Just before another opening, the dakini grabbed a handhold and flipped them both, pushing Welga through feetfirst, then following the same way. They settled onto a tiled passageway, flat like a floor and five meters across. This corridor curved gently upward in both directions. A station resident moved past in a slow, balletic jog and stared at Welga, wary but not fearful. With fewer than five hundred residents, everyone probably knew each other by sight.

Welga chafed at her lack of data—no agent, no network access. The information she’d grabbed while on Earth didn’t include a station map. She’d get lost within minutes if she tried to escape and explore on her own.

Her room was behind an oval gray door, like every other they passed. An open container of metallic fluid sat alone in the center. The default-beige walls and floor made Welga dizzy, their blank surfaces interrupted only by safety handholds. The dakini held Welga still as the fluid began to burble and dance. Within an astonishingly short time, it had transformed into a sling-style cot with restraining straps.

The dakini looked amused at Welga’s reaction. “Microgravity smart-matter. Never seen it before?”

Welga shook her head, speechless.

The dakini laid her on the cot and strapped her down.

“My arms are going to fall asleep,” Welga protested. A tremor shook her left leg and caught the dakini’s attention for a split second.

“Not with your current weight, they won’t.”

“Can I have access to your network at least?”

This time the dakini laughed. “When Ao Tara thinks you’re ready, she’ll give you access. We’ll be watching over you, don’t worry.” They tossed a cloud of microdrones into the air.

Welga still wore her space suit, though it had powered down when the dakini removed the helmet. She sweated inside the suit, but cool air moved across her face. There—the ventilation grille blended with the floor color, too small to fit anything but a bot, not that she had any to deploy. Tremors rattled her legs and arms inside the suit.

“Por Qué,” she subvocalized, then, out loud, “Are my symptoms worse? I feel like they are. Christ, I’m tired of being alone!”

Por Qué answered, “I’m sorry, I do not understand your question.”

Of course not. This version of her agent lacked the context to make sense of Welga’s statement, which she’d made for the benefit of the people watching her. If the real Por Qué existed, she would have pestered Welga for another specialist consult. I miss you, my friend. The room shrank into a pinprick. Stars swirled around it as darkness filled Welga’s vision.

WELGA