Someone comes by the room at zero-one-hundred hours to give me back my shorts, which are sewed up to annoying perfection. My portal is in the left pocket. I don’t have anything on my portal that’s privileged information, so I surmise they decided to return it. I stuff the shorts into the nightstand’s bottom drawer.

Two hours later, the lights flicker, and I hear a pop. I turn my gaze away from the balcony, and Blaze’s wide eyes stare at me from my desk before he stands, elec pointed at the door. “Hey!” he calls. “What you just did is illegal. This is a private residence.” Blaze is referring to the pop we heard, indicating somebody used a CirCut to stop electrical flow and break open the door. It’s illegal to do that unless there’s a fire or equivalent emergency, and as far as burglary tactics go, not a smart move. The door is now fried, needing replacing, and CirCuts leave a paper trail.

So I doubt whoever’s on the other side is here for a robbery.

The door opens lazily, and Blaze shields me, but I catch a glimpse of two people dressed in typical black, Cosmic, armored spacesuits with helmets. They each carry a Martian coilgun that’s not quite aimed at Blaze, but they’re certainly ready to fire.

“Soldiers,” Blaze addresses, “what is your business here? Boss will arrive soon. Go now, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

The tall, unknown Cosmic on the left tilts his head. “Boss asked us to go to the room of Ailee Chambers. That’s her behind you, correct? He ordered us to guard her until he comes.” The voice sounds almost familiar.

“I can guard her,” Blaze states. “You are dismissed.”

The smaller Cosmic on the right darts forward, and Blaze shoots her in the chest. Her suit absorbs the brunt of the damage, and she keeps moving, tackling Blaze to the ground. Although he’s taller than her, she’s stronger. She shoves her coilgun’s muzzle against his forehead, and he quits struggling, ceding the elec. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound, or I shoot. Got it?” she threatens—Wait, that voice is familiar too.

The tall Cosmic nears me, reaching out to grasp my arm, and I back up.

“No, Ailee, look!” he demands, pointing to his face through the helmet’s window. “It’s me.”

My breath vacates my lungs as I try to comprehend what I’m seeing. It’s Duarte, in Cosmic armor. I wasn’t able to narrow in on his features earlier, but up close, it’s undeniably his dark brown eyes, thick eyebrows, straight nose, and round lips. “Duarte?”

He smiles, revealing white teeth. “Hey, idiot, how’s it been?”

“Could be better.”

He laughs and touches my arm. I recoil.

He abruptly ceases smiling and studies my outfit that I haven’t bothered to replace. His expression darkens, asking, “Why are you covered in bruises? What did they do? Are you alright?”

I change the subject, “What are you doing here? Why are you wearing Cosmic armor?”

“Obviously, we’re here to rescue you. You call the pirates ‘Cosmics’?” His tone is scolding.

“Guys, later,” the woman subduing Blaze instructs. It’s the Starship Lieutenant who introduced herself to me on Mars. Eshe Hassan. “Let’s kill him and go. Permission to shoot?”

Blaze looks at me out of the corner of his eye, pleading, “Ailee, please.”

It’s the first time he’s addressed me by my actual name. I open my mouth to protest—Felix’s face cuts to the front of my thoughts—and my protest dies.

Duarte reads my expression and nods, replying, “Permission granted.”

Blaze’s eyes impale me. Not with anger, just sadness. Then Eshe pulls the trigger, ejecting a bullet into his cranium.

I didn’t stop her.

Rising, Eshe gives me a once-over. “You should… I don’t know… put some pants on?”

I nod. “Yeah, I’ll change.” Heading to my closet, I strip off my current attire and slip on a black thermal top, army green pants, and running shoes. I pick up Felix’s coat for a second, then put it down. It’s too heavy, and it’ll only get in the way.

After I tie my hair in a high ponytail, I uncover the two drones from a pile of clothes on the closet floor. They’re finally complete.

When I step back into the main room, Duarte and Eshe are awkwardly turned away from me. None of us are prudes, but the IF is probably watching through their cameras. At least, I presume it’s the IF who sent Duarte and Eshe undercover. They indisputably wouldn’t join the Cosmics, and I do trust them. I have to, because another option isn’t available.

“Done,” I say, and they rotate one-eighty degrees.

“What’re those?” Duarte wonders, gesturing to the two drones in my hands.

“My weapons. They do whatever I tell them to do, mostly through voice activation. This one’s Hunt, and the other one’s Scar.” Names I find appropriate. “Hunt awake. Scar awake.” The robots boot up and lift away from my palms, hovering in the air above us.

He whistles. “Wicked. They’re kinda like cute pets.”

“Cute pets that can slice your head off. What’s the plan?”

Before they can answer, my portal buzzes, and I remove it from my back pocket. At first, I’m stunned. A message from Felix. But then my eyes scan the words:

Dear Ailee darling, if you are receiving this message, it signifies that I am dead. As discussed weeks ago during one of our lovely afternoon tea sessions, I made clear I would only give you access to surveillance feed upon my demise. Boss has deactivated my portal, which means you are now in possession of any ingress I once had to security, rooms, spaceships, brothels and cocaine dispensaries (you’re welcome), and so on. No amount of apologies will ever be enough to compensate for dragging you into this mess, but promise my handsome corpse you will get your ass off this ship. Go home, surround yourself with those who will love you for all of eternity, as I will in the afterlife—if there bloody is one. Felix.

I reread the message two more times, and it disappears, deleting itself as though it never existed. Never to be found.

And I’ll never read it again, or hear his obnoxious voice again, or see his charcoal-lined eyes again, or—

“Ailee, what is it?” Duarte snaps me out of my musings.

Wiping my tears away, I gather my thoughts while saying, “Give me a moment.”

“We don’t have time,” Eshe bites out. “We can cry later—”

I straighten my shoulders. “Wait,” I insist. “There’s something I’m missing.” Something important I’m neglecting. Felix’s reinforcements are arriving in two days, but I’d rather evacuate Titan now with—

Timour. Who I forgot in my grief.

“We need to find Timour,” I state. “I don’t know where he is.”

Duarte and Eshe share an uneasy glance. The latter speaks up, “He’s not part of the mission. Our mission is to infiltrate the enemy and extricate you along with”—her gaze drops to the Eye—“that.”

“So you were just going to leave him here?” I question, balking.

“If he was with you… then great,” Duarte responds, “but if not…”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

I beckon him, “Give me your helmet. Let me talk to the Admiral.”

Duarte relents, frowning as he hands me his helmet. His hair sticks up from friction, and I put the helmet on, taking comfort in the accustomed displays and gauges on the window’s inner surface.

“Admiral Chambers,” I call.

“Yes, Sergeant Chambers,” my father immediately replies.

“Commander Orlov has saved my life on multiple occasions. If not for him, I would be long dead. Please allow us to search for him.”

“No.”

I clench my fists. “He is a fantastic astronaut and a dedicated Starship. He’s not some toy for you to use and throw away.” I hear gasps in the background. “He’s devoted his life to the IF. We owe it to him. You owe it to him.”

His reply is softer, “No.”

“Then I won’t cooperate,” I affirm, glaring into Eshe’s helmet camera. “You’ll have to hale me off this ship kicking and screaming.”

“That would be insubordination.”

“I suppose so, and I’d be dishonorably discharged.” What a disgrace it would be to have a failure as a daughter. He doesn’t respond for a few seconds, and I swallow my pride in the presence of my IF division as I beg, “Don’t. Take. Him. From. Me.” My voice cracks on the last syllable, and Duarte flinches.

A minute passes, and my father says, “One hour.”

“Two,” I counter.

“One.”

“Ninety minutes.”

“One. Hour.”

I sigh in frustration. “Fine.” Transferring the helmet back to Duarte, I spin on my heel and exit the room I will no longer call mine, two drones and two Empiricals trailing behind me.

* * *

The three of us agree that if anyone asks, Duarte and Eshe are Cosmic guards escorting me to Boss. We squeeze into the vintage elevator that’ll bring us to the dungeon—the only place I can think of to look for Timour. I know from experience the dungeon isn’t small; nevertheless, if he’s not there, then saving him’s a lost cause.

On our downward journey, I ask, “How did you find us?”

“The IF and the MSF formed a truce,” Eshe explains. “We’re working together in order to retrieve you and the Eye. When the ship that kidnapped you, DeLarge, blew up Silvereye—or technically, it self-destructed—the Martian ship sent information back to Mars. So we knew what ship you were on, and approximately where you were heading, then my team and I tracked you here, to Titan.”

“How did you get in?”

“We commandeered a pirate cargo ship and altered our names, but we ran into some issues with identification while docking. Someone approved to let us in, and we thought it was a trap, yet nobody attacked us when we disembarked.”

“Who approved you?”

She shrugs. “No idea. He told us his initials were ‘FO.’”

I freeze.

Eshe inspects my posture and queries, “You know him?”

“I did,” I answer.

“Is he someone we need to be worried about?”

“No.” My throat tightens. “He’s dead.” Duarte picks up on my strange resonance, and I quickly inquire, “Are there any other IF or MSF astronauts on Titan?”

“Yes. Eight others,” Duarte replies.

“Where are they?”

“Ensuring we have an escape route.”

“How do I tell them apart from actual Cosmics?”

Duarte glares at the word ‘Cosmics,’ but he raises a hand to touch the red stripe along the collar of his suit, the only burst of hue among a sea of black, and responds, “We dyed this part red.” It’s innocuous enough that it won’t draw attention.

We reach the dungeon, and since only I have access to the prison cells, I pull up the camera feed on each “occupied” door’s screen to view the inhabitant. The first one exhibits an old man squatting on a metal bed, muttering himself insane. The next one shows a naked woman strapped to a bed with a machine dripping water on her forehead at irregular intervals. She’s shrieking, even though she’s not being hurt. The water torture is simply driving her crazy.

Duarte swears. We continue down the hall, opening camera feeds one by one, witnessing either standard cells or torture rooms, but none of them contain Timour. There’s no time to liberate the other prisoners—not with my deadline.

Forty-five minutes in, one room’s camera feed causes me to stagger. This torture room is bigger than the others, more elaborate. A glass cube—vessel—with no top sits in the center of the room, each edge spanning two meters, filled to the brim with pink water. A man with muscle atrophy, wearing only black shorts, is submerged within the water up to his neck, chained to the bottom four corners by his feet and the top four corners by his torso. The chains are stiff, keeping him both from rising and drowning.

Then I register that the water is pink because of the blood oozing out of black and red circles on the man’s skin—infections due to bacteria and fungi that entered open sores when his skin began to break down from constant water immersion.

I clap a hand over my mouth to halt my screams.

Because no matter how soiled, I’d recognize those blond curls anywhere.

“Oh my god,” Eshe gasps, and I open the door.

I almost start dry-heaving when the smell hits me, and I can’t help but think that Timour’s dead. He’s motionless, wasting away, his head jutting forward at an odd angle. The three of us, plus my two drones, enter the room, and the door closes. “Timour?” I call. No response. Scurrying to a screen on the right wall, I sift through the commands.

“Sergeant Chambers,” Duarte says.

I disregard him.

“Sergeant Chambers,” Eshe tries, “he’s in no condition to be moved.”

I ignore her too, clicking on the “Deactivate session” button. Swiveling my body, I watch as the filthy water drains while the stiff chains steadily lower Timour to solid ground. The chains and the glass cube retract into the floor, leaving an empty torture room with three standing astronauts, two flying robots, and a soaked cadaver—no, not a cadaver.

Sprinting to Timour’s crumpled form, I avoid looking below his neck and analyze his face—still beautiful, but pale, gaunt, and fatigued. I place two fingers against his neck and state, “It’s weak, but he has a pulse.”

Duarte appears on the other side of Timour’s body, surveying him and me grimly. “Sergeant Chambers,” he utters, “we can’t take him with us. He’s a liability.”

“Then get out,” I demand, livid. Duarte knows that I cannot carry Timour all by myself, even in his malnourished state. The sole choice I have is summoning Doctor River and hoping Huxley won’t finish off what he started. Slim chance. “I’m not leaving him here to die.”

There’s a bout of silence while Duarte listens to an order from the IF. “Yes, sir,” he acknowledges under his breath, eyes hardening. Hastening toward me swiftly, he hauls me off the floor, pinning my back and elbows to his front with one arm. My legs kick feebly in the air, my fists punch his stomach, but his armor is undentable.

However, there is something that can penetrate it.

Duarte raises his free arm, and my peripheral vision catches a needle, presumably to drug me.

“Hunt, Scar, knives out,” I cry. The drones hover near Duarte’s neck, fibronium knives protruding from their bodies and spinning horizontally. “If you poke me with that, I’ll tell them to attack.”

“You’ll be unconscious before that happens,” he ordains.

“Want to bet?” I can’t discern his expression from my position, but his arm compresses, crushing my ribs, and I gasp. Eshe aims her coilgun at Hunt, debating whether or not she should shoot. “I wouldn’t do that.” My drones are bulletproof and will subsequently kill her if she pulls the trigger.

“You’re damning us all,” growls Duarte.

“Then perhaps you should reconsider helping me save our comrade’s life.”

“If it was just us, I would, Ailee. But our instructions are clear.”

“Since when did you become such a rule follower?” I ask, panting while he’s barely putting in any effort restraining me. Our argument is more of an exertion to him.

He replies, “Since their goals aligned with mine—Keeping you alive.”

Eshe interjects, “Commander Renner, your syringe reminds me: Didn’t Doctor Quirk give you the vitalizer? Use it on Commander Orlov.”

I have no clue who Doctor Quirk is or what the vitalizer is. Duarte retorts, “It’s a prototype. She said to only use it if it’s life or death.”

Eshe raises an eyebrow. “I believe this qualifies as life or death.”

“It could kill him,” he warns.

“Either way, it solves our problem.”

Two seconds pass, and Duarte agrees, “Okay. Sergeant Chambers, I’m going to let you go and give Commander Orlov the vitalizer.”

“What is it?” I question.

“It’s a medicine that forces individuals to stay awake, keeping them energized and alive long enough to receive medical treatment. It won’t heal him, but it’ll give him a better chance of surviving until we get him the help he needs.”

“You said it could kill him.”

“Look at him. We move him as is, and he’ll definitely die.”

Every square decimeter of Timour is inflamed; he’s closer to death than the ferryman who guides souls to the underworld. For once, Duarte’s right. We have to take the risk, so I say, “Do it.”

Duarte releases me, and I can finally breathe as I step aside. Bending down next to Timour, Duarte withdraws a needleless syringe filled with cyan liquid from one of his pockets. He gently grabs Timour’s left forearm in his free hand, and the Liansan’s skin peels away.

God, even if we revive him, he’ll be in so much agony.

Duarte injects him with the cyan liquid. Five minutes go by, and nothing happens.

But another three minutes later, Timour spasms, then moans in pain.