Alastiar Reynolds

The transfer shuttle slid alongside the larger spacecraft, a single bubble drifting down the flank of a great scarred whale. Khouri and Thorn made their way to the rarely used flight deck, sealed the door behind them and then ordered some floodlights to be deployed. Fingers of light clawed along the hull, throwing the topology into exaggerated relief. The baroque transformations were queasily apparent — folds and whorls and acres of lizardlike scales — but there was no sign of any further damage.

‘Well?’ Thorn whispered. ‘What’s your assessment?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But one thing’s for sure. Normally we’d have heard from Ilia by now.’

Thorn nodded. ‘You think something catastrophic happened here, don’t you?’

‘We saw a battle, Thorn, or what looked like one. I can’t help jumping to conclusions.’