I’m not a mechanical engineer. I’m not even an electrical engineer. My entire career has been defined by how well I could manipulate data, train robots, tune algorithms, and create pretty holographic monitors that sparkle in the light. My knowledge is nothing without electronics—computers, portals, even a little solar-powered calculator would be nice. My capacity to do mental math is fading along with my sanity.

I busy myself by plucking things out of the survival kit.

Most of the items are useless since we are not stranded in one of Earth’s oceans, including shark repellant, a life raft, sunscreen, seawater desalting tablets, iodine, a radio that doesn’t work, and signaling mirrors. The fold-out machete is pretty cool though.

I end up taking the wirecutter, pliers, gloves, thick rolls of wire, wire staples, zip ties, a screwdriver, a claw hammer, and a host of other random things that may come in handy. I work on the oxygen generator first, connecting wires that have been separated and replacing those too damaged for repair. The rest of the machine looks fine, but I can’t be sure. Didn’t Timour mention something about electronics fusing together?

I discarded my suit a while ago after the pure oxygen ran out, shoving it into a relatively empty compartment. The temperature is slowly decreasing—or is it increasing?—but I welcome the change. It keeps my mind sharp. I don’t know what time it is. I don’t know how long I have left to live.

Timour disappeared into the back room earlier, the very room he warned me not to go in, after announcing his plan to try to fix the battery or one of the backup generators. He’s not a mechanical or electrical engineer either, but I’m accepting any help at this point. I’m grateful he hasn’t reentered the melancholy state he was in earlier, where it seemed like his mind was several astronomical units away.

I’m staring at the battery of the carbon dioxide remover when Timour comes out of the back room. He’s not wearing his spacesuit either, although there’s newfound irritation in his expression. His thermals are steel gray, contrasting with my midnight black.

“Any luck?” I ask.

“Not with any of the batteries,” he says. “There’s an RTG”—Radioisotope Thermoelectric Generator—“that might work.”

“Which isotope?”

“Americium-241.”

I scoff, “We’re gonna die of radiation poisoning.”

“I don’t plan to open the encasing,” Timour states. “Besides, you’ve been watching too many movies. I’d have to eat it to cause any long term damage.”

“I’m not liking the sound of short term damage either, nor do I want to take any chances.” I pause. “How do you plan to use it?”

“The RTG was mainly providing energy to our lights and temperature controls when the EMP hit. Now with nowhere to direct the americium’s energy, the RTG is ejecting radiation into space. Our best chance is reviving wireless comms and calling Plato. If I can replace the thermocouples and wires, then…” he trails off. “It’s a big ‘if,’ but if I somehow figure it out, I’ll let you know our next steps.” His gaze transitions from focused to tender. “How are you holding up?”

Conflicted on whether or not he’s asking about me personally, I bring up a couple of my concerns, “I rewired the oxygen generator, and I think it’s okay, but the carbon dioxide remover might be more of a problem. The whole thing is basically a battery made of electrochemical cells and counter electrodes.”

Timour sighs, “This is the problem with having everything run electronically.”

“So you’ve said.” I can’t keep a straight face as I continue, “I feel attacked.”

“Little miss techie having a bad day?” he jokes.

“Something like that. Everything runs on electricity or power. How else can we get around?”

He shrugs. “It would be nice to have a diesel engine. At least as a backup. It uses internal combustion instead of spark plugs or electricity.”

“Sounds like a fire hazard.”

“More dangerous than radioactive metal?” He raises a brow, referring to the americium.

“Touché. I’ll suggest it to my father if I ever see him again.” I smile superficially. “Hypothetically, if we had a diesel engine, could we power comms?”

He nods. “Hypothetically, yes. We’d probably still use the main battery for propulsion and make sure the diesel engine isn’t hooked up to any wires. Then, if electronics suddenly stop working, such as in the case of an EMP attack, we use the diesel engine as a power source and fix comms to send for help.”

“Assuming we can fix comms.”

“Assuming.” Timour’s stare dips to the hollow of my neck. The Eye is now in full view without my spacesuit to cover it. “It looks like a fancy prison collar,” he remarks, reaching out. I stiffen slightly, and his fingers stop an inch from my neck. “May I?”

“Sure,” I attempt to sound nonchalant. He lifts the pendant from my throat and leans down to get a closer look. I angle my face away, but all I can focus on is how warm the back of his fingers are on my bare skin. Scalding compared to the cold metal.

“Interesting pattern,” he says but doesn’t move away. I turn to look at him. “I wonder why the Admiral wants it.”

“Or why the Martians were guarding it so heavily,” I comment. We never would’ve been able to enter the Holding Safe without the celebration on top of deactivating Mars’ defense system. “That’s probably enough to make my father go after it.”

“He doesn’t seem like the type of person to unnecessarily cause trouble.”

“That’s what he wants you to believe,” I say wistfully. “He thinks his point of view is the right point of view. That everyone else needs to change how they do things because his way is better.”

“And you don’t believe it is?”

“Not entirely. Sometimes, I wish he would listen. I try to tell him something, something factual, and he’ll come up with a counterargument—one that I never asked for, and one that doesn’t even make sense! And then he makes these decisions, like retrieving this”—I point to the pendant—“without offering a logical explanation, and he expects everyone to fall in line because he’s Admiral. Granted, that’s what we do as Keepers. We follow directions. But I’m not sure if starting a war with Mars is a good idea.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

He remains calm and understanding throughout my rant. “What do you think?”

I stay silent for a second or two. “I don’t know. He’s my dad. I want him to confide in me, but he never has.” He never will. “Maybe it’s better not to question. I’m too young, naive, and human to form an unbiased opinion.” I give Timour a contemplative look. “Would God know what to do?”

“Of course. God knows all things past, present, and future. He knows what will be and what could’ve been. Our habits, our strengths, our weaknesses. He knows everything there is to know about us. What we’re thinking. Our motives.”

“Wow,” I remark, “God is like spacetime.”

He smiles wryly and amends, “He created spacetime.” He lets the pendant in his hand fall gently back against my throat, but his fingers don’t leave the necklace. He slowly traces the thick gold chain starting from the hollow of my neck. “It matches your eyes.” His skin brushes mine. My heart’s beating too fast, yet he’s still leaning closer.

I clear my throat. “Water. Do you know how to fix the water dispenser, therapist Orlov?”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The moment between us is severed as he moves back to the food and water compartment. “Let’s see,” he says quietly, turning the dispenser on. Other than a muted click, nothing happens. The familiar buzz of electricity is still gone. He takes a screwdriver and knife from the tools compartment as well as a can opener from the survival compartment, and after thirty seconds of fiddling around with the dispenser, he’s able to swing open the outermost layer.

My eyes unfocus, and I begin to feel bad. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him away. After all, he’s been so kind to me. But he’s secretive. He seems to know a lot about me, yet I hardly know anything about his past, his family, his hobbies. And not that I’m entitled to know everything about him, but more needs to be divulged before I’m comfortable with… whatever’s happening between us.

Then again, we’re probably going to die.

“Done,” he says. Surprised at his efficiency, I float over to his side to take a look. A multitude of thin tubes half-filled with liquid stick out of the wall, held in place by rubber hooks. The ends of the tubes aren’t connected to anything, but there are curious devices—like those pulse oximeters doctors put on your finger to measure your oxygen saturation level and heart rate—clipping each tube closed. Black rods run horizontal to the devices. “Artificial-gravity pumps,” he explains. “Well, makeshift ones. Usually they run on electricity, but since we don’t have any energy to make the water flow, we’ll have to manually pump the water.” He grabs a flattened silver water container, twists off the cap, and connects the container’s orifice with one of the tubes. Then, he turns the black rod as though it’s a tap, and I gape as the container begins to slowly bulge.

“How did you learn to do that?” I wonder.

“What? You thought I was your personal bodyguard with no brains?”

I don’t respond. No doubt you have to be very intelligent to become an astronaut—then again, that description is a bit of a stretch when it comes to Duarte—but specialization isn’t required for a Starship.

“I’ve always been fascinated by materials science,” he continues, “which kind of goes hand-in-hand with mechanics and chemistry. I used to test new biomaterials for my parents’ practice, and sometimes I went a little crazy combining objects that were completely incompatible. But hey! This worked.” He turns the black rod in the opposite direction, stopping the flow of water, and hands the water container to me.

Despite my searing thirst, I put my hands up. “Oh, no. You first.”

“I insist.” He kindly presses the container into my palm.

Relenting, I put the orifice into my mouth and have to suck the water up like a straw. Glamorous. I force myself to stop drinking after the container deflates a bit and hand it to him. He doesn’t miss a beat and practically inhales the rest of the water, flattening the container. I smile in amusement. He extracts the orifice from his mouth and connects it to the tube to fill it up again.

“‘Parents’ practice’?” I question while remembering he also said something bio related, “Your parents are doctors?”

“Were. Now I’m just the occasional handyman whenever I go back to visit. If I weren’t a Starship, I would probably be a materials scientist or engineer.”

I shrug. “You can always do both.”

He grins. “I should’ve expected that comment from an overachiever.”

“Hardly,” I scoff. I throw my arms out, gesturing to the dropship encasing us and almost lose my balance. “One EMP strike, and I’m absolutely worthless.”

“Please.” He rolls his eyes playfully. “You’re not any more worthless than me in this situation. Next time, our brains may be virtually trapped in a computer where only those with electrical and software skills can survive. Then you’ll really know the definition of ‘worthless.’”

Next time.

I welcome even the concept.

When the water container’s full, Timour gives it to me, but I don’t drink from it. He takes out a new flattened silver container from the compartment in front of us and begins to fill it up. We’re relishing in his accomplishment of fixing the water dispenser, distracting ourselves from the inevitable disaster of this irreparable circumstance.

A memory from earlier tugs at my mind, and my curiosity fractures the silence. “Back on Mars, how did you know the warships were coming?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “We have something similar back in Liansa,” he says carefully. “They make this really high-pitched noise. If you’re not actively trying to listen for it, you won’t hear it.”

The People’s Federation of Liansa’s been keeping secrets. I guess my government does too, but since my father is Admiral of the IF, I regularly have the inside scoop on what the United Empires’ government is up to. Then again… I still have an unidentifiable contraption stuck around my neck. Forget the UE; my father’s secrets are enough to kill me.

“I know you asked me to wait, but…” But I don’t know whether or not we’ll make it out alive. “What’s fibronium?”

“It’s a metal the Liansan government has been using,” he answers. “I don’t know where it came from or who invented it, but it’s a material like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Stronger than tungsten, lighter than magnesium, and very toxic. You don’t want to touch it for too long. EMPs can’t penetrate anything coated with fibronium. A sufficiently thick layer is bulletproof, and the weirdest property of the metal is that with high enough energy, two pieces of fibronium can weld together—like they just absorb each other.” He finishes filling up the second water container and looks at me. “It’s true!”

“I believe you,” I say. Many metals can fuse together, although “absorb” is an odd way to put it. I contemplate for a moment, and my thoughts drift back to what occurred in the Holding Safe. “That’s what happened to the bullet.”

“What?”

“The bullet in the Holding Safe,” I explain. “When the Martian shot at me, he missed. I expected the bullet to ricochet, but it didn’t, and I wondered why he would shoot if the walls weren’t strong enough to deflect a bullet. I figured perhaps the bullet was simply embedded in the wall, but I looked around before I left…” I shake my head. “I didn’t see a hole.”

Timour’s brow furrows. “You think the Martians have fibronium?”

“I don’t know. A bullet hole is small, so I could’ve missed it. But then you said ‘absorb,’ and I can’t think of a better description for what happened to that bullet.”

“The wall was completely smooth? No markings on it?”

“None.”

A pause. “It’s plausible,” he finally states, although his expression displays bewilderment. “Their warships look like ours too, only more tacky. I doubt the Liansan government would sell to Solarity. Nor would Leader Soner sell to Liansa. It’s gotta be some sort of black market transaction or exchange of information.”

“Think Liansa would ever share their new technology with us?” I query with facetious hope. “After all, now’s the time to band together against the rest of the universe.” Honestly, I admire Martians. At least, I did before they signed our death warrant.

“I don’t know what my country is planning. Sometimes… I wish… There are some things I love about my country. Many I despise.”

That same guilt-ridden look creeps onto his face. I want to comfort him, but we’re already spending too much time talking, and the urge to be productive squashes my sympathy. I pat him a little too hard on the shoulder. “Okay, break’s over,” I announce, “We need to get back to work.”