Welga unclipped.

She curled into a ball and laughed as she tried to float in the center of the crate without touching the walls. If only Connor were at her side to share in the experience. She hadn’t seen him since leaving for Chennai, and unlike every other mission, she couldn’t count on him being safe and sound. I hope you’re well, cardo. Someday, we’ll do this together.

Welga hated the wrist clock. Unlike Por Qué, this machine told her the time whether she wanted the information or not. After the first five hours, boredom gnawed at her sanity. Watching a bunch of blue digits and waiting for them to increment didn’t help.

At the nine-hour mark, she almost forced her way out of the crate to look outside. Only the knowledge that the craft had no windows—it wasn’t designed for passengers—kept her contained. She counted the pockets on her suit. She timed how slowly she could trickle out urine when she had to relieve her bladder. She pretended to talk to Connor. To Por Qué. She had imaginary arguments with Nithya about her condition. She rehearsed all the possible responses she could think of when Eko-Yi let her out. If the station had received the feeds from the dakini she’d captured—and why wouldn’t it?—its WAIs would recognize and identify her.

“I’m unarmed,” seemed like the best opener. If her welcomers had weapons, “Please don’t shoot,” would make a good follow-up.

She had three avenues for her identity. The personal angle: she’d come to talk to Josephine Lee/Ao Tara about Synaxel because she was sick. The lottery application approach: she was a potential resident, and she wanted to ensure the station’s well-being. The double agent: she had worked for US intelligence, but she’d swallowed the Machinehood’s pills and wanted to help their cause. Which one she chose would depend on how the station residents approached her.

She reread Josephine Lee’s journal entries and resignation letter. She played out each of her options until she lost track of the branches. With little information about Ao Tara, her family, or anyone else on the station, Welga’s imagination had no constraints. Too many possibilities made for an exercise in fiction, not strategy.

She spoke out loud for a while to have some sensory input, but her throat grew raw, and wasting water to talk to herself was stupid. She found creative ways to arrange her body so that she could almost stretch her legs from time to time. With the general stellas down, she had no chance to research and prepare for life in space. Circulation seemed like it would be a problem. Someone had probably invented pills for that, but she wouldn’t know until she arrived at Eko-Yi.