I settle for black boots and lace them up over clean socks. Couple more minutes left. I begin opening up as many cabinets as possible, exposing stockpiles of jewelry, scarves, oversized handbags, watches, belts, hats, and eyeliner—because, of course.

One drawer compels me to pause, and not just because it’s relatively organized in comparison to the others.

It’s full of weapons—guns and knives.

I push the drawer in, intending to forget I saw anything. Clenching my fists, I pull the drawer out again, picking up the only pistol I somewhat recognize. It’s heavy for such a small thing. Oddly shaped with a long, skinny metal barrel and wooden grips. The type of gun you’d see at a museum. I look for the magazine release, but instead there’s a little switch. I slide the switch in and almost drop the gun when something pops out.

A cylinder with six bullets hangs from the frame.

Ailee, you idiot. It’s a revolver. I don’t even think revolvers are made anymore, or if they are, they certainly don’t look like this.

It’ll have to do. I put the cylinder back in place and analyze the gun until I’m convinced I know how to use it. Dashing back to where I found some garters, I put on a black one with thick bands and tighten the gun against my outer right thigh. I pluck a dark steel, symmetrical knife from the weapons drawer and place it, along with its sheath, beside the revolver.

Now I’m grateful to be wearing a dress rather than pants.

Three hard knocks against the closet door startle me, and I shriek.

“Ailee, I generously gave you an extra minute. You almost finished?” calls Felix.

I clear my throat, replying, “Yep! Be right there.” I take a look in the mirror to check that my skirt adequately conceals the weapons then walk out of the closet.

And almost bump into a body.

I gasp and jump back. Felix’s eyebrows raise to his hairline as he slowly uncrosses his arms. He smiles and lets out a whistle. “That’s about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. And those boots!” he exclaims, chuckling. He takes out his portal. “Stand still, let me get a picture.”

I put my hands on my hips and glare into the camera.

“Yes, perfect. How about one on the bed?”

I try to fight the smile forming on my face. And fail. “No, you’re ridiculous.”

His gaze drops to my neck, and he jerks his chin forward, peering at me carefully. “Where did you get that?”

I raise my hand to the hollow of my neck, touching cool metal. The Eye. “I told you. It’s a family heirloom.”

He smiles crookedly. “You can fool the lie detector, but you can’t fool me. Growing up with pirates meant that my survival depended on being able to read other people. So I’m going to ask once more, where did you get that?”

“It was my mother’s,” I say in a small voice.

His eyes narrow. “Then why doesn’t it come off?”

I falter. “How would you know that?”

“Doctor River searched for a clasp earlier. Didn’t find one. She even tried to cut it off, but the chain’s indestructible.”

“Maybe you simply don’t know how to open it.”

“Maybe.” He cocks his head to one side and gestures to the Eye. “How about a little ‘show and tell’?”

I fabricate a scoff, “So you can keep it? I don’t think so.”

He takes a deep breath, and his jaw contracts. “Where I’m from, permanent neck chains such as that are used to indicate possession.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Forced marriage,” he clarifies. “Slavery.”

“I’m not married or a Cosmic.”

He reaches out an arm to clutch the doorframe. Tightly. “I’m not originally from the Cosmos.”

“Then where—?”

“Later.”

I sigh. “Fine. Let’s discuss the plan, since that’s the reason we came here in the first place.”

Realization dawns on his face. “Yeah, about that… don’t have one,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not yet, anyway. It’ll come to me eventually.”

I stiffen. “You gave me hope for something that isn’t even possible.”

“Ah, but you see, I never said it wasn’t possible. It will be difficult, undeniably, but I intend to follow through on what I said. I’m feeling a bit peckish, aren’t you? Let’s go get something to eat.”

He turns gracefully away and heads toward the main door. My hand twitches. This is the only chance I’ll get. Screw up, Ailee, and you’ll wake up in an airlock.

I run a hand up my thigh, lifting my skirt, and pull out the revolver. I point it at Felix’s back.

“Don’t move.”

“Hm?” Felix questions, neither turning around nor stopping his unperturbed trajectory to the door.

“Not another step!” I command.

My shift in tone affects him, and he stills.

“Hands up!”

He obeys, slowly turning around. His eyes catch sight of the gun in my hand, and he gives me a haughty look, a crooked smile, as though he’s trying to console a toddler. “Now, now—”

“Shut up.” I take a deep breath. “This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to take me to Timour, find us a dropship, and guide us back to Earth. If you make any noise, try to communicate with anyone via sign language, voice command, eye twitching—whatever other tech you stole from Mars—I’ll put a bullet through your skull. Comprende?”

He peers at me over his nose, cavalier grin on full display. “You won’t make it very far, love. Someone will see you aiming that thing at their Captain.”

“Then we better take the path less traveled by. Otherwise, you’re dead.”