‘We are in Bandati space,’ the Piri Reis declared. ‘On the edge of one of their colony systems. Analysis of current tach-traffic indicates they are aware of our presence. What appear to be a fleet of mining ships has departed in our direction from an outlying world. Would you like me to initiate an emergency broadcast to them?’

‘No, wait.’

What now, Dakota wondered? What now, indeed?

‘Call them,’ Corso mumbled from somewhere behind her. ‘We don’t have any choice. You heard the Piri. We don’t have enough supplies to stay alive. Not even if you dumped me overboard.’

There’s always the derelict, Dakota thought. It was out there, waiting for her. But it had been too badly damaged, and was now engaged in a long process of self-repair that might take months.

‘Call them,’ Dakota agreed after another moment’s hesitation. ‘Tell them it’s an emergency.’

Perhaps, she thought, it was enough just to be still alive.

For a hundred thousand years, throughout the Milky Way, creatures with eyes-or something that fulfilled the same function-would turn their faces up to the sky and see a new star burning brightly in the night, before it gradually began fading after a few days. The sight of that light would inspire wars and poetry and philosophies that would live for a thousand years more, long after the memory of the nova itself had passed on.

That same light would shine down on other worlds at far greater distances, even in other distant galaxies, and inspire curiosity and terror in equal parts.

In time, other stars would join it, blossoming and burning briefly all across the face of the Milky Way, like a fiery portent of doom.