According to the image on Blaze’s monitor, Titan resembles a giant, black pill with two circular openings on each end—one in the back for smaller ships to enter, and one in the front for them to exit. Titan is invisible in the darkness of space, but our specialized IPS detects it. We come up behind the ship, and the entrance opens, flooding one of DeLarge’s camera feeds in fluorescent light before the lens adapts, once more displaying a clear image.

The cameras exhibit Titan’s colossal inner docking station, where four large ships and sixteen small ones are docked, although an additional eight the size of DeLarge could easily fit within the area. Two ships exit Titan at the other end while we enter, and I note that every vessel is either stolen from the MSF or logoless.

An indistinguishable amount of time passes, and our ship finishes docking. We in the command center are the last to exit the ship, and I’m not overjoyed that none of us have spacesuits on. But when DeLarge’s main door opens to reveal an elevator made of steel and triple-pane windows, and we don’t immediately die, I figure it’s safe enough. Nupan, Blaze, Felix, Thomson, Timour, Timour’s two Cosmic guards—I’m insulted that I don’t have guards—and I clamber into the elevator, a cumbersome experience due to microgravity.

The door closes, and the elevator moves in the floor’s direction. Felix hooks his feet under a foodhold with one arm and wraps his other arm around my waist, preventing me from hitting the ceiling. Gradually, artificial gravity increases, and my body floats to the ground. Grabbing a handhold, I swing my legs under me, stand, and remove Felix’s arm. He chuckles, and I shake my head to keep from smiling.

But then I catch a glimpse of Timour’s face and am taken aback by his confused, irked, and doleful expression. Even though he’s staring directly at me, a few seconds pass before he realizes I’m looking at him, and the glum lines on his face smooth into a simulated smile. I make a funny face to cheer him up, but neither one of us buys it.

Nupan and Blaze chat quietly together, whereas Timour’s guards cackle like their lives depend on it—something involving baijiu, karaoke, arroz con leche, and strippers. Ah, a couple of wannabe cosmopolitans. Reticent and withdrawn, Thomson stares out a window, brushing off Felix’s attempt to start a conversation with him. The Captain gives me a “this is your fault” look, and I return a “leave me alone” glare.

When the elevator halts, the screen on the door reads: “Current g-force: 0.680” before opening to reveal a foyer.

“This is our stop,” Felix states, pointing to Timour’s guards. “Bring the Liansan.”

“You need help?” Thomson asks, glancing at me for the first time today.

Is he asking me? Felix snaps, “Now you’re willing to articulate?”

Thomson clenches his jaw, silent.

“No,” Felix answers his question, “I’ve overworked you… and Nupan and Blaze. Rest up until the next mission. You’re dismissed.”

Those three nod and stay in the elevator. Felix, I, Timour, and the guards step into the foyer, in that order. There’s more character and splendor put into this hallway compared to those on DeLarge, since this is a revamped cruise liner. We pass light Monet blue walls with glued-on minimalistic floral paintings; fake plants in pots on thin, black tables; navy ceilings and doors; white crown molding; and faux hickory floors. A former UE passenger ship alright.

A couple hallways in, I stumble. Timour catches me as I shake my head to rid the vertigo, but that only worsens it. “You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I pressurize my brow ridge and blink. Infuriating Coriolis effect. “Do you feel it?”

“A little.”

Footsteps in front of me cease. Felix recommends, “Try not to move your head too much. Look straight ahead. I’ll send some antihistamines to your room later.”

“My room?” Snapping my head up to look at him, I instantly hate myself when nausea strikes.

“You need to sleep somewhere.” Felix resumes walking, but throws a smirk leveled at Timour over his shoulder. “Needless to say, my room’s always open to you, Ailee.” The hand on my waist constricts until Timour frees me when the guards order him to fall back into single-file.

Eventually, we reach an ebony black door. Felix speaks into his portal, “Boss, this is Felix. We’re located outside your office.”

Five seconds later, a melodic voice comes from the device, “Bring in Sergeant Chambers and Commander Orlov. Just you.” Unlocking the door with facial recognition, Felix ushers Timour and I into the room. Timour’s guards don’t follow. The small, dim entryway leads into an exorbitant living room, not an office at all.

The first thing I notice is the gold spider web chandelier hanging from a beige and chocolate honeycomb ceiling. Two vintage chairs and three linen couches, with rose and blue willow pillows, surround a petite faux wood table. A floral rug spans most of the hickory floor, complementing the oversized still-life flower painting on the back wall. A syrup-colored grand piano faces the room from the corner, and four Norman windows line the right wall, separated by champagne curtains, overlooking a fake beach sunset.

“Jesus, Oringo!” the same melodic voice from earlier exclaims, the owner of the sound getting up from the piano bench and strolling toward us. He’s wearing black jeans and a charcoal shirt, the top half unbuttoned. “I told you to bring her back in one piece. There wasn’t a need to rough her up.”

“Where I’m standing, she seems to be in one piece,” Felix counters. “I didn’t lay a hand on her. We were attacked by the MSF and lost a few of our crew.” His eyes soften. “Officer Jual.”

I’m unable to concentrate on the rest of their conversation. I’m starstruck. Boss can’t be more than a few years older than me. There’s no shortage of tall, fit men in the IF, and I’ve grown immune to having handsome acquaintances—for the most part. But this is the first time I’ve lost the ability to breathe. He is the most beautiful human being I’ve ever seen. No actor or athlete comes close. It’s not simply his oval face; the set of his mouth; his open yet defiant demeanor; his long, thick, dark eyelashes. It’s what those lashes are framing—something about his eyes. So cold, so calculating, bright, hypnotic. Dazzling blue, like the hottest stars in the universe. A nervousness blankets me, weighing my shoulders down and settling into my stomach. My legs refuse to work, and I’m terrified of collapsing. I turn my limbs into stone and stay very, very still. I avert my gaze and don’t look back at him—I can’t. There’s something gravely wrong—wrong with me.

“Great, thanks for the update,” Boss says to Felix. “I can take it from here.”

“I should stick around. Make sure there’s no disobedience from these two—” Felix is cut off.

“You’re dismissed.”

Glancing at me, Felix hesitates. Finally, he sighs and inclines his head at Boss. “Call if you need anything.” He exits the room.

Agonizing silence fills the void of dialogue, and I continue evading Boss’ eyes. I hear his footsteps as he walks toward me, and I stiffen. Timour pushes me behind him, shielding me with his body. The footsteps halt. “Relax,” Boss coos. “I just want to take a look at that wound on her face.”

“She’s good,” Timour vocalizes, his fists tightening. “Thank you for the concern.”

“Hm. Does he speak for you, Ailee?”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I don’t reply.

“It was very brave of you to endanger your life for a Cosmic,” Boss resumes. “Unexpected, but exactly the type of person I need.”

Bracing myself, I look directly into Boss’ eyes, numb myself to his effect, and ask, “What do you want from us?”

He smirks, winks at me, then turns his back on us and heads to a bar against the left wall. “Take a seat, please. Would anyone like a drink?” He scoops some ice from the freezer and places the cubes into three old fashioned glasses. “I’ve got rum, cognac, whisky, cream liqueur, red wine—the high quality stuff, of course. If you ask nicely, I’ll make you my signature margarita.”

Timour and I haven’t moved. I place my hands on Timour’s arm, attempting to ease the stress in his posture. “Got any coffee?” I ask Boss. Timour whips his head to stare at me, eyes wide.

Boss chuckles. “Yes, actually. How does cold brew sound?”

“Perfect,” I respond. “And lots of sugar.”

“Right away, Miss Chambers. What about you, Mister Orlov?”

I nudge Timour, and he spits out, “Water’s fine.”

“Ugh, you guys are so boring,” Boss groans. “At least Martians know how to have fun.” Finishing pouring the drinks, he carries the glasses to the petite table in the middle of the room. “Sit, I insist.” He lowers himself into an armchair with his glass of what looks like bourbon, positioning one ankle on his other knee, and points to the couch opposite him.

After some initial resistance, I’m able to pull Timour toward the couch. We sit carefully, as though waiting for the furniture to morph into hot lava. I lift our two glasses and hand the one with water to Timour. He accepts, but doesn’t drink from it. I sip on the cold brew and almost moan. It tastes like melted chocolate, and the effect is probably psychological, but I think my vertigo and headache disappear.

I’m halfway through the glass before I remember where I am. Looking up, I catch Timour scowling at Boss, and Boss leering at Timour, in some kind of bizarre staring contest. Clearing my throat, I say, “Thank you for the drinks. Now answer my question: What do you want?”

Boss leisurely straightens in his chair and leans forward, setting down his barely touched glass. Peering into my soul, he answers, “I want you to work for me.”

“Kidnapping us isn’t much of a request,” I state.

“‘Kidnap’ is a bit of a strong word. Quartermaster Oringo saved your lives.”

“That doesn’t mean we volunteered to be your slaves,” Timour retorts.

“Again with the blasphemous language,” Boss admonishes. “Look at this as more of a… repayment. Besides, the work is for a good cause.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, I query, “What type of work are we talking about? We’re not making a weapon for you.”

Boss shakes his head. “Not a weapon. An aid. A little piece of machinery that can be inserted into the brain and help those suffering from neurotrauma, paralysis, depression, addiction, et cetera.” He cocks his head to the side, eyes sparkling. “But you don’t need me to explain it, do you, Ailee?”

Clutching my glass tighter to keep my hands from shaking, I feign confusion, “What?”

“You can cut the act. You were able to delude Nupan, but she only had so much information on you. I have everything.”

“You’re going to have to spell it out for me—”

“I’ll show you.” He touches the table in between us, swiping down and right to sift through files. Once he finds what he’s looking for, he makes a fist and extends his fingers, blowing up a document before my eyes. My heart plummets when I see the title, but as if he’s attempting to provoke me, Boss reads out loud, “NeuroQueue Cures Paralysis and Epilepsy Through Reconstructing Neural Pathways by—oh! Look what we have here!—Ailee Chambers, and a couple other people I don’t care about, at the University of Leonardo.”

It’s my dissertation. The other researcher and I never ended up publishing the paper for ethical reasons, which means it couldn’t possibly be on the internet. Either somebody hacked into my computer hard drive or leaked the document to the cloud.

Unfortunately, I don’t cover up my shock quickly enough. Boss smiles, asserting, “You’re going to recreate NeuroQueue for me.”

“And if I refuse?” I inquire in a small voice.

Shrugging, he leans back in his armchair, hands behind his head. “Nothing in this world is for free. If you expect to eat, have a place to sleep, or buy a trip home, you’ll have to work for it. I’m warning you now, the trip home is expensive, but I’m willing to make a deal. Provided that you’re progressing on NeuroQueue, stay as long as you’d like. I’ll cover your basic necessities. However, the trip is only available after your work is done, if that’s what you decide.”

“What about Timour? What are your plans for him?”

Boss glances at Timour, who’s white as a sheet of paper. “You’re welcome to work on NeuroQueue or something else, if you prefer. I’ve got a decent number of materials engineers, but they could always use some extra hands. Once Ailee finishes her project, you two can go home together.”

“I don’t believe you,” Timour declares. “We’re loose ends. Aren’t you worried we’ll reveal the location of your ship?”

Boss shakes his head. “Nope. Every room, machine, and device on this ship is only accessible through facial recognition. You won’t be able to see anything I don’t want you to see, or enter airlocks, dropships, comms stations, a hundred other escape routes… I mean, you can try, but the punishment will be severe.” He bends forward again, flashing a crooked smile. “The Solar System is a big place, and the IF aren’t going to allocate resources to finding a needle in a haystack unless they know exactly where we are. Besides, maybe by the end of your stint here, we’ll all become friends.” His expression sobers. “I’m solely doing this to assist my people. Living in the Cosmos takes a toll on the mind, not just the cardiovascular system—although, the latter’s a bit of a stereotype, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Ever tried therapy?” I ask. Cosmics choose to live out here; I’m not letting him guilt me into employment.

He spreads his arms out then clasps his hands together. “NeuroQueue is more reliable long term, and I have no doubt it’ll become a successful treatment option. You said it in the dissertation yourself. Ninety-nine percent recovery rate.”

Sighing, I look at Timour, obtaining solace in his ocean irises. Despite having to play catch-up, Timour’s expression divulges his trust in me. I think we both silently agree on cooperating, for now. I’ll let him in on Felix’s plans later.

Turning back to Boss, who’s analyzing us, I question, “What were the chances you’d find us stranded in space?”

“Close to nil,” he admits. “But we’ve been working on this project for a year, and off the top of my head, we’re about forty—maybe forty-five—percent complete. Some of the algorithms need a little… tuning, among other software things I don’t fully comprehend. I’ll set up an introduction with the team, and they can update you on their development. Point is, it would’ve taken us at least another year before we could release a prototype. With you here, hopefully we will both shorten that timeline and deliver a final product.”

“What do you get out of this?”

“Out of treating people?”

I nod.

He smirks. “You don’t think I’d help to rehabilitate my sick and injured?”

“You’re the leader of the Cosmics. I don’t think very much of you, period.”

Timour’s hand flies to my knee, but Boss merely laughs. “My summer just got more exciting. You’ll start Monday.” He elegantly rises from the armchair and gestures to the entryway behind us with his glass. “Wait outside while I call Felix.” He turns to scrutinize the flower painting, and Timour and I glance at each other before hastening toward the ebony door. “Oh, and one more thing, Ailee.” Boss curls his fingers in my direction, indicating he wants to talk to me alone.

Timour doesn’t let me move. “Timour,” I warn. He closes his eyes fleetingly, and when he opens them again, vexation and dejection shine through. His hands tremble as they leave my skin.

Marching over to Boss, I give him an aggravated “what?” look. He closes the distance between us, eyes traveling down my form, and I remind myself to breathe. He runs his fingers down a lock of my hair, drawing it out of the way as he leans forward, lips brushing my ear. I gasp. He whispers, “Commander Orlov is expendable. If I discover you’re plotting against me or hindering the project’s growth, I’ll order my men to rip his head off.”

“Why are you telling me this, exclusively?” I inquire, steadying my heartbeat.

“Because something tells me you’re the one calling the shots.” He shrugs. “And maybe to piss you guys off.” Caressing my face, he inclines his head to kiss me. My arms strike him in the chest, breaking his hold and allowing me to back up.

“That’s enough workplace harassment to last a lifetime,” I hiss, fear surging through my limbs. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

Boss recovers smoothly, glass unspilled. Timour’s already stalking forward, fists raised, and I’m tempted to look the other way. Wipe that smug smile off Boss’ face.

But I don’t.

I plant myself between the two men, forcing Timour to look at me as I gently push against his chest. “Let’s go.” The three of us enter limbo while Timour debates whether or not to ignore me. I can’t see Boss from this angle, but no doubt he’s goading the Liansan to attack. “Timour, please.” Reaching up, I touch his scorching neck, striving to calm him down. Scoffing, he hurls one last death stare at Boss, grabs my wrist, and tows me out of the room.

Right before the ebony door slides shut behind us, Boss sings, “Come back soon!”