The AI grunted and a moment later the door slid open. Callie had her usual moment of disorientation. The security chief, Warwick, kept her workstation on the “ceiling” – if you thought the direction of increasing numbers in the Spoke corresponded to “up,” anyway, as most people unconsciously did. The inverted workspace was probably another way to disorient visitors, though the one time Callie had expressed admiration for the tactic, Warwick had responded with a show of courteous bafflement at the suggestion.

Callie spun herself into the right orientation as she came through the door and got her feet locked onto the “floor.” Warwick was completely bald, without even eyebrows, and had a tattoo that resembled a labyrinth on her scalp. The tattoo was stark white against her very dark skin, and Callie knew that in the darkness the lines glowed like phosphorous, unless Warwick didn’t want them to. The security chief was working at a standing desk, flipping through screens of info on two different tablets. “I hear you brought an undocumented refugee onto my station,” Warwick said without looking up.

“She’s plenty documented. Present in the historical record and everything. She was on a goldilocks ship in cryosleep. The crew’s xenobiologist.”

“A xenobiologist from a time before we met aliens, which is a little like being a mechanic before we invented steam engines. Is she planning on staying on my station?”

“We’re probably taking her to the Imperative. Ganymede maybe. More opportunities for her there. She hasn’t decided what she wants to do yet.” Callie shrugged. “I gather it’s a little disorienting.”

Warwick shook her head. “Her goldilocks ship never even made it out of the system, huh? That’s a tough break. Like if Magellan’s ship had sunk right off the coast of Seville instead of circumnavigating the Earth. This Doctor Oh was the only survivor?”

“We didn’t find anyone alive in the other pods, no.” Warwick was good at spotting lies, so Callie stuck with the technically true. She wasn’t about to share Elena’s whole harrowing tale. Warwick was a professional, and Callie liked her, but the chief’s loyalty to the TNA was absolute, and if she knew about the bridge generator, she’d find some quasi-legal pretext to seize the device. (Quasi-legal pretexts were easier to come by when the CEO and board members who drafted the local laws were just a hundred and fifty floors away.)

Warwick nodded. “Those ancient ships, it’s amazing there was even one survivor. She’ll get invited to a lot of parties in the Imperative, though. They love a living conversation piece.” She glanced up from the tablet. “There, we small talked. Bonds of friendship once again reaffirmed, and I didn’t even get a hangover like last time. What can I do for you, Callie?”