In the ruined suite that had been the place where the human had lived, the security officer swivelled in the vacuum, surveying the wreckage the evacuating whirlwind of air had left. Human coverings; clothes, items of furniture, some complicated structures; models of some sort. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing of interest.’

‘Hmm,’ the ship said. Something about the tone communicated unease to the Commander. At the same moment, his weapons officer turned his suit to him. ‘Sir,’ he said. A light flicked on, picking out a metre-diameter circle of the ship’s hull. Its surface was riotously embellished and marked, covered in strange, sweeping designs. The weapons officer swept the light over nearby sections of the vessel’s curved hull. It was all the same, all of it covered with these curious, whorled patterns and motifs.

‘What?’ the Commander said, concerned now.

‘This . . . complexity,’ the weapons officer said, sounding perplexed.

‘Internal, too,’ the Culture ship broke in.

‘It . . .’ the weapons officer said, spluttering. His suit moved closer to the warship’s hull, until it was almost touching. ‘This will take for ever to scan!’ he said. ‘It goes down to the atomic level!’

‘What does?’ the Commander said sharply.

‘The ships have been baroqued, to use the technical term,’ the Culture ship said urbanely. ‘It was always a possibility.’ It made a sighing noise. ‘The vessels have been fractally inscribed with partially random, non-predictable designs using up a little less than one per cent of the mass of each craft. There is a chance that hidden in amongst that complexity will be independent security nano-devices which will activate at the same time as each ship’s main systems and which will require some additional coded reassurance that all is well, otherwise they will attempt to disable or even destroy the ship. These will have to be looked for. As your weapons officer says, the craft will each have to be scanned at least down to the level of individual atoms. I shall begin this task the instant I have completed the reprogramming of the base’s Mind. This will delay us, that’s all; the ships would have required scanning in any event, and in the meantime, nobody knows we’re here. You will have your war fleet in a matter of days rather than hours, Commander, but you will have it.’

The weapons officer’s space suit turned to face the Commander’s. The light illuminating the outlandish designs switched off. Somehow, from the way he performed these actions, the weapons officer conveyed a mood of scepticism and perhaps even disgust to the Commander.

‘Ka!’ the Commander said contemptuously, whirling away and heading back towards the airlock doors. He needed to wreck something. The accommodation section ought to provide articles which would be satisfying but unimportant. His personal guard swept after him, weapons ready.