The swarm-component was perhaps ten metres in length, delicate sensors and neural conduits hidden beneath a series of tough plates streaked and pitted from centuries of microscopic impacts. That it was a Von Neumann machine, capable of endlessly replicating itself, was clear; isotopic measurements and analysis of its hull showed that the raw materials used to construct it had been drawn from asteroids and drifting interstellar bodies.

Since her arrival in the red giant’s vicinity, Dakota had discerned a variety of different types of component. Some appeared to act primarily as relays for transmissions within the body of the swarm, while others did nothing but carry out repairs on other components, either by manufacturing parts or breaking down older machines in order to construct new ones. Still more appeared to be scouts ranging far from the main body, perhaps in order to locate resources. The particular component Dakota had chosen to study was, she suspected, close to the end of its useful life.

She flexed her fingers, feeling the half-forgotten play of muscles, and realized that she wasn’t alone. She felt her skin freeze when the ghost stepped out from behind the component’s pitted bulk to regard her with calm grey eyes.

He wasn’t a true ghost, of course, merely a doppelgänger of her dead lover, Josef Marados, now made flesh from her own memories. A way, perhaps, for her increasingly rebellious subconscious to combat the growing loneliness of being so very far from home.

At least, that was the rational explanation.

‘This thing’s alive,’ he commented casually, as if picking up the thread of a conversation. ‘You know that, right? But it doesn’t seem to know we’re here.’

Dakota had a sudden vivid recollection of Josef’s bloodied corpse lying crumpled on the floor of his office on Mesa Verde. She hadn’t been to blame for his death, not really; at the time she’d been under the murderous control of Trader in Faecal Matter of Animals, an agent of the Shoal. He had exploited fatal weaknesses in her machine-head implants and turned her into his unwitting puppet. She knew this, and yet the guilt remained.

If I act like the ghost is real, then that means I really am crazy.

But she did, anyway. She couldn’t help herself.

‘I . . . I think, with some time and effort, I could use it to try and communicate with the rest of the swarm.’

The ghost laughed, eyeing her with a half-smile that suggested he saw through to the deep well of uncertainty at the core of her soul. ‘Time,’ he replied, ‘is the one thing you might not have.’