And how the androids, in turn, had slowly become more human-like as a result of their exposure, jerking away from their programming and protocols like creatures emerging from chrysalises. Megex swearing, Park remembered then, and Jimex telling her to run from Boone, and all of them learning from each other, exchanging data, knowledge, a kind of accelerated evolution happening right under everyone’s noses . . .

“I think because Taban has been so exposed to the unity rain, they look to him as a sort of leader,” she said. “Part-human, part-machine consciousness. And possibly even the unity rain responds differently to him, merging his ‘intention’ with the minds of others in a way that doesn’t make him—crazy. That might have been what happened to Holt as well as Keller. Taban wanted out, the unity rain merged their thoughts and experiences together, and Holt tried to let him out. And Hunter, too; Taban was controlling her, maybe unconsciously, so that she was trying to figure out a way to let him out from the bridge. She said that someone had told her to do it, but she couldn’t say who or when.”

“And then when the two of you experienced that gravity malfunction,” Sagara said slowly, “that might have been an effect of this . . . unity rain?”

Park nodded. “That, and a few other times I’ve been on the ship and lost my way. Or found that the hallways were rearranged. Like what happened to us during the blackout.”

Sagara regarded her; she couldn’t read his thoughts again. “Why didn’t you tell anybody?”

Park stared at him. “Would you have? I couldn’t even trust that it was really happening, not at first. I thought that I was tired. And with what was happening to everyone else, experiencing delusions didn’t seem like the ideal thing to talk about.”

Sagara snorted, but he made a gesture as if to tell her to proceed.

“It might have happened to Ellenex, too,” Park said. “The androids said, in very cryptic tones, that Ellenex tried to free Taban, and the ‘devil’—meaning Chanur—caught her and destroyed her for it.” She shook her head. “He has some other connection with the androids, too. Taban, I mean. They’ve formed some kind of mythology around him, incorporated his ‘dreams’ into their own databases and knowledge referentials. They call him the sleeping god.” She left out what they called her—and that they had apparently absorbed things from her dreams, too. “They become more sentient the longer this whole thing goes on. Maybe that’s why Natalya’s always wanted to get rid of them. She might have sensed it.”

“Natalya didn’t sense a damn thing,” Sagara answered dryly. “Neither did any of us—except you. She just hates the robots because most people hate them.”

“Why do people hate them, though?” Park asked, feeling stubborn. “What have they ever done to anybody?”

“They’re different,” he said. “That’s enough.”