She leaned forward till she was inches away, so close that Atlanta could see the fine striations of each white feather and notice the sharp point that Milly’s beak came to. She thought, That’s as much a bioweapon as I carried, but they didn’t bother to remove hers. That might’ve been a failure in strategy on the part of the pirates. She dropped her eyes in answer to the implicit threat.

Turo returned with a plain gray survival suit draped over each arm. He handed them to the women. Milly slipped off her clothing easily and put it on. Atlanta took longer to follow her example until Turo pointedly turned his back and stared into the corner. The drones, however, continued to hover in the air, the black rounds of their lenses fixed like insect eyes on her.

The suit was new and smelled of chemicals. Its folds were stiff as though it had sat in its packaging for a long time. It was hard pulling the stretchy cuffs over her injured hands.

“Don’t we get weapons?” Milly asked.

Turo snorted. “Fall into step behind me and try to look like you belong here. Swagger like a pirate.” He watched as Atlanta tried a few experimental steps, trying to inject bellicose amiability into her stance. “I’ve changed my mind. Don’t swagger. Just walk normally. So they don’t think you’re some sort of malfunctioning robot.”

The path they took to the Thing was not in any way the same as the one they had taken when being brought to see Tubal Last. Atlanta wondered if the first route had been designed to confuse them. It certainly seemed much longer. This time they went through a series of clear-walled tunnels, some of which went into larger structures, so she could see the inhabitants at work or entertaining themselves. Her impression was that the pirates were a somnolent lot; few seemed to be doing much other than sitting around watching screens or playing games on them.

She supposed that made sense. Pirate life probably was bursts of wild activity followed by a lot of downtime while you waited for new prey to come around.

More corridors, pebbled in faded amber and cinnamon. Finally they came to the bay where the Thing hung, racked with a dozen other ships. The gravity here was almost nil, making Atlanta stagger, but she followed in the wake of the others toward the span that stretched out to reach the Thing’s entry bay, currently connected by a netting of metallic cables.

There was no guard on the span, but Turo waved up at someone a few levels above them. “Guard,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re lucky we’re shorthanded right now, with most of the workships out.”