The party is in full swing by the time I get there. Huxley wanted us to arrive together, but I asked if could come a bit later. He believes I spent the extra hour prepping, but the truth is I spent it modifying and testing the two aerial robots I stole. There are still a couple bugs to fix, but otherwise they’re perfect.

The theme is “Height of Twenties Fashion,” so I’m dressed in the outfit Huxley sent me—black high-waisted hotpants, a matching black bralette with long lace sleeves, and black round toe stilettos—as I enter the ballroom. The astronaut in me was screaming to cover up, but now that I witness what other people are wearing, it’s not so bad. There’s a guy clad in neon blue shorts—and that’s it. No shirt, no shoes, no socks.

In the ballroom, white and black tables overflowing with snacks and drinks line the perimeter. Orange and pink couches surround the bronze dance floor in the middle. A DJ is set up behind a table at the very back, rearranging the music queue while dancing to the currently playing pop song. About five hundred guests are here, each one invited by Huxley. Raising my gaze, I study the image of a mystical night sky and trees spanning the ceiling, wondering if the painting is real.

Probably not.

The older you get, the more you realize it’s better to be invisible. Less harmful. Less painful. I wish for that superpower as eyes immediately latch on to me from every direction. The festivities continue, but there’s a new topic to gossip about:

“Hey, isn’t that the girl Boss is banging?”

“I heard she’s a princess. Her dad’s like the ruler of Earth or something.”

“Woman needs to eat. Legs look like sticks.”

“She’s really pretty.”

“I wonder how Boss met her.”

“I’m positive she’s sleeping with like five other guys.”

“You think if I ask her to dance, she’ll say yes?”

“I think Boss will cut your dick off if you try.”

Ah, how delightful.

Avoiding the stares, I head to the nearest snack table, prepared to glare at the wall for the rest of the evening. But a man steps in front of me, blocking my path. My eyes travel up white dress shoes, white slacks, a red pinstripe suit, and a black bowtie. It’s Felix, and at first glance, he seems happy to see me, yet the more I analyze his expression, the less certain I am of that fact. No bandana today, only the makeup. He leans down, his breath tickling my ear as he comments, “You look naked.”

“I’m aware,” I respond. “So does everyone else, whereas you… what are you wearing?”

“The invitation read ‘twenties.’ It didn’t specify which century.”

I laugh. “Impressive. What a rebel.”

He shrugs. “If you’re going to make the rules for a mindless birthday party, the bare minimum you can do is ensure they’re sound. Otherwise, they merit breaking.”

“You’re not having fun?”

“I don’t like not drinking when I’m constantly being offered cocktails. My own personal hell,” he states while we linger by the wall and survey the crowd. “I have nothing against most parties, but throwing one for your birthday is tacky.”

“He’s trying to be a good host, mingling with the people who work for him.”

“Nah,” Felix retorts, “he simply craves the attention. It makes him feel important.”

“Well… we all like to feel wanted.”

He looks at me sideways. “I can’t argue with you there.” A few beats pass. “Would you care to dance?”

“You’re not afraid Boss will cut your dick off?”

He’s stock-still, mouth gradually curving into a regaled smile. “I’m not afraid of anything.” Dragging me to the center of the dance floor, he pulls me close, holding my waist stiffly with his right hand.

“How’s your shoulder?” I ask, unsure of where to put my hand.

“Never better.” He grabs my left hand with his and places it directly on his right shoulder. “I applied a local analgesic, so there’s no pain.” His left hand takes my right one, and we start to dance. I never learned how to dance—dance properly, that is. It wasn’t high on my priority list. So I just follow his lead.

“You should still be cautious,” I advise, “or you could dislocate it again.” Whenever we brush against each other, my skin tingles. I glance around the room. Almost everyone’s staring.

“Of course, Doctor Chambers. I’m no use to you crippled.”

Smiling, I look up, expecting to see a huge smirk on his face. My smile dies, replaced with perplexity. His eyes are stony, expression guarded. “Are you okay?” I wonder. “I mean, apart from the obvious.”

“You’ll have to explicate what ‘the obvious’ is.”

The inevitable fall of Titan, the dislocated shoulder, abstinence… I choose to question outright, “I upset you last week. Why?”

“The fact that you have to ask proves we aren’t close enough for me to reveal top secret information.”

“Top secret, huh?” I emphasize. “Well, I’m sorry I can’t read your mind.” While I know he meant it figuratively, I pretend he meant it literally, and I close whatever distance is left between us. “Is this better?”

His entire body goes taut. My arms wrap around his neck, but his hands are rigid on my waist. We’ve stopped dancing. “Careful,” he practically groans. “Wouldn’t want me to lose a body part.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Christ, darling. I don’t think ‘uncomfortable’ is the word I’d use.”

My lips are only centimeters away from his, and I can tell he’s wrestling to not look at me, to not move. I query, “Is this close enough?”

He doesn’t respond for what feels like hours, during which his eyes are transfixed over my left shoulder. Damn him, why won’t he answer my questions? Felix is very similar to Huxley in that capacity—they never give me a straight answer. Finally, the Quartermaster says, “Let’s talk about it after we save the world, yes? We have urgent matters to discuss.” Then his lips are on my ear as he whispers in a rush, “Reinforcements are arriving on October eighth from other Cosmic factions, those that disagree with the current Boss and wish to instigate new rules. I made a deal with them. They’ll receive dominion over Titan in exchange for giving us safe passage to Earth and shutting down project NeuroQueue.”

“And they’ll honor this deal?” I inquire.

“They swore on the Cosmic Code of Honor.”

I laugh. “I’m still convinced no such code exists.”

“You are… mistaken.”

“How will they receive dominion?”

“That’s for me to worry about. We’re hoping Boss doesn’t have a death wish, and that he’ll surrender when he realizes he’s outnumbered. Even so, there may be casualties, so I want you with me on that day. I’ll make sure no harm comes to you.”

Half a minute passes, then I stammer, “What will happen to Boss?”

Felix’s eyes soften. “What do you think?”

They’ll kill him. Sure, they might put him in jail first if he surrenders. But eventually… they’ll need to execute him. According to Felix, Huxley’s committing treason. The Cosmic leader cannot declare war on another nation without the approval of all Cosmic factions, and that’s essentially what he’s lining up to do with NeuroQueue—enter into war with Liansa.

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The UE could be next.

And then I remember something else Felix said. My head pulls back a little so I can look into his liquid eyes. I query, “When you say ‘us’…”

He catches on swiftly and smiles. “I mean you, your boy-toy, and me… if that’s alright with you.”

I grin, happier than I have been in a long time. “That’s perfect with me.”

A flash of red grows larger in my peripheral vision, and a russethead man with black eyes halts next to us. Thomson. His attire consists of white shorts, a gold watch, a gold necklace, and an unbuttoned floral print tee shirt—revealing tattoos across his chest. The familiar intricate cross tattoo peeks out the collar of his shirt. Looking pointedly at our unmoving feet, he addresses Felix, “Captain Oringo, it’s called a dance floor.”

“You’ll have to ask someone else, Thomson,” Felix quips. “I’m unavailable for the night.”

Thomson rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you wish.” He turns to me, and his smile falters as he holds out his hand, gaze apologetic. “Dance with me?”

Felix doesn’t say anything, but he tilts his head in Thomson’s direction, indicating I should take the Gunner’s hand. Felix and I have been embracing each other for too long, every elapsing second raising more suspicion. Usually he’s more mindful than this. Usually I’m more mindful than this.

So I take Thomson’s hand.

Neither one of us speaks, because every time I look at his face, I see Leonid’s blood dripping onto the dungeon floor. I stare at his legs instead. While Felix is a natural dancer—flowy and elegant—Thomson’s moves are purposeful. Premeditated. I don’t know much about dancing, but it’s clear Thomson is skilled. He learned from a young age and has had plenty of practice.

He turns me and spins me out. When he dips me with ease, I almost forget why I’m mad at him. “You’re good at this,” I compliment. “Who taught you?”

“My mom,” he answers. “My dad too before he…” Before he committed suicide. “You know, Ailee, I’m really sorry. If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have… carried out Leonid’s sentence while you were in the room.”

I take a deep breath. “It’s okay.” It’s not. “I’ve seen worse.” I’ve done worse. My fingers touch the cross tattoo on the side of his neck, and he swallows. “I like this. It’s cool. Are you religious?”

He shakes his head. “No, but it used to be a pentagram when I was part of a gang back in the UE. I was a dumb kid, and I thought it was the only way to scrape by. Then I got into… some trouble, and the Cosmics offered me a job, so I changed my identity and covered up the gang’s identifier. I figured the Celtic cross balances out the pentagram.”

“Wow,” is all I say.

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I cut in?” a melodic voice asks from right behind me.

Thomson nods over my head and releases me. “I’ll see you later,” he says, vanishing into the crowd.

Barely a second passes before Huxley whips me around, and we’re dancing. He’s dressed in black slacks and a long sleeve top with leather collar and cuffs. His shirt is translucent, but the pattern looks more like armor compared to my feminine lace. “We match,” I note.

He’s not amused, eyes blazing blue. Ignoring me, he questions, “Why didn’t you message me when you arrived?”

I’m taken aback. “You didn’t say I had to.”

“I didn’t think it needed to be said.”

“I just got here a few minutes ago,” I explain warily. What’s the big deal?

“No, the guards told me you arrived half an hour ago.”

I simply state, “Okay, then I got here half an hour ago.”

“God, Ailee,” he exhales, exasperated. “I invited you, and you were already going to be an hour late to begin with. It’s basic courtesy to message me when you arrive.”

“I apologize. You’re the host, so I assumed you might be busy entertaining.”

“So… what? You were never going to tell me? You’d let me spend the rest of the night wandering around—looking for you like an idiot?!”

We stop dancing. His fingers dig into my waist, and I gasp from the sharp pain. “Ow, Huxley.” I want to push him, but my arms are frozen. “You’re hurting me.”

He curses, immediately loosening his grip. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he repeats while tenderly rubbing the places that’ll exhibit bruises tomorrow. There’s a frantic edge to his actions that unsettles me.

“Is something wrong?” I ask. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine, it’s just…” Shaking his head, he closes his eyes, taking a moment to steady himself. When he looks back up at me, his expression is serene. “Next time, you message me. Understand?”

I nod. “I understand.” If there weren’t so many Cosmics staring, I would interrogate him now. I’ll have to do it some other time.

We start to dance again. I spot a mountain of presents taller than me through an open door to the back room. Huxley has been putting money into a temporary bank account for me, “salary” he calls it. I don’t have access to my UE account on Titan, and it’s not as though I can transfer any money I make here to my bank, so I spent over half of it on an expensive double-face reversible watch with a waterproof leather band. It’ll be mailed to his room in a few hours.

I hope he’ll like it. But I shouldn’t care. It’s best if I don’t care.

Huxley, degree by degree, returns to his lively, blithe self, and I congratulate, “Happy twenty-fourth!”

“Why, thank you, honey,” he says, giving me a quick kiss. “When’s your birthday?”

I roll my eyes. “Like you don’t already know.” No doubt he’s memorized my entire file.

“October twenty-second,” he states confidently. “Just over a month away. I’ll throw a Halloween-themed party for you.”

“Oh no, please don’t,” I reply in horror. Little does he know I’ll be gone by then. He’ll either be in prison or dead, and for whatever reason, that truth makes my eyes wet.

“It will be super classy and refined. I promise.”

“That promise is impossible to keep,” I proclaim.

He wiggles his eyebrows. “Challenge accepted.”

Huxley seems to be in a good mood, and Timour’s absence has eroded my sanity, so I ask, “Have you seen Timour recently?”

The look Huxley gives me is mystifying. “Here? I don’t recall inviting him.”

“Not here… I just meant in general.”

“He’s been clocking in at work everyday. That’s the only tab I’m keeping on him. I thought you two… Doesn’t he stay over every night?”

I guess that confirms I’ve pissed Timour off for life. Or Huxley’s deceiving me. “I haven’t seen him for weeks.”

“Really?” exclaims Huxley, genuinely dumbfounded. He peruses my expression, the corners of his eyes tightening. “And you think I had something to do with it.”

Well, Felix does, and Huxley has threatened Timour’s life on more than one occasion. “I’m just concerned. We had an argument the last time I saw him, and he hasn’t returned any of my messages since. I want to make sure he’s alright.”

“I…” He hesitates. “I would say ‘I’m sorry,’ but I’m not. I want you all to myself, so good riddance. What was your argument about?”

Shoot. Now I have to fabricate a topic worth fighting over. “Oh, you know… politics.”

He smirks. “That’s a conveniently vague response…”

I fake impatience. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t even remember the conversation.”

Silence distends as Huxley’s chalcanthite eyes bore into mine, seeking to extract my shrouded thoughts. He whispers, “One thing’s for sure: He hasn’t forgotten it.” Louder, he offers, “I can set up a meeting if you’d like. He can’t avoid it if I’m asking.”

An hour ago, I was fifty-one percent convinced Timour’s disappearance was arranged by Huxley. Currently, that percentage is down to eleven. There’s no intimation in his demeanor or words to indicate he’s the culprit. And yet, there are little things that bug me; if Huxley’s keeping such a close eye on me and Timour, how can he not know that Timour no longer sleeps over? Why didn’t he deny having “something to do with it”? Perhaps he didn’t deny it, because there is nothing to deny. Moreover, if he is truly guilty, why would he say “good riddance”? Why would he propose to set up a meeting? If I say “yes,” what will he do?

In layman’s terms, Occam’s Razor is the principle that the simplest explanation is usually the best one; Timour is avoiding me, because he is irate with me. Because he is sick of me. Because I am selfish, and inconsiderate, and cold, and heartless… to him. And as much as I crave to make it all better, tell him I would do anything for him, that I would leave Titan pronto for him… it’s simply not true. I love him—at least, I think I do—but I won’t sacrifice Liansa for him. I won’t sacrifice Earth for him.

I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts, I almost forget to consider: What if I’m picking the wrong “simplest explanation”? What if there exists an explanation just as simple, but I’m too biased to see it?

Dissecting Huxley’s rare benevolent smile, I decide he’s telling the truth. Timour’s been clocking in at work everyday—I will verify this. He’s safe. Just angry. I’m sure of it. “No,” I say. “We’ll talk when he’s ready.”

Huxley nods. The song changes, the tempo slowing, allowing us to lazily sway. His gaze dips to my neckline. “That’s new. The dark one.”

I instinctively reach up, touching the bronze necklace Felix gave me. My heart palpitates. “Yes, I got it from one of the jewelry boutiques,” I lie.

“Which one?”

Damn it. I only recall the brand of the watch I bought Huxley. They don’t sell jewelry. I should’ve studied the names of other shops on the portal’s map. “I don’t remember.”

He doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push the subject either. Odd. But then it makes sense that he wouldn’t, because I realize something else is on his mind. “How would you feel… if I got you something?” he asks, selecting his words meticulously. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip shyly, but he continues holding my gaze. “I was thinking about a ring.”