Shifting my feet and fidgeting, at midnight, I knock on the Quartermaster’s door. Scratch that. I pound on his door. The sound of opera playing over electronic hip hop music is muffled by the airtight entrance, but whoever’s in that cabin is steadily losing their hearing.
The music cuts. The door opens, and the sharp scent assails me.
Guess sobriety didn’t last, and now he’s making up for lost time. Hopefully, this signifies he’ll be in a better mood.
Then I survey his presentation: Bloodshot eyes, puffy cheeks, cedar-brown sweatpants, no shoes, no bandana, white shirt unbuttoned, the way his weight hugs the doorframe…
Felix is drunk—a miracle, considering he’s constantly intoxicated—meaning he must’ve emptied an entire bathtub full of whiskey. Once his eyes focus on my face, he groans, grabbing my hand and yanking me inside before shutting the door behind us. I yelp.
He turns on me, backing me further into his dim room. “What are you doing here?” he questions, the brusque tone implying he’s not in a better mood at all.
I sidestep the discarded liquor bottles, keeping my gaze locked on his. “You’ve been ignoring my calls.”
“Yeah, that’s usually what somebody does when they don’t wish to speak to you. Or see you, for that matter.” He brushes past me, pouring himself a glass of gin and downing it like it’s a shot. Teetering, he sets the glass on his desk with enough force to almost shatter it. “You were an idiot today. For a multitude of reasons.”
Annoyed when he doesn’t continue, I prompt, “Such as?”
Twisting around, he leans against his desk and stares at me with dark, liquid eyes. “You’re being too obvious. What you did earlier? You cannot address me as though I’m your friend. What you’re doing now? You cannot materialize here in the dead of night. How am I supposed to ensure your safety when you aren’t taking the necessary precautions?”
“I don’t think he suspects anything,” I state, recalling that hours ago, Huxley apologized for Felix’s behavior.
“That’s what he wants you to believe. Everyone on this ship is loyal to Boss. They’re his eyes and ears. Don’t you have a couple guards spooring you?”
“Timour’s covering for me. They think I’m staying at his place for the night, so they’re guarding his door.”
“My, my.” Felix’s lips curl distastefully. “And what does Boss have to say about this little… liaison?”
“He…” I rack my brain for a sufficient defense, but the truth is, Huxley was furious that one moment he brought it up. I doubt he’s forgotten. “I don’t know.”
“That boy’s going to end up dead.”
My eyes snap up to his. “You think Boss will kill him?”
“If I were Boss, I would. Timour’s a connection to your past. Erase him, and Boss is all you have left.”
“No. If Timour dies, Boss knows I won’t help with his precious NeuroQueue agenda.”
Felix shrugs. “Perhaps he’s prepared to take that chance.”
Restless silence drags for half a minute, before I ask, “Why didn’t you come see me in the hospital?”
His answer is different this time, “I already told you: I can’t give the impression that I care about you. It’s too perilous.”
“Actually, you didn’t tell me anything.”
“It was implied.”
“Bullshit. You couldn’t call? You couldn’t text a quick ‘are you okay?’ Or do those words cross into ‘care too much’ territory? Also, your argument is unfounded, because I’ve spent weeks on this ship, and I’m bound to meet a few people. They’ve seen us eat meals together. Thomson and Nupan visited. My coworkers. But not you. You could’ve even pretended that you were simply keeping an eye on Boss’ asset.”
A minute passes, then he says in a low voice barely above a whisper, “I wasn’t aware you wanted me to.”
Deflating, I divulge, “Look, I don’t mean to come across so self-absorbed, because honestly, this isn’t about small things like that… you’ve been avoiding me for a while… Are you still mad at me for the other night?” He knows exactly what night I’m referring to. My first date with Huxley. “If that’s the case, I—”
Felix cuts me off, inflection impersonal and as dull as nonmetal, “Ailee, you didn’t message me today.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yes, I—”
“No, not that kind of message. Code words, remember?”
Shoot. I completely forgot.
Felix carries on, “So you spent the whole day snogging Boss, and we got nothing out of it.” He lifts up a bottle of white wine as a toast, smirking cheerlessly. “Nice job, sweetheart.”
“I’m sorry,” I automatically say, wanting to add that post surgery I was still groggy, but knowing it would only appear as an excuse. “I was distracted.”
“That’s supposed to be your job,” he declares, steel and electricity trickling into his intonation. “You’re supposed to distract him. This isn’t a two-way street.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“It better not.”
Another stretch of quietude, and I timidly reveal, “I’m still confused as to why you were upset with me—before today. Because I’m telling you now, I’m not angry anymore. I’m over it. I’m tired. And I apologize for not understanding that night when you talked about your experiences. I was being immature and narrow-minded. I’m sorry.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“If you get on your knees and beg for forgiveness, I’ll consider absolving you.”
I cross my arms. “Felix.”
“The floor’s a tad dirty. You can do it on the bed.”
“Felix!” I hit him in the shoulder, and he catches my wrist, lips tilting up as he stares at me.
Then the rare smile fades. “It’s not anger that I feel. In fact, most of the time, I try not to feel anything. Emotions obstruct rational thought.”
“Right.” I nod, as though I agree with him. “But when you do feel… how would you describe it?”
He looks away from me, wishing we weren’t having this conversation. He lifts up the bottle of wine again, and I place my hand over his on the bottle’s neck. His fingers loosen, letting me steal the alcohol from him and set it down on his desk.
“Talk to me,” I urge, holding his gaze.
He grudgingly says, “When I was sold to Boss—the Boss at the time—he didn’t want anyone knowing I was originally from the UE, so he handed me off to a woman he trusted. She became my foster mom. Wasn’t very kind, but she took care of me. A few years later, I got into a kerfuffle. A stupid fight. I was an idiot—don’t comment on that.”
I hold up my hands. “Wasn’t planning to. Continue.”
“Tensions were high among different Cosmic factions, and we started using fists. My mom stalked over, screaming obscenities as she hauled me away.” He swallows. “She didn’t get very far. Someone took out a gun and shot her. She died within seconds.” Felix rubs his eyes with one hand, as if he can physically erase the image from his brain. “So to answer your question, when I do feel… I guess I’d describe it as pain. Guilt. Grief.”
Unable to look at him anymore, I wrap my arms around his torso and listen to his slowed heartbeat. I don’t know what to say. There isn’t anything I can say.
Felix stiffens at first, but quickly relaxes. His fingers run through my hair, leaving a wake of electricity down my spine. He rests his cheek atop my head, whispering, “It never really goes away. And even when the old memories begin to fray, there’s always some new incident that’s worse. So no, I’m not cross with you, Ailee. I feel guilty for yelling at you that night. Pain when I found out what the intribot did, and then guilt once more, because I wasn’t there to protect you. My reasons for not visiting you in the hospital were purely selfish, and…”
Pulling back a bit, I look into his eyes. “What were your reasons?”
He laughs mirthlessly, the sound so out of place I flinch. “I wasn’t ready to face the fact that you’d nearly—that you’d been hurt. I’m sure you had plenty of company—expected company. I assumed you wouldn’t need me, and I… didn’t particularly desire being there if others were there as well.”
I shake my head. “I’m not following—”
“Forget it, alright?” he snaps, rankled while stepping out of my embrace. “Sorry I wasn’t present, but you were in good hands, and I didn’t think I could handle it. Can we discuss something else, please?”
His sudden change in demeanor gives me whiplash, but I recover enough to agree, “Yeah, sure.”
“Good, because we have a problem. When Boss showed up at the lab today, I asked him about the NeuroQueue project. I told him I could help speed things along. He knows I’m able to, but he refused to disclose any information regarding the project. He denied having any ulterior motives.”
“But he does.”
“Yes.”
“And he can’t keep an operation of this scale to himself. There have to be other Cosmics who are involved. Does this mean he knows you’re working against him?”
“I’d be dead if that were the case,” Felix states. “Even if he suspected my loyalties were wavering, he would’ve taken away my privileges and access to security and confidential compartments. But he hasn’t. So my theory is he believes the NeuroQueue project, specifically, would cause me to oppose him.” He looks directly at me. “And there aren’t many things I would shy away from.”
* * *
Four days later at work, those operating in the biosafety labs are given gloves. And I don’t mean the thin, medical examination gloves, but thick, silver ones that blind me whenever the lights hit them at a particular angle.
I turn to the coworker on my right, whose name I still have yet to remember, and ask, “What’s up with the special gloves?”
“Hm?” She follows my line of sight. “Oh! You know the metal we’re using for the lining of NeuroQueue? Like for structural purposes? Well, apparently it became irradiated during transport. Don’t worry, though! It’s only used on the inside, so none of it will touch the patients.”
Yeah, I know. I built the damn thing. “But the metal is a titanium alloy, correct? It’s practically radiation proof.”
“Mmm, actually, I don’t know what metal they’re using. I probably should, since I have a minor in chemistry.” She giggles. “But my job is to code and help you out,”—she winks—“not fret over the hardware.”
Usually, I’d ask where she got her minor, but right now, I couldn’t care less.
“I will say this,” she continues. “Nothing is one hundred percent radiation proof.”
It’s comical how easy it is to “break” into the lab. As a researcher walks out, I catch the door and slide in. I “borrow” a small white lab coat off the hanger by the entrance and pretend to know what I’m doing as I weave through the labyrinth of rooms. The scientists and chemists don’t spare me a glance, too engrossed in their work to willfully take a lunch break either.
Some rooms are blocked off, requiring a higher level of security clearance than most researchers here have access to. Some rooms are dark—uninteresting. And then I enter a hallway that is… warm. Orange and yellow lights streak through two slits of glass embedded into double doors at the end of the hall. The goosebumps on my skin disappear as I walk toward the double doors, the air growing hotter.
My eyes scan the hazmat suits along the left wall and the row of carts along the right. Reaching the doors, I peek into one of the cloudy window slits and barely make out the five workers inside, all clad in hazmat suits. Two of them are doing something in the very back—can’t see what. Another one supervises while the last two hold crucible tongs over cylindrical furnaces glowing like lava.
They’re melting metal.
But what kind of metal?
Shifting my attention to the row of carts on my right, I spot a pair of the special silver gloves from earlier. The gloves must be more of a safety precaution for those transferring the irradiated metal, since none of the individuals past the double doors need them. The hazmat suits offer thorough enough protection.
Just in case, I put on the too-big gloves before searching the remaining boxes on the carts. “ALUMINUM” is written across each and every one.
No. No way.
Aluminum is toxic to humans, can become irradiated with relative ease, and isn’t exactly considered a strong metal. There’s no useful purpose for lining NeuroQueue with it.
Opening a box, stacks of glass bottles greet me. I lift one and study the tiny balls of metal inside. They’re perfectly sized. Smooth, symmetrical spheres. Bulk aluminum is never packaged like this. I’d bet my career on it.
An echo flutters through my brain, and I almost lose it. But then I grab the fleeting memory and recall what Felix told me and Timour that Sunday afternoon: There have been increased shipments of aluminium. After a bit of digging and a lot of decrypting, I discovered the true name of the import: “Fibronium.”
I’m touching fibronium.
Setting the bottle back in the box, I close the covers, take off the silver gloves, and start retracing my steps out of the lab.
So this is what the Cosmics are using the fibronium for, but why? Sure, it’s strong and light and stable; however, those properties can be found in other metals. Fibronium, when used correctly, is bulletproof, yet NeuroQueue isn’t exactly a helmet. The device is smaller than the tip of my pinky finger. Additionally, the metal is expensive and toxic to humans…
I’m outside the lab when my head snaps up in realization.
Fibronium blocks EMPs.
Huxley is ensuring that NeuroQueue is unable to be decommissioned. If there wasn’t ample confirmation before, there is now.
He’s building a weapon.