Time almost stops as milliseconds stretch to hours, yet I’m still too slow to react. My elec is only halfway pointed in the Martian’s direction when I’m staring down the barrel of his superior-looking weapon.

“Drop it, now!” he orders, his expression menacing.

I imagine myself as a hostage, being tortured, starting a war between two planets.

Maybe I should let him pull the trigger. But that would jeopardize the mission.

In defeat, I let my elec clatter to the floor. The sound echoes loudly, bouncing off the rounded walls. I raise my hands, palms facing him.

I hear my father spit out a profanity.

“Idiots!” Duarte’s audio is muffled. He’s struggling against his bonds. “I knew this would happen. No one ever listens to me! We need to go to her.” He continues to shout “Let me go!” as I dumbly stare wide-eyed at the tall man in front of me. He’s much more muscular and big than I would’ve thought possible for a Martian raised with Mars’ gravity, sixty-two percent less than Earth’s.

He stalks closer, dark eyes first meeting mine then zeroing in on my chest. He stops. Rage flickers across his face and two strides later, the muzzle of his gun jams against my forehead. His other gloved hand squeezes my throat above the gold flower. My feet leave the ground, and I automatically reach up to clutch his forearm, trying to break his hold.

It’s futile. All I touch is armor underneath his red uniform.

“Who are you?” he questions, enraged. “How did you get in? Why are you stealing the Eye?!”

If he wants me to reply, he really shouldn’t have me in a choke hold. His gun shifts, the barrel no longer pointing directly at me, and I take my chance. He pulls me toward him, and when my face is just inches from his, I strike with my dominant hand, plugging two fingers into his eye sockets.

He screams and drops me, his hand retracting to cover his now bleeding eyes. I collapse onto the ground, but it doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Kind of like falling in slow motion.

The Martian’s other hand—the one holding his gun—swings back around. He fires his weapon and misses, his eyes clearly not seeing straight. I tuck and roll, hoping the bullet won’t hit me when it ricochets.

But it doesn’t ricochet, which makes no sense. Why would he fire a bullet that can penetrate the metal encapsulating us? The risk of inhaling Mars’ toxic fumes almost paralyzes me, yet I allow the momentum to keep rolling me until I reach my elec. Clutching it with one hand, I point it at my opponent, turn off the safety, and pull the trigger.

His red eyes and bloody face jerk to the ceiling, then he tilts back, hitting the ground behind him, hard. I drag my fingers through my ponytail, again and again, the repetitive motion soothing.

I shot him in the face. Even if my elec is on stun mode, it’s quite possible he’s dead. It was self defense, I tell myself. He attacked me first. However, I know that line of reasoning is invalid, for we are the ones who infiltrated Mars’ territory and broke into their Holding Safe.

And stole their seemingly prized possession. The Eye. An anguished cry sounds in my ears—Duarte.

A quiet, more gentle voice hesitantly asks, “Ailee?”

Seconds pass, and I hear sobbing. I realize the crew are waiting for me to speak. Waiting to know if I’m unscathed or if the elec they heard go off had incapacitated me.

I clear my throat and reply, “Yes, Commander Orlov?”

The tension on the other side breaks. The sobbing transitions to a gasp.

“Thank God,” Timour exhales, the relief in his voice palpable. “Martian?”

“Yeah.” Tonelessly, I state, “I think he’s dead.”

“Glad you’re alright, Sergeant. Now get out of there, and actually mean it this time.”

I get up from the ground onto unstable legs, my elec heavy in my hands. Despite the freezing cold—from both the air and the wretched Eye—I somehow find the energy to exit the Holding Safe and run back to the airlock. The scene of the Martian dying loops over and over in my head. I didn’t even glance at his body after killing him.

But something else bothers me on the way out. I realize that there were no bullet holes in the Holding Safe. He fired a gun—a real one, with metal bullets. Not photons like an elec. Perhaps I didn’t look at the wall closely enough. Perhaps I missed it.

Yet something tells me I didn’t.

* * *

After I climb the ladder to the top of the hatch, a hand reaches out to me, palm facing up. I raise my gaze and lock onto glittering ocean-blue eyes that contrast with the orange hue of the sky. I smile and take Timour’s hand, letting him pull me the rest of the way. I land lightly on the dusty surface of Mars and scope my surroundings.

Seven Starships surround the hatch protectively. They salute me, and my eyes widen. “Great to see you again, Sergeant Chambers,” one of them says.

“Same here,” I say, but I feel awkward because I don’t know her name. I recognize her voice; she is the one who stated Starships are “built for strength and stamina, not to fit into small spaces.” She easily has five inches and forty-five pounds on me. Forty-five pounds of curves and muscle. I’m immediately jealous but also a bit charmed.

“Starship Lieutenant Eshe Hassan,” she introduces, holding out her hand.

I take it, and she clasps my hand tightly for a quick shake before letting go. Her rank is one below mine, though she looks to be a few years older. “I didn’t know they allowed Lieutenants on this mission,” I tell her.

She shrugs, “I’m a tracker. Guess Admiral Chambers thought he might need me. But you got the item all by yourself, right?” She raises one eyebrow as a challenge.

My mouth goes dry. How am I going to explain that the Eye is now affixed to my body? Someone on board is bound to know how to cut it off me safely. The real mystery is what my father wants to use it for in the first place. After all, the Martians seem… quite attached to their clunky jewelry.

“Yep,” I reply, attempting to steady my tone. “Safe in my suit.” I look to the side to avoid her gaze and spot a familiar form sitting next to the nearest dropship. He’s surrounded by four Starship “guards.” I think Eshe is trying to get my attention, but I’m already too focused on the “prisoner.” I’m moving before I’m even aware of it.

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Getting closer, I notice the water running down his face, the red in his eyes, the blood seeping out of cuts on his temple and cheeks. A flash of anger pulses through me, and I glare at the nearest “guard” to my right.

The “guard” holds one of his hands up in surrender. “We didn’t touch him. When the Martian found you, he went berserk. Wouldn’t stop bashing his helmet against his handcuffs, trying to get free. Now that you’re safe, he’s finally stopped yelling.”

Duarte was the one sobbing earlier. Currently, his expression is a mixture of relief and… shame… betrayal. Is he ashamed of displaying a weakness? Does he feel betrayed by our crew? By me?

I twist my wrist to the “guard” in expectation. “Key,” I demand.

A different “guard” from my left approaches and opens up the pocket over his bicep. He hands me a metal rod, then I stride toward Duarte. Other than stiffening slightly when I approach, he doesn’t move at all. Bending down, I dodge his eyes and line up the rod with the hole that runs through the middle of the handcuff’s shaft.

His eyes are on me, which prompts me to say, “You know, we should really consider getting electric handcuffs. I hear they’re more comfortable and will stun you if you try to break them—keep you from hurting yourself. These are quite archaic, don’t you think?”

By the time I’ve unlocked his constraints, he still hasn’t said anything.

Finally, I tilt my head up a bit to read his expression, but all I become fixated on are dark, depthless eyes. His shackles clunk as they hit the ground, and less than a second later his arms are tightly wrapped around me. I fall on top of him, my hands hitting the ground on either side of his torso to break my fall. The “guards” around us shift, a couple of them voicing sharp warnings, but they seem to relax slightly as they realize Duarte’s just holding me.

The hug’s a bit violent, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings, so I lift one hand from the ground and lightly pat his back.

“Idiot,” comes his harsh whisper.

“Right back at you,” I say. “Handcuffed during the very mission you’re supposed to lead.”

“And now I’m going to have to stand trial for insubordination,” he states with a resigned sigh.

“No, you won’t,” I declare firmly. “You were just concerned. My father will understand.”

He shakes his head. “Admiral Chambers isn’t the one I’m sca—worried about.”

My brows furrow, and I open my mouth to question him further, but when I pull away, I stop at the look of pure fear on his face.

“We’ll discuss this later,” I promise. Anyway, I don’t want the entire IF listening in on our private conversation. “We’re in enemy territory.” He reluctantly lets me go, and I turn to address the other Starships, “We are still a crew. Help him up and play nice. No hard feelings—” I look back at Duarte, “on either side.”

He scowls but nods. A couple other Starships offer him a hand up along with clipped apologies, but he slaps them away and staggers to his feet.

“Marshal Khan,” I call to the command center, “how far is Plato from us, and what is your current speed?”

“We’re a little over four minutes away from being perpendicular to your present position,” she replies. “Our current speed is twenty-six hundred meters per second, but we are decelerating at 1 G now, and at two hundred meters per second, we’ll stop decelerating. Plato will be in microgravity for a while before it’s safe enough to flip and burn. I suggest that instead of trying to dock with us at the perfect moment, leave now. Contact with our mole has insofar been futile, and we don’t know if the Martian you kil—shot has friends who will come looking for him.”

I glance at the digital time on the inside, right corner of my visor. “It’s seventeen to twenty-hundred,” I state. “I agree; we’re cutting it a bit close. Their satellites and motion detectors will switch on any minute now. Let’s go.” I walk toward Timour, and his expression relaxes as we turn to enter our dropship. Right before we climb the ramp, like a beagle who just caught the scent of a squirrel, he whips around and pulls out his elec. I turn around quizzically and am about to step forward when he throws an arm protectively in front of me.

“Get in, please,” he says, his eyes never leaving the horizon.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I’m not sure.” He starts backing away into the dropship, his arm forcing me to move back too.

“Ground Keepers!” my father shouts, leaving my ears ringing. “Leave now! Five Martian warships dispatched from Solarity are heading toward you!”

On schedule, five war spacecrafts rise above the depths of this plateau’s cliff, coming into view. Way too close for comfort. They’re shaped like giant, flattened missiles with pointed noses and wings armed to the teeth in artillery. Their bright silver exteriors glint even in the low light, and a red band runs across each ship’s nose, reminding me of blood.

I don’t really understand why the warships have wings and pointy noses. They won’t do much to help the ships fly in Mars’ thin atmosphere, less than one percent of Earth’s atmospheric volume.

Unless they were thinking about invading Earth.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts when Timour uses both hands to drag me up the ramp. “Buckle in,” he requests. Once we’re both strapped in, our dropship powers on and raises the ramp automatically. Timour doesn’t waste time setting up autopilot and navigation—he doesn’t even ask permission for manual takeoff—he simply runs his fingers across a couple screens and suddenly we’re up in the air, accelerating quickly away from the surface of Mars.

Less than a minute later, the screens in front of us turn dark, indicating we’ve entered the black expanse of space. “One of them is tailgating us,” he states, and I search the screens for the rearview camera. Indeed, a large warship is closing in fast. I estimate there are around a hundred Martians on board. I hear the other Starships shouting directives, but Timour dims the volume so that we can’t hear them very well.

“We don’t need distractions right now,” he explains.

“Should we shoot them?” I ask, staring at the warship chasing us.

He chuckles humorlessly. “I don’t think that’s a fight we’re going to win, Ailee.”

“Can we outcruise them?”

“No,” he answers immediately, and I’m startled by his definiteness. “But we can try.”

He starts ramping up the acceleration, and I shrink into my seat, afraid. G-force isn’t something to be messed with, and I’m choosing to trust Timour with my life.

We reach 3 G, then 4 G. He starts turning incrementally into a wide arc, and the centripetal force almost makes me pass out.

“We’re going too fast to change direction,” Timour says, checking the rearview camera. The damn warship is still there; no, it’s closer. “And they already have a lock on us.”

“That’s not what it says.” I point to the radar warning receiver that can detect lock-ons.

“Trust me.”

I do. I am. “What do we do?”

“We have two options,” he states. “We either continue accelerating in the hopes that they back off,”—he glances at me out of the corner of his eye—“which I’m not a fan of, as you could barely handle 4 G earlier.”

I’m barely handling 4 G now. “I can handle it,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster.

He doesn’t comment and continues, “Or we surrender.”

I shake my head. “I’m not a fan of being captured and tortured for information.”

He creases his brows, conflicted, but the astronaut in him takes over and begins increasing the acceleration once again.

5 G. 6 G. 7 G.

When we reach 8 G—possibly more—black spots and white confetti slither across my vision. I struggle to close my eyes. I’ve accepted my fate. I’m going to lose consciousness then die. At least I’ll finally get to meet you, mother.

Then all of a sudden, the pounding force against my body subsides. I blink in shock as color rushes in to replace the gray-out. I only get a glimpse of Timour’s astounded expression before the screens and lights around us flicker, and we’re plunged into darkness.