It’s twenty-two-hundred hours, and there’s no certainty that Huxley will be in his office. But then I spot Blaze outside the office’s door, clutching his elec and acting like a guard. His eyes pierce me, and he offers a grim smile. “We’ve been expecting you.” He takes out his portal and speaks into it, “Miss Chambers is here.”
Huxley’s voice emits from the device, “Let her in.”
Using facial recognition, Blaze opens the door, and I walk in. The door closes behind me. Locks.
Huxley reclines on an armchair, nursing a glass of what looks to be whiskey, the watch I bought him glinting in the chandelier’s light. He’s expressionless, but his eyes are intense as ever as they latch onto my every movement. “Sit,” he insists, gesturing to the linen couch across from him. I obey. “I know why you’re here.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You do?”
“You’re searching for a pesky Liansan, and I’m happy to tell you where he is… after you answer a few questions I have.”
I swallow. “Is he alive?”
“For the time being.” He leans forward, setting his glass down on the table between us. “Now, I’m going to get right to the point: You know what my de facto plans are for NeuroQueue. How?”
Breathe in. Breathe out. “You mean the plan to cure the sick Cosmics?”
“Cut the crap, Ailee.” His facade minutely fractures. “You’re aware of my plan for Liansa. Who filled you in?”
If I continue playing dumb, he’ll never tell me where Timour is. “I figured it out after visiting Leonid.”
There’s no humor in his smirk. “You’re smart, but you’re not that smart. Since you seem to be having a difficult time recalling, I’ll help connect some of the dots for you. We conducted a few test runs on our nukes this past week, and imagine my astonishment when each and every one broke apart into a dozen pieces upon launch, scattering hundreds of NeuroQueue devices into the void of space.” He waits for me to comment. “You have nothing to say?”
“I’m interested to see where this is going.”
“Ooh, I sense hostility.” He flinches melodramatically. “You care to know what I think? I think you dismantled the nukes. But”—he rises, wagging his finger at me as he circles the table, nearing my couch—“you didn’t do it alone.”
“And you have proof of this?” I jut my chin up.
“Your guards complete timesheets so I know how much to pay them. They’re paid biweekly, not hourly, but whenever they aren’t working, they must provide valid excuses as to why. And the irony here is that if you hadn’t gone on your little hunger strike in front of blondie’s room, I would’ve had no reason to double check their specific excuses. Apparently, we went on a bunch of late night dates I wasn’t present for.” He blinks. “I feel a bit gypped.”
He saunters behind my couch. I don’t turn my head, but when his fingers run across my back from shoulder to shoulder, I involuntarily shiver.
“You couldn’t have dismantled the nukes yourself,” he continues. “You don’t have access to the armory. In fact, only a handful of people do. But who was the sucker who helped you? Nupan? Nalani? Certainly not Blaze—he despises Earth with every fiber of his being. I wouldn’t have believed for a second that it was Felix until rumors began circulating about you and my Quartermaster. You screwing him for information? Or is it one of my Gunners? Thomson’s been getting on my nerves lately, asking too many questions—questions about you, no less.”
I state, “You’re seeing what you want to see.”
He appears in my line of vision again, eyes slits of blue fire. “Why would I possibly want to see this? Disloyalty both within my inner circle and from my—” he stumbles, widely gesticulating with his arms. “I don’t even know what to call you! I don’t know who I am to you! It’s not that I want to see this, Ailee; it’s that you’ve left me no choice.” His voice softens, “Why did you do it? Why couldn’t you just trust me?”
I can’t maintain the act anymore. I’m a pretty good liar, but not this good. Not when I’m wholly unprepared. I came here tonight to confront him, not the other way around, and if this is my opening to protect Timour and Felix, to lay the blame at my feet, I’m taking it. “You lied to me. You admitted it: You plan to use NeuroQueue to control the people of Liansa, and thereby, the country. You’re eliminating their freedoms, and I won’t allow that.”
“Freedom?” His expression lights up, but it’s sarcastic. Unkind. “Liansans have never been free; they don’t have any rights—only the illusion of them. They’re the government’s puppets, brainwashed worse than the UE. A thousand times worse. By implanting NeuroQueue, I can instigate a rebellion among the population and overthrow the government. I can establish an egalitarian democracy that gives power to the people, not the dictator.”
“Democracy?” I repeat. “So the innocent civilians you Cosmics took this ship from—did they have a say in that? Where are they, by the way?” Their corpses are most likely floating through space, never to return home.
The tone of Huxley’s voice eases. “It’s a small price to pay for the lives of billions.”
I recall what Nupan said to me when I first arrived on Titan: Boss’ methods may be a little extreme, but he strives for a better universe, not only for Cosmics. For everyone.
So now Huxley thinks he’s a god. He thinks he knows what’s best, deciding who’s worth saving and who’s to be slaughtered. “What then?” I ask. “You become dictator of Liansa? You rule over everyone, controlling their actions? Their beliefs?”
He rolls his eyes, frustrated. “Of course not. Once we execute those promoting harmful propaganda or working for the repulsive government, I’ll deactivate outside access to all NeuroQueue devices, give the citizens the right to control their implant or safely remove it, and hold an election by popular vote.”
“It’s that easy, is it?”
“It is.” He moves closer to me, sitting on the edge of the table, his knee touching mine as he gently takes my reluctant hand, and I resist the urge to recoil. He implores me with his beautiful, hypnotizing eyes. “Ailee, humor me for a moment. Think about all the cruel activities occurring in that country without justice—genocide, pedicide, sexual assault. It shouldn’t even be possible, but women have less rights than men. It’s a backward society, and if the UE and Mars aren’t going to do anything about it, I have to.”
The last time I saw Timour, he behaved as though he didn’t care what would happen to Liansa, but I remember when he told me there are parts he loves. Despite both Timour and Huxley confirming the atrocities occurring in that country, this plan with NeuroQueue just doesn’t seem right. It feels slimy, icky, unethical. No person deserves to have their mind taken over and their body utilized for war, and in this instance, I don’t believe the end justifies the means.
“I agree that we need to advocate for freedom and equality in Liansa,” I start prudently, “but using NeuroQueue is a slippery slope. That kind of power will lead to corruption, and if I’m being honest…” Huxley hangs on to my every word. “I don’t trust you. You’re the leader of Cosmics, known for stealing supplies from other astronauts then stranding them in space to die. I don’t believe that everything you’ve done up until now was for this… cause, not without something in it for you. And even if your plan is… benevolent… who’s to say you won’t change your mind later once you hold Liansa in the palm of your hand?”
I try to pull my hand away, but he clutches it between both of his. “I won’t. Please, Ailee, what can I do to convince you? Name it.”
“Don’t do this,” I plead.
“I have to.”
I shake my head, slowly. “Then you can’t convince me.”
He releases my hand, gracefully robotic as he rises and heads toward the grand piano in the back corner of the room. For minutes, I stare at his back while he stares at the floor. Finally, he breaks the silence in a doleful timbre, “So you spent all this time with me. Kissing me, touching me, laughing with me, and yet you still won’t stand by my side. You’re right, I lied to you. But you can’t—you can’t honestly think that I’d ever put you in harm’s way. I want what’s best for you. For us.” He faces me, though his eyes are lowered as he attempts to get a grasp on his emotions. “Was this a game for you? Were you playing me from the beginning?” His gaze raises, meeting mine. Expectant. Pessimistically hopeful.
I don’t respond, but water runs down my cheeks.
He closes his eyes, as if the sight of me is torture. “It’s for him, isn’t it?” he whispers. “He’s inculcated you with the belief that he is good, that his community is good, that his country is good.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” I retort, thinking of how much Timour hates his government, thinking of what they did to his sister, Emine, “and this has nothing to do with Timour.”
Then Huxley opens bloodthirsty eyes, and says the one thing that completely undoes me, “I’m so glad I got rid of him.”
I’m up in a heartbeat, the pistol he gave me pointed at him a meter away. I don’t know how I got in front of him so fast, but that’s not my current concern. “What did you do?”
Huxley doesn’t look shocked or scared… he smiles like I’m a kid with a shiny, new toy. “He’s been missing for a month, and you worry about him now?”
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“You know damn well I’ve been worried the whole time!”
“Not enough. He and I have that in common.”
“Where is he?”
Deadpan, he states, “You’ll never see him again.”
I shoot him in the leg. Or at least, I mean to, but the trigger doesn’t budge. And then Huxley’s all I see as he snatches the gun from me and squeezes my upper arm until I cry out. “It worked before,” I gasp in confusion.
“Oh, it works,” he affirms, eyes boring into mine while he aims the gun behind him and shoots the still-life flower painting hanging on the back wall. The pop from the gun causes me to yelp, and there’s an indisputable hole dead-center through the painting. “Just not on me.”
What? So he gave me a gun for the purpose of shooting him that I cannot even use on him; that’s not surprising. But how does the gun recognize him? Facial recognition? Voice recognition? Proximity? Some advanced version of vein pattern recognition?
He deposits the gun onto the piano, offering me a brief solace, but then he throws me against the left wall and pins my arms to my sides. I lift my right leg to kick him, and he pinions both my wrists above my head, his body colliding with mine. I’m unable to move.
His cheeks are flushed, his eyes alight with excitement, and I don’t understand how something that appears so heavenly can be so frightening.
Suddenly, as his body heat percolates through our clothing, I’m very aware of what I’m wearing: A thin red camisole and black shorts. The outfit seemed like a bright idea at the time, when all I thought I’d be doing tonight was convincing Huxley to spare Timour. I regret that decision.
Huxley stares me down, declaring, “Fine. You condone rape? You think Liansans have more freedom now than they would under me? Well, guess what?” Leaning down, his nose skims my cheek, and his lips brush my ear. “You are mine. You belong to me.” The hand not restraining my wrists slides under my camisole, and his fingers invade the skin of my stomach, then back, then ribs, then—
I grit my teeth. “Get your hands off me.”
Not a beat passes before he rips my shorts clean off my hips, and it’s an understatement to say I grow petrified.
“Huxley.” Striving for some semblance of composure, I don’t recognize my voice, “Take your hands off me. You’ve made your point.”
The steel in his eyes, without an ounce of remorse, immobilizes me. This isn’t like that night in the garden, when he was just being an asshole by taunting me. He intends to do it this time. And when his hands trail lower, over my hips, down my thighs, and up again, I realize he doesn’t intend to do it quickly. Because he knows that rapid, brutal bursts of strengths are not necessary to manipulate me. I’m half his size. Half his weight. The physics will do the work for him. And even though rage simmers beneath his exterior, his movements remain agonizingly slow, proving how much power he has over me.
I could scream, I could struggle, I could pray, but I know it wouldn’t make a difference. I can’t exactly control my tears though; they curve their way down my cheeks, one by one.
Two of Huxley’s fingers hook around the waistband of my underwear, his lips are on my neck, and I stare vacantly above his shoulder, endeavoring to distract myself. God, the color of those curtains do not complement the Norman windows at all.
I don’t notice when he stills, but I do notice when he slumps to the floor at my feet. His arms wrap around my knees, light as a feather, and he hugs me to him, the top of his head barely in contact with my left leg. His hair tickles. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice tight but beseeching. “I love you, Ailee. Why do you do this to me? Why can’t you see that I’m doing this for a better future, so that we can have a better future. I’m sorry…”
He’s shaking, or maybe I’m shaking—Please stop touching me—I’m not sure. I can’t move my arms to check—I wish I could—they’re seemingly glued beside me. I can’t move my eyes to check. I can’t speak. I’m frozen.
After an indefinite amount of time, the shaking subsides, and I regain the ability to blink, to swivel my head, to raise my arms. I look down at Huxley, at the back of his head. He finally ceased apologizing, but he’s still hugging my knees. My eyes travel up my legs and reach my underwear. He never took it off, which means he didn’t rape me.
For a moment, I thought he had, and that my brain simply blocked it out to protect me. But no, my underwear is on, and as far as I can tell, he’s fully dressed.
Then the shitshow gets worse.
The door to the hallway opens, and someone rushes into the room. It’s Felix, looking like he just stumbled out of bed. There’s a bleeding cut above his left eyebrow from a hit to the face. His eyes process the fear in mine, my lack of clothing, my wrecked shorts on the floor, and Huxley—who’s inching toward the gun he left on the piano. The expression that crosses Felix’s face is a blend of hatred and anguish.
“Don’t bloody move,” he commands, the muzzle of his gun pointing at Huxley’s chest. “What the hell is going on?”
“Well, this is a first.” Straightening and holding his hands up, Huxley turns to me with bloodshot eyes, “That answers the question as to who was helping you.”
“Oi! Look at her again, and it’s the last thing you’ll ever see. What the hell were you doing before I showed up?”
“At least I don’t have to come and find you myself.”
“Son of a bitch,” mutters Felix, vexed at Huxley’s nonanswers, and he glances at me. “Ailee, come here, please.”
I internally groan. I don’t want to move. If I move, I may very well break, and I’m not giving Huxley that satisfaction. But by Felix’s stance, I can tell that me being so far away is distracting him, so I plod over, halting about a meter to his left.
He raises one eyebrow, but doesn’t question the distance. “I’m going to hand you my coat,” he says, “and I want you to put it on.”
“I’m fine,” I claim, slightly irritated. I’m not weak, and I don’t need him to coddle me.
“I believe you, darling; however, can you do this for me? Please.” Like a ballerina who keeps her gaze in one spot while performing fouettés, Felix keeps his gun and eyes trained on Huxley while he slides his burgundy coat off.
Although the coat is short on him, when I put it on, it reaches my knees. It’s heavy, and it smells like him—sweet liquor. The effect is calming.
“After all I’ve done for you,” Huxley speaks up, glaring at Felix. “My family saved you from that wretched household. I gave you everything you could ever dream of! And yet you turn your back on me, on your own people. For what?” He looks at me, but quickly returns his attention to Felix. “How did she rope you in?”
“She didn’t,” Felix replies. “I asked for her help.”
“And you agreed?” Huxley seems to abandon all sense of self-preservation as he stares at me. Felix stiffens.
“He promised to send me home,” I respond. “I didn’t trust that you would… and I was right.” Huxley flinches.
“Why didn’t you confide in me?” Felix queries softly. “I thought we were partners in this.”
“Because you would’ve tried to talk me out of it,” Huxley answers.
“Of course I would’ve!” asserts Felix. “I would’ve told you what a jackass you were being with this ploy of yours. It’s mad. You’re starting a war with Earth, something we’ve been avoiding since the beginning of the Cosmos, and you know that. Rules were established long before you ever became Boss.”
“You think the UE would protect the Liansan government?” scoffs Huxley.
Felix ignores that inquiry. “I think that what you are doing is wrong. We lie, we steal, we even kill when it’s necessary, but you’re crossing a line here. Yes, I am grateful to you and your family—I owe your mother my life—but your plans with project NeuroQueue… your incivility toward Ailee… you’re not any better than the people on Earth. You call yourself an advocate for freedom, but really, you’re just a hypocrite.”
Clenching his jaw, Huxley fixates on something behind me and says, “You’re right. My apologies.”
Hearing the false note in his words, I peek over my shoulder. “No!” I yell, flinging myself at Felix—to push him, to cover him, I don’t know. But I’m too far away. I’m not fast enough.
Photons from Blaze’s elec strike Felix at the base of his spine. Felix is incapcitated, and his body falls forward, eyes wide, mouth agape. I attempt to catch him, and I end up on the ground, Felix’s torso crushing my arms. Swooping in, Huxley plucks the gun out of Felix’s hand and aims it at his cranium.
I pull my arms out from under Felix and shield his head. “No,” I tell Huxley.
His eyes narrow, and he points the gun at me. My breath hitches, but I refuse to move.
“Ailee,” a gruff voice addresses, and I look down at Felix, who’s lying on his stomach with his face turned in my direction. His arms are twitching, but he’s recovered partial mobility, and he utilizes his hands to roll onto his back. His face glistens with sweat, and his eyes are unfocused. He does not look good at all. “So this is what it feels like to have paraplegia.”
Shit. His legs are paralyzed.
“My elec is in kill mode,” Blaze pipes up, stepping into view. Blood covers his face, seeping into his blue hair and turning it purple. One of his eyes is almost swollen shut. “You should be dead.”
“I guess I deserve this after kicking your ass,” quips Felix between coughs.
Blaze smirks, but his eyes are downcast. “You should’ve taken my weapon, Captain.”
“My thoughts were a little… preoccupied at the time.”
Felix’s breathing shallows, and I wonder if there is damage to other areas of his body. Desiring to shout at Blaze, I rein in my resentment and choose to showcase desperation. “Blaze, we need to call a doctor!” I look at Huxley, tears clouding my vision. “Please, I’ll do anything.”
Huxley’s lips become a thin line. “Anything?” he repeats.
I nod. “Anything.”
“Ailee, stop,” Felix requests fraily.
I hover my face over his, and his eyes are able to focus on mine. Placing my right palm on his cheek, I say his name like it’s an oath, “Felix.”
His eyes shine with emotion, but not the fear and shock I was expecting. It’s an emotion that I’ve seen only a few times—the stares Nupan and Doctor River save for each other, the glances my father occasionally sends my way when he thinks I’m not looking. An emotion buried beneath the surface of Timour’s protectiveness, and yes, even Huxley’s grandiosity. Felix has hidden it well so far due to his flippant remarks and superficial nature, but his next words validate what I’m seeing: “I love you, Ailee.”
I start to cry. I start to smile.
And then somebody jerks me to the side by my waist. I’m shouting and clawing and begging, yet it’s no use. As Blaze holds me back, Huxley steps up to Felix and sends a bullet clean through his skull.
My throat closes, and the room is silent, no longer filled with my screams. I’m an inanimate object supported by Blaze, and three pairs of eyes are spellbound by Felix’s dead body for what feels like a century.
Huxley is the first to move. Sticking the gun in his waistband, he maunders over to me and Blaze. Blaze loosens his hold to relinquish me to Huxley. Finding my footing, I clutch Blaze’s arm tightly, and he grunts. My gaze is on the floor, but my words are for Huxley when I say, “Unless you’re going to shoot me, I’d rather you never touched me again.”
Seconds pass, and nobody speaks. I raise my eyes and observe that Huxley is miserable. He’s won the battle today, and yet there is no triumph. He realizes I’m looking at him and contracts his jaw, breaking eye contact as he instructs Blaze, “Take her back to her room. Stay there until… until I figure out what to do with her. I need to get rid of the body.”
“Yes, Boss,” Blaze says, voice muted. He’s unusually gentle as he places one hand on my lower back, one hand on my elbow, and steers me out of the office. Blood in the hallway from Felix and Blaze’s scuffle nearly makes me gag, and Blaze’s grip marginally constricts, almost as though he’s conveying that he’s here for me.
Too late for that.
When we enter my room, Blaze checks every square meter of the place, most likely ensuring there aren’t any hidden weapons.
“You should sleep,” he advises. “I’ll watch over you.”
As if I even could.
I don’t want to sit on the bed; the bed’s too comfortable. So I sit on the floor, facing the fake balcony.
Part of me is convinced this isn’t real. That what I just saw was a lie. Another part is already coercing me to accept the situation, so that I can focus on more pressing matters. The final part wants to bargain with some higher power, to negotiate my soul in return for bringing Felix back to me.
Ha. What soul?
Rapists, terrorists, Huxley… Who is evil? What is evil? A conversation from a lifetime ago raises its hand for my attention: Do you believe that murder is wrong?
Yes, but why? Is it human nature? Is it a social construct? Was Huxley born evil, and if he was, is it his fault? What if he was born good, and events in his life manufactured an ugly heart? Because yet again, I find myself wondering: Is it his fault? What does it mean to be an individual? What does it mean to be conscious? Do we have free will, or is everything in our timelines predestined to occur? Is our body part of the equation? Or just our brains? Our soul—do souls even exist?
Something in me breaks, something more painful than a torn heart, and I yell, “Why?!” Water streaks down my face. It’s difficult to breathe. “Why…?”
I feel Blaze put a hand on my back, and I shrink away. He removes his hand. “I’m sorry, rock girl,” he says.
I don’t acknowledge him. I don’t want to be the good girl anymore. I don’t want justice, peace, or order.
I want anarchy.
I want the universe to burn.