Okay, let’s play truthball. “I’m no longer a government officer or a shield agent. I quit. I have a possibly fatal synaptic condition, something related to my use of zips, and I have information that says one of your station’s residents might be able to help me.”

“Do you have proof of your disease?”

“Some of my medical data is public. You have my genetic records. I can’t prove my unemployment, but this spacecraft has no weapons. Neither do I. The cargo contains essential materials for your station. The rocket club that launched this vehicle called your people and arranged the delivery.”

The dakini nodded. “Yes. I have that information.”

They ended the call abruptly. Welga missed their face within seconds of her visual going blank. Human or dakini, that was the first intelligent conversation she’d had since launching. Get me the hell out of here! But they had to get to the station first. How had the dakini slowed her down? And how long would it take to bring her in? Welga had rationed her zips to last the expected time of the voyage plus six hours. Either she convinced them to help her or they’d kill her before her time ran out.

“Incoming call request,” Por Qué said.

“Accept!”

No visual came through this time. “I will escort you to the station.”

“How—”

“Call ended,” Por Qué interjected.

Welga growled in frustration. Acceleration nudged her into what she thought of as the back of the crate, where the straps could hold her. They had to dock slowly, but in the interval, she didn’t trust the dakini. She slipped into the restraints and locked them down.

The dakini had boosted them—manually, according to the rocket’s WAI—to one point five kilometers per second. They docked forty minutes later with a minor jolt. If and when she returned to Earth, Welga wanted a ride with a view.

She waited in the crate another hour until they moved it onto the station. This time, there was no bumping or swaying, only the silky-smooth ride of microgravity. She blinked and squinted against the harsh light of the cargo hold, her exit nearly as awkward as her entry.

“You’re moving fast,” the dakini said.

“I’m on zips almost constantly. It’s the only thing that helps my symptoms. It’s also probably what’s killing me.”

The dakini frowned as they pulled Welga’s arms back. They cuffed and bagged Welga’s hands, tied her ankles and knees together, then thrust Welga toward an oval hatch.