The stars provoked a sharp inhalation, the Brucolac sitting up straighter. They were brighter, clearer than any heliograph he'd ever seen. He tensed at the progression from planet to stars to screens, one hand at his mouth. Nonplussed, briefly, before he understood how he was supposed to link each sight to the next, a silent observer to it all. For a moment, presented with the stars, he tried to make sense of them, see if he recognised any of their configurations—from his world, from this—but there was nothing in the shapes they spelt out that he could read. And the ship... His fingers squeezed Alyosha's shoulder tight. Was that the kind of thing she had been born on? A silent and lonely metal creature, driving through blackness?

"Fuck me pink," he muttered, rapt; delighted and apprehensive.