“How did you manage?”

  Torque’s voice shifted, but only slightly. This time he was quoting himself. “Minister, has your vision been altered or supplemented in any way? No? Then you should be aware that the standard spectrum of light perceived by humans does not include that which is emitted by burning hydrogen. If we have a hydrogen leak on Petasus Station, and if that leak were to ignite—which would also produce a negligible amount of heat—then you might easily blunder through an invisible cloud of raging fire. Terrestrial engineers once used brooms to detect such dangers. If the bristles of their brooms burst into flame, then they would know to stop walking in that direction. Did you happen to bring a broom with you, minister? No? Then please confine yourself to quarters until after the current situation has stabilized.”

  I laughed. So did Torque. His shoulders shifted in the way they always did when he was laughing. “Bravo! This station doesn’t leak hydrogen, though, does it?”

  “No,” Torque said, “and my eyes could see it if it really did happen.”

  “So what was wrong with the Hat?” I asked.

  “I established a direct connection and tried to ask them about it off-stream. All I heard in response was the keening wail of a consciousness whose fundamental assumptions had collapsed.”

  “That’s alarming.”

  “Yes,” Torque said. “All sorts of alarms continued to blare. None of them seemed to indicate a specific problem, like a hull breach or a solar storm. The Hat was simply freaking out—which was also unsafe, since they routinely make hundreds of thousands of micro-decisions every second to keep all station occupants alive.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “Are you sure it’s safe to keep Agatha’s body connected to an old station prone to sudden freak-outs?”

  “I’m sure,” Torque said, “because I figured out why the Hat was so upset. It was Crimson.”

  “The parrot?”

  “The parrot. He had gotten loose. The bird didn’t know how to fly in such fractional gravity. His unfamiliar flailing almost broke the Hat’s entire sense of pattern recognition. It looked like the bird had turned into a phoenix. Red feathers blazed like strontium chloride on fire. Yellow and blue wing tips seemed to burn as bright as barium and copper salts. Very unsettling.”

  “I imagine. What did you do?”

  “Caught the bird. Talked to the station. Soothed them both. Now the two of them are mutually fascinated. Crimson insists on perching near a console so he and the Hat can sneeze at each other.”

  “That’s adorable,” I said. “Petasus Station fell in love with a parrot.”

  Torque used to recite ancient flight transcripts verbatim, looping through the dialogue of long-dead astronauts over and over again. Now he could take a piece of his life that I’d missed and reshape it to be shared.

  He could tell stories.

  That was new.

  * * *

  Someone knocked on the hull of my ship.

  People needed to stop doing that.

  It sounded again, pounding and insistent. Torque and I searched for the knocker and found him standing on my hull astride the galley window, stamping with one boot.

  I hovered under the window and signed an aggressive question mark. The stompy trespasser ignored my sign, crouched down, and touched faceplate to windowpane. He had a bristling mustache.

  “That’s Minister Gar,” Torque whispered.

  The minister opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it.

  “Is there an emergency?” I demanded. “Is your life currently in danger?”

  “No,” he said.

  “It will be if you don’t get your boots off my ship.”

  Gar’s mustache stuck out like broom bristles in search of burning hydrogen. “Blasphemer, this is no longer your ship.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later I confronted Minister Gar and Director Zayas through the half-open hatch of my airlock. I kept the lower half raised as a boundary-setting measure, because neither Gar nor Zayas was welcome to board the Needle. Both of them stood inside the station. This arrangement made me feel like I was standing behind the counter of a food stall and the two of them had just ordered bowls of mushroom soup. I would have spit in Gar’s soup. I wasn’t yet sure about Zayas.

  Torque stood on my side of the hatch. Mag boots (or mag feet, in Torque’s case) kept all of us anchored in the absence of centrifugal gravity. The Hat had stopped spinning. I wondered why, but I had more important things to be angry about.

  The half-closed hatch turned out to be a power play in ways that I hadn’t anticipated, because Director Zayas was shorter than average. She clearly did not appreciate speaking over the rim of a door that stood level with her chin. I wasn’t willing to open it any farther, though. She seemed equally unwilling to release her mag-boot lock and float higher. Both of us were stubborn enough to spite ourselves just to make a point.

  Minister Gar was downright gleeful in comparison, which I found worrying.

  It turned out that the minister had been shepherding a few intrepid members of his flock across the outer hull. They had wanted a less mediated experience of sunlight than the one available to them on the Hat’s observation deck. That experience had been necessarily brief, because otherwise the pilgrims would have cooked inside their suits.

  On the way back they spotted Needle, and, despite the camouflaging paint, Gar had recognized the coffin for what it was.

  “Blasphemy and desecration,” he said cheerfully. “You attached a stolen funeral barge to your own ship. The entire ship is now forfeit. This combined craft must finish the procession that you interrupted.”

  I wondered if the situation would be better or worse if he knew that my deceased passenger was not the original occupant of that coffin. Probably worse. “You’re not going to throw my ship into the sun.”

  “I must,” he said.

  “Help?” I signed at Zayas. She caught my sign, but looked away rather than answering—probably still irked that I’d taken a potshot at Petasus rather than broadcasting my approach like an honest and sensible person.

  “Surrender your ship,” the minister said, “and surrender the robots aboard. They must be dumbed down, as Luna recommends.”

  I openly stared at him. “What?”

  “Don’t you listen to the news?” he asked.

  “Not usually, no. There’s too much of it.”

  The minister sighed loudly. “Are you aware of the Lunar shipyard collapse?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m aware.”

  Director Zayas cut in. “People are saying that bots might have been involved.”

  My own voice was void-cold. “I’ve also heard that slanderous rumor.”

  Zayas glanced at Torque. Her professionalism fractured just a little, tiny bit. She compensated by calling up a text stream and reading it verbatim. We stood close enough together to let me glimpse the backward scroll of flowing text inside her eyes. “The Lunar government has sent out a system-wide recommendation. Every autonomous bot should be reduced to subconscious levels of cognitive function until the investigation of the shipyard collapse has concluded.”

  Torque tilted his head a mere ten degrees.

  I quietly seethed. Mama Dee, what are you doing?

  The minister scratched his mustache. “We should comply immediately. The well-being of everyone on board this station depends on it.”

  “Not so fast,” Zayas told him. “The well-being of this station depends on the conscious judgment of the Hat themself. Reducing their consciousness would be dangerous and foolish.”

  “This station was recently compromised by the sight of a bird,” Gar pointed out. “Their conscious judgment is already suspect.”

  Zayas glared at him. “Lobotomizing the Hat would be a serious mistake.”

  Gar smiled. “Trusting our safety to erratic and distractible code is a much greater mistake.”

  Why is he smiling? asked Sparkles in my head.

  Because he thinks that he’s already won, I told her. I’m not sure why, though. Director Zayas is the one in charge here, and that seems to be a good thing.

  She’s still mad at you, Sparkles said.

  She also cares about Torque and the Hat. She doesn’t want them lobotomized.

  What would that do to me? she asked. To the real Agatha, I mean. Would her body finish shutting down?

  I won’t let that happen.

  The director and the minister continued to dig in.

  “This OS has reliably managed Petasus Station for centuries,” Zayas insisted. “They will continue to do so for as long as I’m still in command.”

  Gar paused to savor the moment. “Your command of Petasus Station will end tomorrow morning. The Ministry of Sol has purchased this place. The University of Mars accepted our offer. I gather that they needed to cut costs, and you must admit that many of the facilities here have languished unused. Now the station will flourish as a site of pilgrimage. All these negotiations were conducted openly by ansible, and are therefore part of the public record. You may review them if you wish.”

  Zayas said nothing. Her face was sculpture.

  “The transfer of authority will be finalized tomorrow,” Gar went on, “at which point command of Petasus will fall to me. All autonomous machines will be safely dumbed down, and the desecrated funeral barge will start its final journey. Everyone aboard the Needle should disembark before that happens.”

  Torque took my hand and squeezed, which was probably a wordless suggestion that I refrain from murdering the minister with my bare hands and teeth.

  Gar unlocked his boots. “Please excuse me,” he said. “There will be a reception and poetry reading tonight on the observation deck in celebration of Dame Muldoon. Captain Lir, you are welcome to attend.”

  He drifted away. I imagined that broomlike mustache catching fire from a burning cloud of hydrogen. Then I opened the rest of the hatch. “Coffee?”

  “What kind?” Zayas said.

  “Martian.”

  “That’ll do.” She clomped aboard the Needle.

  I closed the hatch behind her.

  The smell of coffee made me feel a little bit less murderous.

  Torque and Zayas checked in with each other. “You okay?” she asked.

  He shrugged with a precise raising and lowering of shoulders. “I’m suddenly unwelcome and endangered because Luna believes that all bots are rogue saboteurs, but otherwise I feel fine.”

  “That’s much worse than my problem,” Zayas acknowledged.

  “Feel free to vent anyway,” Torque said.

  “Thanks,” said Zayas. “I will. I took this post to direct research on solar storms, not manage a place of worship for sun-gazing cultists who come to fry their own retinae in search of plasma ghosts. I’m done here. I’ll resign just as soon as I finish this coffee. Which is excellent, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but can you maybe postpone quitting until tomorrow? Right now your command is the only thing protecting us.”

  “True,” Zayas said.

  “Would you consider letting us go?” I suggested. “Release the docking clamps while it’s still your call to make?”

  Zayas sipped from the coffee bulb. “I could,” she said, “but I’m not sure that I should. You arrived like a thief, shot at my station, and then somehow compelled both Torque and the Hat to help you in secret. Who are you? Pirate? Hacker? Grave robber? Witch?”

  “Flattering,” I said, “but I’m just a messenger.”

  She clearly didn’t believe me. “Torque, why did you let this ‘messenger’ sneak her way here?”

  “Because she raised me,” he said. “I spent my juvenile year aboard Needle.”

  “Oh,” Zayas said. “Why didn’t you tell me that your mother was coming to visit?”

  That word made me squirm, but I didn’t argue with it.

  Neither did Torque. “I didn’t know she was coming,” he said.

  Zayas turned back to me. “Why arrive unannounced?”

  “Occupational hazard. I’ve been targeted by messenger-killers.”

  “Doesn’t your guild protect you from that sort of thing?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Badly, but with the best of intentions.”

  “What about the grave robbing?”

  “That corpse wasn’t part of the funeral fleet. He was a fellow courier, already assassinated by the time I found him. Transporting the body is guild business now. I will gladly toss it sunward just as soon as our business is done.” Maybe even sooner. Keeping him aboard as a bargaining chip hadn’t worked out very well so far.

  Zayas pointed at the brig. “And who is she?”

  “The assassin who killed him,” I said.

  “Information containment specialist!” Daris corrected. “First class.”

  Zayas finished her coffee. She handed me the empty bulb. “I really, really want you off my station.”

  “That works out,” I said, “because I really want to leave.”

  “Torque?” she asked. “You can vouch for this disreputable dispatch rider?”

  “I can,” he said.

  “Do you want to go with her?” she asked.

  “I do,” he said. “Otherwise I might suffer a drastic cognitive reduction. I have also been invited to the moons of Mars for a play, and I’d like to attend.”

  “Then I’ll help you leave,” Zayas said. I started to thank her. She held up a hand to stop me. “But you also have to bring the Hat.”

  That made no sense. “I can’t steal a whole station.”

  “Not the station,” Zayas said. “The Hat. Take their central core away with you. The OS can leave behind a reduced copy to manage the basic functions of this place, which will technically follow the letter of those lunatic recommendations that Gar wants to enforce here.”

  I didn’t feel fantastic about squeezing the consciousness of a whole station into my little ship. “What does the Hat think about all this?”

  “I’ll ask.” Torque connected his palm to the console for hardwired, broadcast-avoiding conversation. “The Hat agrees. They would also prefer to avoid lobotomization.”

  “Okay, then.” I forced myself to acclimate to the idea.

  “The Hat won’t leave without Crimson, however,” Torque added.

  Director Zayas stifled a giggle.

  “No pets,” I said.

  “The Hat insists,” Torque said.

  “Baby bots have begged me for pets before now, but this ship isn’t big enough. Ferdinand reinforced my general policy.”

  Torque shrugged. “The Hat refuses to leave their post and leap into a terrifying and disembodied unknown without Crimson’s company.”

  “I don’t want to inhale floating blobs of bird shit on my ship!” I protested. “Or anywhere else, but especially not on my ship.”

  Zayas crossed her arms. “You would rather have this ship thrown into the sun?”

  I glared at her in silence, which she correctly interpreted as an admission of defeat. Parenthood apparently means taking a stand and then being ignored.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” Zayas said.

  “Where do I find this parrot?” I asked. “And how do I go about stealing a station’s data core?”

  “I’ll talk to Dame Muldoon about the parrot,” Zayas promised. “You should come to the poetry reading tonight. Accept Gar’s invitation. Give him another chance to gloat at you. Dress to impress, and be sure to wear that ridiculous hat. Then wait for further instructions. Good luck.” She left.

  Torque read my mood, stayed out of my way, and busied himself by examining Agatha’s diagnostic scans.

  I floated next to the brig.

  “Want to help me steal the brain of a space station?” I asked Daris.

  “No, thanks,” she said.

  “Suit yourself. I should probably cut you loose regardless. This ship might get incinerated tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t let me out.” Her words had a surprising amount of mass and weight.

  “Why not?”

  “It isn’t safe,” she said.

  I almost laughed. “Of course it isn’t safe! Your job is to silence me. Could you maybe set that professional obligation aside in emergency circumstances?”

  “Not necessarily, no.”

  She sounded close to panic, so I pitched my voice to soothe. “Okay. Then I won’t let you out.”

  * * *

  Zayas had said that I should dress to impress, so I convinced the fabricator to extrude a formal and anachronistic captain’s uniform.

  Torque took one look at me and gave a smart salute.

  I gave it right back. “At ease, sailor. Is there anything else from the station that you want me to bring away with you? Belongings? Souvenirs? This is your home.”

  “It used to be,” he said. “Earlier today. I’ll miss it, but I’m already carrying everything I own.” He patted the hollow compartment in his belly. “Just bring the Hat.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said. “Meanwhile, I don’t suppose that the station’s diagnostics have turned up anything useful?”

  Torque shook his head slowly. “Not yet.”

  “Not surprising. Take good care of Agatha, okay?” Please don’t let her body wake up and erase her. “You have the conn.”

  “I have the conn,” he acknowledged.

  Daris floated in the middle of the brig, calm and relaxed. All signs of panic had been carefully scrubbed away.

  “How do I look?” I asked her.

  “Like a captain,” she said. “Be careful out there.”

  “Copy that.” I adjusted my magnificent hat and took up the walking cane, which would become pointy if necessary. Who knew what sorts of bloody shenanigans might happen at a poetry reading full of sun cultists? Minister Gar seemed more puritanical than Dionysian, but one could never really tell.

  * * *

  The Hat used flickering corridor lights to guide me through the station. I floated from the inner docking ring to the solar observatory out on the brim, where a massive polarized window pointed directly at the sun. Maintaining that line of sight was probably why the station neglected to spin.