“Ignore it,” Obwije said.
Three minutes later, the Wicked made the jump toward the Côte d’Ivoire station, leaving the Tarins and their ship behind.
“There it is,” Utley said, pointing out the window from the Côte d’Ivoire station. “You can barely see it.”
Obwije nodded but didn’t bother to look. The Wicked was his ship; even now, he knew exactly where it was.
The Wicked hung in the centre of a cube of space two klicks to a side. The ship had been towed there powered down; once the Wicked had switched into maintenance mode, its brain was turned off as a precautionary measure to keep it from talking to any other ships and infecting them with its mind-set. Confederation coders were even now rewriting ship brain software to make sure no more such conflicts would ever happen in other ships,
