They rented a "Sleep-Pod" on the lower levels of the station. It was essentially a coffin with a lock, meant for pilots who couldn't afford a hotel but didn't want to get mugged sleeping in the corridor.

  It smelled of ozone and industrial cleaner.

  "Luxury accommodations," Ford muttered, locking the heavy steel door behind them. "Don't touch the walls. I don't know what's growing on them."

  Sheila didn't complain. She sat on the narrow bunk, staring at her reflection in the polished metal of the door.

  "It works," Ford said, tossing his jacket on the floor. "The flannel covers the dress. The grease covers the complexion. We just need to..."

  "It's not enough," Sheila interrupted.

  She turned to him. Her eyes were hard.

  "The news report showed my face," she said. "My hair. My silhouette. If we walk past a high-res camera, the flannel won't matter. The AI will match my bone structure and hairline."

  Ford frowned. "Okay. So we keep the hat on."

  "No," Sheila said. She stood up. "We fix it."

  She held out her hand.

  "Give me your multi-tool."

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  Ford hesitated, then pulled the heavy tool from his belt. "It's got a laser cutter, a wrench, and a pair of wire snips. It's not exactly a salon kit."

  "It will do," Sheila said. "And I need engine dye. Black. Or grease. Whatever you have."

  Ford dug into his pack and produced a tube of industrial sealant paste. "It's black. It stains forever. It's meant for gasket leaks, not hair."

  "Perfect."

  Sheila walked to the tiny sink in the corner. She turned on the tap. The water was brown.

  She looked at herself in the cracked mirror one last time. The Princess Seraphina stared back—golden hair, perfect skin, terrified eyes.

  "Goodbye," she whispered.

  She grabbed the wire snips.

  Snip.

  A long lock of golden hair fell into the dirty sink.

  Ford watched in silence. He expected her to cry. He expected her to hesitate. But she attacked her hair with a grim determination. Great chunks of gold fell away, leaving a jagged, uneven mess that barely touched her collar.

  "Rugged," Ford commented. "Punk rock."

  Sheila didn't smile. She grabbed the tube of sealant. She squeezed the black goop into her hands and began massaging it into her scalp.

  It was brutal. It was messy. It probably burned.

  Ten minutes later, she washed it out.

  The girl who turned around wasn't Seraphina. Her hair was a jagged, raven-black chop that framed her face aggressively. With the grease on her cheek and the oversized shirt, she looked dangerous. She looked like she belonged in a sleep-pod.

  She looked like Carol.

  "Well?" she asked, wiping a smudge of black dye from her forehead.

  Ford stared at her. He saw the resemblance to his niece, yes. But mostly, he saw the steel in her spine. The Princess was gone.

  "You missed a spot," Ford said softly, pointing to her left ear.

  Sheila scrubbed it. "Better?"

  "Yeah," Ford smiled. "Now you look like a girl who knows how to kick a guy in the junk."

  Sheila looked at her reflection. She touched the jagged ends of her black hair.

  "Carol hates politics," she said, her voice dropping into a lower register. "Carol just wants to get off this rock."

  "Then let's get Carol some dinner," Ford said. "I think there's a vending machine down the hall that sells things that aren't dehydrated."