The chief's shadow stencils the opaque-paned door, and the stowaway, Hella, places herself within its shape. She engraves her shoulders into the glass. The door rattles. The shadow looms evermore; Hella stills herself, stiller than the darkness.

She inhales. Her back lifts and peels off the glass. When she exhales, she does so until there is no breath in her lungs.

Fingers trembling, she holds the handle of the door—she fights Alice, who also holds the door with a subtleness as if she weren't. When one twists, the other twists in opposition. When one silhouette moves, the other moves as if shadowed puppetry of the same hand. Alice backs away, and the shape Hella is in becomes smaller.

"I'm continuing the scan through the door, alright?" Alice announces. Hella relaxes her grip some, however, when she hears it rotate and click, she reaffirms her grip. The chief is only so far away.

"Just face me," Alice orders. "Can you do that for me?"

Hella pauses. The showerheads gurgle. Roman watches. Oren stares the other way, but his ears perk.

The chief's gentleness is so practiced it's true; were she hooked to a monitor, no intent would be in her heart besides kindness. But there are other stowaways aboard and, when caught, they are cattled to the cargo chambers. They aren't given exile nor death. They receive designations lower than the indentured or even chattel, because when one breaks a leased item, they at least reimburse the supplier.

Yes, stowaways are used aboard the station in ways one would never risk if those ways could be thought of, but one cannot think when freedom plagues the mind. Fates bound, their penance is promoted—their punishments are advertised to all the galaxy.

Fate bound, Hella's breath comes as it goes as the space elevator shakes, as the scanner scans. She trembles in unison with the ship's frame, and though she presses her thighs together, the warmth spills, trickling in a stream.

The lakes of the clogged drains ripple and darken, swallowing the russet. Sourness wafts under the doorframe, and the sourness can be tasted in the air.

"Did I frighten you?" Alice asks, voice muffled within her helmet. "You smell dehydrated, dear. Come out. We'll get you some water—some hydration tabs too. And some food—we'll get you some real food, a nutrient-drip, and some fresh clothes too."

Hella taps the doors with her nails. She balls her hands, pressing and leaving reddened, triangled marks in her palms. Then she unflexes. Her chest flattens, lungs airing out. She holds herself breathless until her mind is light.

"That thing on your head." She takes a breath. She will give her fear to a subject, though she feels nothing toward the subject. "Tell me what that thing on your head is."

"It's a helmet," Roman whispers beside her.

"Shut up. I know it's a fucking helmet."

"It's a helmet," Alice tells her. "A tool. It assists me. You will receive one in the coming days. Don't be afraid."

"That's impossible. Helmets don't glow. Iron and steel only glow when hot." As the words spill, she shakes her head.

On the other side of the door, someone, in a guttural voice, in a voice which may be real or a manifestation of her consciousness, says, "Stupid Earthling."

This time, Alices tells someone to shut up.

"I ain't stupid," Hella says.

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"I know you're not. None of you are stupid." Alice pauses. "But it is a helmet. It helps me see the ship. It helps me see you. It helps me see everything. There's tech, a form of magic, inside the steel, and though yours won't be so robust, so powerful, the helmet will help you too."

"I don't believe—"

"Is Oren still in there with you," Alice interrupts. "My steward reported three of you together, including Oren."

"What—"

"I hear he has siblings," she says. "Should I assume you're one of them?"

"Where did you hear—"

"Because," Alice continues, "I know Oren is the only one of his siblings to have been accepted into Ulysses this round. I also know he loves his family. But," she says, "he knows the repercussions of harboring stowaways, even if the plight is sympathetic."

Muffled grunts, not from Alice, voice frustration from the other side of the door. The words can't be made on the showerside. Something shifts its weight, and the tiles whine. Alice shows no reaction to what stands behind her; she doesn't react to the grunts, the impatience, or the sweat spilling atop her helmet from the giantess.

"Oren?" Alice coos.

"Yes ma'am?"

Hella shakes her head, eyes widening.

"Of the three you were with, do you share any relation?"

"I—"

"Do not lie," the chief interrupts. "Who's in there with you?"

Hella looks around; there is no other exit from the shower besides the curtains which lead to the dormitories. She looks at Oren again. His face can't be read.

"People coming and going from the dormitories," he says.

"Stewards don't during boarding periods until my say," she says. "Try again—"

"They are stewards," Hella interrupts. "Stewards, undisciplined and deserving of reprimand—and other emigrants and the like—coming and going."

The showers stop at once, including those Roman and Oren stand under. Hella moves again to make one spray. Water does not fall from the head.

"Coming and going," Alice repeats.

"Coming and going," Hella repeats.

Alice nods. Her visor tilts, catching glints of light from the fluorescents."If I am breaching your Earthling regard for decency, recruit, I will issue an official apology. However, right now, I need you to open this door."

"No harm will come," Alice continues, "so long as you listen to me. Once scanned, I promise you won't be scanned again—I understand the need to acclimate to an environment. But leave fear on Earth," she says. "And if you can't do that, give your fear to me and forget it—let me worry about everything for you. Open the door. This is an official request from your chief-of-stewardship."

On the right side of her screen is a countdown which just dipped below thirty minutes. Thirty minutes until ascension begins. Another notification flashes; a stowaway, the twentieth, has been found.

Hella exhales again. Oren tells her to open the door, but she shakes her head.

"You have to," he says. "She made an official request."

"And when she—" She lowers her voice to a hiss. "And when she finds Roman and I to be stowaways?"

"Delinquents get it worse," he tells her. "Stowaways who listen, from the stories, are at peace. Open the door."

She laughs. "At peace," she repeats. Food. Water. Clothes of cotton, silk, and anything else she has only read of in the tatters of texts. Warmth. These are the offers which, were she registered, would be behind the door. So she closes her eyes. She exhales. "Oren?"

He doesn't respond. He doesn't respond, and Hella exhales. She lifts her back, but not her hand from the door handle. A shadow spreads across the frame of the door.

The handle twists, dragging Hella, sweeping her out of the showers. She spills into the locker room. The door bangs the wall. She collides with thighs as wide as her waist and lands on the tiles. Above her looms the softness of a gut, underpinned by muscle. Her gaze rises: a towering figure with a phallus matching in immensity stares back. Grazing the door's lintel is the giantess's forehead, and she looks down from her height with spread lips.

"There. The stupid Earthling is out. Now, you scan her, Ms. Alice."