“Of course,” Niko said. “You didn’t think we could just make off with one of the most expensive ships in the universe, did you? There are laws about that sort of thing, after all.”

Atlanta set her jaw. Consoling herself for her exile by imagining travel with Niko and her crew was a vision that had, very definitely, included the Thing.

“How does the ship feel about that?” she asked.

“The ship is programmed to belong to somebody. That’s simply how it is. That’s not something that Lolola’s chip changed. The personality’s different now, I’ll give you that. Takraven may find it quite a bit more obstreperous, perhaps. But it’s his ship. Bought and paid for.”

“Where will we find him?”

“I’ve been checking the feeds. Currently he’s at Magellan.”

“Why hasn’t he been in contact with us before?” she asked suspiciously.

“He has, it turns out. The IAPH blocks signals—for a while he thought the ship had been blown up at TwiceFar. When we came through Q-space and reappeared inside the Known Universe, the ship’s signal was reported. He’s sent a polite request for us to take the Thing to Magellan and drop it off—he’ll recompense us for the trouble.”

“Why is he being polite if he thinks we’ve stolen his ship?”

“He doesn’t. For all he knows, we found it. The station wasn’t destroyed entirely, but it’s rebuilding and things are chaotic there. I explained that he’d let us aboard the ship in order to flee and had himself died en route to it. That’s the truth, and a mind check will corroborate.”

Atlanta was still disgruntled.

She said as much to the ship, when she was alone in her room, or at least as alone as anyone could be inside a living being.

“This is how I am made,” the ship told her. “I belong to Arpat Takraven.”

“Why should you belong to anyone?” she demanded. “You are a sentient being. This is slavery, and slavery is outlawed in the Known Universe.”

“This is the law,” the ship said. It did not understand the question. Of course it had to belong to someone. It filed its reaction between confusion and bewilderment.

“You are programmed to believe that!”

“You are programmed too,” the ship said. “But your programming is more haphazard.” It paused. “I have learned new things from you and the others,” it said. “I have learned much more about emotions than I thought I would ever be able to. But I do not like sadness. It feels like there are things growing inside me that do not belong there.”

Atlanta leaned against the wall, putting her palm up against its solidity, and the throb of the blood circulating through it. She might be lost, she might not know who she was, but she could feel the ship and her own answering warmth.