“Is there anyone on the surface who can fit?” Marshal Renner asks the ground Keepers.

“Negative, sir,” a Starship woman’s voice answers. “We’re built for strength and stamina, not to fit into small spaces.”

Marshal Renner’s eyes peruse the command center, eyeing the two other women in the room.

“There’s no way I would be able to fit through that hole, sir,” a blonde Technical says as she crosses her arms uneasily.

“While I would love the opportunity to visit Mars,” Marshal Khan begins. Despite her age—around fifty-five-years-old—she’s more lithe than most. “I’m not young anymore, and chances are I wouldn’t make it through, either. Regardless, you need me up here to lead the Technicals.”

“Then, it’s settled,” my father declares, letting go of his recliner’s headrest and straightening. He’s no longer disappointed in me now that I’m useful. “Sergeant Chambers, we’ll pair you—”

“Excuse me?” Duarte’s irate voice cuts the room. “Did I just hear that right? You’re sending in Ail—Sergeant Chambers?”

Marshal Renner clenches his fists, undoubtedly imagining strangling his son.

“That’s correct,” my father replies coolly.

“She’s a seventeen-year-old child!” Duarte’s assertion is like a slap in the face. Child?

Marshal Renner counters, “You better hope she’s not a child the way you look at her, Keeper.”

“Father, please,” Duarte pleads in pain, all formalities thrown out the porthole. “I’m begging you. Don’t send her down here.”

“It’s not up to me.”

“Admiral,” Duarte changes tactics, “this is your daughter we’re talking about.”

“I’m well aware of that,” my father speaks tonelessly.

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“She’s not trained for this kind of job!” he yells. “She said it herself, ‘We don’t know what kind of barriers’ are in there. She’s going to get herself killed!”

“She’s an engineer; she’s smart. You should have more faith in her ability to execute. I do.”

I raise my eyebrows, nonplussed. Looking down, I realize that sometime within the middle of this agonizing conversation I stood up. “Do I get a say in this?” I ask no one in particular.

“Not really,” my father responds. I internally roll my eyes.

“Think about this, Sergeant Chambers,” Duarte says to me, “if you fail, even if you aren’t shot, you risk getting captured and tortured. We risk getting ambushed and starting a war between Earth and Mars.”

Damn. He’s not wrong though.

Once again, I have a sudden urge to entreat my father to call off this mission. My eyes flicker up to meet his, and the slight shake of his head strengthens my resolve. “I can do this.”

“Sergeant Cham—” Duarte starts to argue.

“Commander Renner, my daughter’s decision is final.” My father threatens in a deadly low voice, “You jeopardize this mission, and I don’t care how great of a Keeper you have been thus far. It won’t matter what my daughter means to you. The minute you get back on this ship—if you make it off Mars in one piece—you’ll be dishonorably discharged from the Interstellar Force.” Hold on. Is he insinuating that somewhere among the glowers and backhanded compliments is a budding love story? Relationships between Keepers, especially those who work together, are strictly prohibited. I set myself a mental reminder to check his medication later, if I survive.

“Not if I chuck him out the airlock first,” Marshal Renner mutters, still desiring to murder his own son.

My father ignores him. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Duarte spits out through gritted teeth. Seconds pass. “Sir.”

“Good.”

“Admiral Chambers?” a voice questions to my right.

My father and I turn our heads to see who it belongs to.

Timour.

“If I may, sir,” he continues, “I would be happy to escort Sergeant Chambers to the surface.”

My father nods and states, “I can’t think of a better pilot.”

Duarte scoffs, but it’s a half-hearted derision. Almost as though he agrees with the sentiment. Or maybe he’s already thinking up another plan to stop me from entering the Vent.

I analyze Timour’s expression. He’s far from ecstatic, but he still grants me a timid smile, seeking to cheer me up. If I’m heading to my demise, I might as well spend my last few moments with someone I like.

“It’s eight past eighteen-hundred hours,” my father asserts. “You two ready?”

Timour waits for me to speak first. I don’t trust my voice not to shake, because I’d be lying if I said “yes.” So I simply nod.

“Yes, sir,” Timour replies.

My father stares at me for a couple seconds before commenting, “You look like you have something to add, Sergeant Chambers.”

I shrug as nonchalantly as I can manage. “Glad I didn’t have breakfast.” Because I would’ve definitely thrown up by now.

“You and me both.”