She whisks the curtains closed, displaying a theatricality which leads to her laughter. She may have done so because she is alone, safe, or for any other reason, regardless—the rings scrape the rod; flakes of rust sprinkle the water, the pan, and float and spin. She laughs. When she twists to turn, the curtain is kept, held in a balled fist. She laughs some more. Embroideries with designs reminiscent of fingerprints or topographic maps are sewn into the yellowing fabric. She stares at them, the designs, then at the vitality-etchings patterned about her own palm—she finds identical markings.

She releases the drape, tossing it to the side.

Water flows off the angled lining, trickling to her toes. The spiral over the drain swallows the water, and the water is clear of dirt. Hella is clear of dirt. She treks to the other side of the showers, to the door; the lockers are a dot on the horizon.

As she comes close to port, Roman finds and meets her halfway. She stops. He looks around, and she assesses him. "These showers are huge," he says. She nods—his musculature can be witnessed even in this fog. As could Oren's plumpness. Her own body's usefulness is a thought which struggles to form.

"Any ideas?" he asks. "Oren says the steward is gone for the moment, but he'll be back—and there are more. Everyone wants to find a stowaway, they say."

She walks past him and he follows, jogging to catch up with her. "Here's the play," she begins.

"We'll use the station's endorse-an-applicant policy. We dock in seven days, and in these seven days, we will suborn every steward, passenger, and fellow emigrant we meet. Someone will scan us; we will be found. When they bring us to trial—and they will—we will have convinced everyone on board to endorse our stewardship."

"And you don't think we should hop off—cut our losses and get back in the caves?"

"I don't," she says. "And it isn't an option—we're property."

He nods. "Property."

"Technically, indentured, but all aboard is owned by Ulysses Corp and Ownings," she says. Then she pauses. "Except the clients; that section of the terms and conditions confused me, but we all heard Alice; the motherships are never returning to Earth. What's here is here, for all the future, and until the future becomes antiquity."

"Is that what she said?" Roman asks. "She used simpler words."

"It's my interpretation."

"And it's Chief Alice," he says. "We have to give people their respect if we want friends."

"I suppose," Hella says, "but she ain't chief of me—in my heart, Regard is our leader. We follow her. And no matter how 'submissive to authority,' Oren is or you try to be, I don't think it will get us anywhere—except used. Hell, if we find Regard and she tells us to be one way, we go that way and throw away everything I'm saying now. But, for now, our priority is to convince this entire space elevator that the two of us make for worthy assets."

He nods along. The words run through his mind, and he plays them back as if a recording which must be processed several times. "What do you mean by worthy assets?"

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She stops. He bumps into her back, knocking her forward, but she catches herself with a step. She slaps him across the chest as hard as she can, but he doesn't move. "Body, prime." She points to her skull and knocks a few times with the knuckle of her index. "Brain, prime." She gestures back and forth between the two of them. "We, prime."

He nods. "We, prime."

"We, prime." She smiles, then starts again for the door. "And we suborn everybody."

He follows. "Sounds simple enough, but you've used that word twice now—once you tell me what it means, I'm on board."

"It means coerce," she says, sauntering through the fog; each showerhead sprays as she walks beneath, and they screech as she moves on to the next. "Coerce. We bribe. We seduce. We enchant. Etcetera. From here on, you and I must become indispensable to everyone we meet. We gather secrets, make allies, and make sure, this time, they want all three of us—not just Oren—or else you and I are getting tossed back to Earth, asteroid-style."

"As great balls of fire," he says, voice full of awe.

"As great balls of fire," she echoes. "Shot from a chute, flaming through the sky until we're two puffs of ash; they'll watch for sport too, real terminal-like. Or they'll use us in other ways."

"Like how?"

"Like—"

And she bumps into something solid, then sinks into the substance. She grabs the fog, and it sinks under her hands like flesh. Whoever she is grabbing screams.

"What the hell are you doing, Hella?"

With his little washcloth, he covers his chest; with his hand, he covers his privates.

"Perfect, Oren," Hella says, "I want you to hear this part—Once they find out you boarded with two stowaways, they're going to put those hips of yours to work for their worst clients. Why let go of prime assets? They'll check those registrar files, see 'submissive to authority' in your notes sections, and happily test it with no restrictions since you're technically under violation of company policy. I wonder how many—"

"Alright, what's your point!" He shouts. She looks at him, cocking her head.

Her hand surfs the wall, fumbling for something. When the protrusion is met by the hand, she lowers the door handle. "I'm saying you need to help us, whether you want to, or—"

She pulls the door open. Fog billows out into the lockers. Someone stands in the steam, veiled.

"Sorry, I thought the lockers were empty—" Hella stops.

The woman smiles through a visor which covers half her head. She tilts her head, and the helmet shifts to the side, unclasped. Dirt covers her neck. Her tie drapes the collar of her unbuttoned shirt, and her unhooked bra forms a drawbridge across that undone gap. Sweat has left dark marks down the dust of her stomach and thighs. Her pants are bunched around one ankle. The visor scans, and is scanning. The woman smiles, and is smiling. She points to the helm: "No worries, dear. Greet-scan protocol. Procedure. I'll check your registration—then you may carry on." Hella's thigh twitches, and is twitching; her grip furthers around the door handle, and is furthering. The visor chirps.

"Chief Alice," Hella says. Her grip on the handle tightens. "Hi."

The head of the stewardship chuckles. "Hello."

Roman hisses at Oren, "I thought you said the steward had left."

"He did," he says. "I said, he said, he's going to go get someone."

And Hella reels back. She slams the door. The pane rattles, and she presses her back against a sweating silhouette.