Alice's breath hitches. When the water strikes between her shoulders, the warmth doesn't come. The warmth rises from her muscles, forgotten and ancient. She twists the lever to the other end, raising the temperature. Her eyes close, and steam swims through her nostrils, filling her lungs.
The results of the scan were simple, but are an amalgamation of several complexities. The conductors know who the stowaways are, but refuse to tell the stewards. The stewards are running around as if their heads are cut off, trying to find all thirty-six. The conductors drive the company vessels and they are the only ones in the Milky Way who can, which means forcing them to do or give anything results in herculean ordeals. Because of this, there is no guarantee those who the stewards suspect of stowing away are stowaways; fifty accused individuals are sitting in the cargo chambers.
Each suspect has been scanned. Everyone has been scanned and the results are almost immediate. Even now, her helm, beside her bare feet and set to greet-scan, scans her, Sawyer, and the pudgy man named Oren Cavern—the system returns all results from the registered-database. These people have acceptance letters. The two people beside him do not.
Alice presumes them to be siblings, and scanning them results in look-up errors—they don't exist in the registered database. This means they are stowaways. Registered people's results are sent from the database, unregistered people return an error. Her scan of someone with an official stamp of acceptance results in enormities of information, testifying the registrar-group's meticulousness. The errors drive Alice to her mutterings, referring to the conductors as dullards for thinking there was no logic in their mutinous puzzle.
The logic turns in her mind. Reporting their game would be protocol, but a major problem will arise upon doing so, so Alice returns to her muttering. "Snitching costs what little respect I've earned."
The steward who told her about three locker-room recruits making his life hard chalked the errors up to the mud obscuring their faces—the mud floats down the drain, but reddened lettering still splashes the screen. Due to this logic, though there is no truth in the presumption of guilt, the suspicion of these two siblings stowing away is realistic, so she assumes their guilt.
Her ears perk. Footsteps make their way toward her, intruding on her thoughts. For a time, whoever stands close stands close enough for their breath to be heard. Their breath drags. Alice opens her eyes. Hella stands, open-mouthed breathing, and does so until hesitance loosens the grip on her tongue.
Alice closes her eyes. "What?"
"The scan on me," she says. No greeting given, pure intent—thrust into reality. "What were the results?"
Alice straightens her back. She granted the three siblings a kindness, letting them huddle, whisper, and play make-believe in their section of the showers, but the girl's boldness astounds her. The nervousness of unknowing must have gotten to her.
"All clear on the scan," Alice lies. "When we reach my room, I have to make a few calls to sort some things out. We don't receive too many sibling-sets. I intend to show the three of you off throughout orientation and to the clients when we dock at the station."
"Oh?" The stowaway pauses. "Is it a good thing to be shown off?"
When the chief raises an eyebrow, the girl puts her hand up.
"I meant no disrespect," she says.
Because her files don't exist in the database of acceptances, and because the registrars forbid anyone from accessing their other data, such as information on those who received rejections from the stewardship, her age can only be assumed—ten years younger than Alice, early twenties.
"I'll do your planet respect and chalk your question to the stupidity of youth," Alice tells her. "If your superior tell you something, just accept it. Any information you need, you can parse if you pay attention. If it's bad, you'll know—if it's not bad, it's good." She pauses, then lies a little more with more little truths. "Your orientation will take place during the elevator's seven day ascent to the mothership. You will learn everything about being a steward and an asset to the company."
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To her credit, the delinquent nods in response. Her brother, Oren, has documentation of him caring for Earth's clergy, however pagan they may be. There may be something trained in her as well. And the other brother—
"You," Alice says. "Name?"
"Roman Cavern," he says. He speaks more after giving his name—less training exists within, but his body opposes the lack in his mind.
"You can stop talking now," she says.
His mouth shuts mid-sentence; training is possible for these stowaways—their transition from aspiring steward to stowaway to chattel will be smooth. Alice turns her attention to Sawyer, the giantess, her chamberlain. A toad on a pan beneath a creek's waterfall, the giantess stands beneath a running shower.
Alice tells her, "Wash quickly. The recruits are boarded, are washed, and are almost all inside a cabin. The masters of seams have the sizes; instruct some stewards to pick up the uniforms before the clients' morning wake-up. When we're finished here, I will send the rest of the stewardship on break for their showers. The conductor said, 'In twenty minutes, the elevator will be good to begin its ascent.' I want the stewardship ready in fifteen minutes so we're not the last group to be checked off. Then we'll rest for the night. Start orientation in the morning. Do you have all of that?"
"No ma'am," Sawyer says.
"Say, yes I do."
"Yes, ma'am. I do." She smiles like a buddha. "Wash, recruits, uniforms, pickup, break, showers, twenty, fifteen, rest—orientation in the morning."
"Hm." Alice turns her head. "Good, girl."
Hella hasn't moved. "Um—"
Alice takes a breath. "Future steward—do you need anything from us?"
She doesn't say anything for a few seconds. Roman walks over and puts his hands on her shoulders. Alice raises an eyebrow.
"I hope my sister didn't start us off on the wrong foot," he says. "She's a people person—a real break in case of emergency type. Took too much brain from our litter in the womb, now she's all thought."
"Sister," Sawyer groans. "Human siblings in the same shower—Earthlings have indulgent ways."
Roman holds out his hand. Alice takes the hand, and they shake, a pair naked and dripping.
"We are looking forward to assisting the stewardship," he says. "We want it known that the three of us are looking to be used—for anything, we're looking to go above and beyond, as a thank you for bringing us to the stars and providing us proper living."
"Happy to hear," Alice says.
"But I don't think you're hearing him," Hella says. She takes a breath, and Roman backs away. "We're looking to be the kind of people who succeed under you—and who succeed aboard the station. Anything, from the dirtiest jobs to your most dangerous, we'll do the task. We just want to be the kind of people who succeed."
Alice laughs. The registrars are meant to filter anyone who isn't. "Funnily enough, you three are exactly who I'm looking for."
She gestures to Sawyer. Her mass and its folds are still unwashed. "She always needs my help; giantess muscles tense something terrible after working. In honesty, she'd be more suited for a bathtub, but showers is all we got—but she showers slowly. Today, we don't have that kind of time—it's launch day." Alice squirts a liquid from a bottle into her palms. She scrubs her shampoo with this shampoo which goes unfound in any commissary. The scent of jasmine permeates the area, but if one takes too many steps from her, they are brought to the wall of Sawyer's body odor. "You three said, any job. There's your first—"
"We'll help," Hella says.
"I know," she responds. "But she only needs two of you, so pick two."
The three of them look at one another. Alice looks at them as a unit, as if they are one. Between the three of them, messing with them will be an informative, distressing outlet for her. Those kinds of outlets are rare in stewardship. She will turn them in at some point, but not before playing with them, breathing them apart, and finding out who every stowaway is aboard the vessel—
"Come on, Oren," Roman says. There is no discussion or griping; Oren moves, cursing his brother beneath his breath for every reason except this expectation of service. And Hella stands there. At most, she gave a small gesture for them to move, but she may have scratched her palm.
"Anything else we can do?" Hella asks. She smirks. Another game: break the siblings. "You spoke of your helms and tech—until we receive a set, we may need handwritten task lists. But if that's trouble, I have a good memory."