Then they stopped moving. The room held only outlines suggestive of vast numbers, along with several piles of something organic. Then she felt them tearing. The changelings started removing her suit, in slashes and slices, tearing at the fabric with great delicacy, without her feeling so much as the brush of mandibles against her own shell. It was like being groomed by a colony of giant ants. Before the light on her helmet went out, she caught one glimpse of Photuris, still wrapped in her suit. It would have to be her.