In abyss, a ship of bone sails on fusion tail. Faint ultraviolet radiates behind the Spire, eight kilometers long, and studded with protuberant faces. 
There are no apertures leading in, for the bone itself morphs to the needs of the crew. Strange arteries and pockets amid the osteoform shift gradually. At the helm, the captain observes the far dark. They cannot see much but the faint light of the nearest galaxy, half a billion years away as light travels. All folk on the Spire exist in slow-time. Conscious experience playing out as seconds over millennia. The sole exception being the Astrologer, connected by dendritic folds to every corner of the spire, who peers the invisible currents and charts a course across the void. 
In this great abyss, growing as the universe races itself to oblivion, exist the traces of a premonition. The source of this ancient signal walks randomly in this unlit space between galaxies. This source, the Spires destination. 

And then the flash. Sometime between then and now, the cosmic microwave background itself trembles in fractillnial music as the Spire enters an impossible event horizon. 

The wreckage of vessels many times the size of the Spire appear as if from nothing. Coronal ejections blind the universe. That femto-second consciousness for the folks aboard the Wayfarer returns to sub-picosecond activations. The Mechanic coordinates Spiders and Crew into motion, osteosurface fractures appearing and closing as debris rip faces from the psychic-folk merged with the outer shell of the Spire. Ahead, the captain observes the great-bright, the second event-horizon prophesied by the message. From this white hole, kinfolk of the gravitational abstraction of the black hole, great waves of matter pour from an impossible faucet. 

In communion, the folk upon the Spire begin their operation. An operation which has been the sole-focus of their multi-billion-year voyage. Pincers grow and transpose the Spire into an oblong web-form with fusion flaring into the high-ultraviolet as they rotate and rotate, transform and rotate. The Astrologers mind opens to the psycho-form created in the chorus of psycher-folk bound to the osteoshell. Music of the spheres inverting and warbling as the Spire and all within leave our universe behind.

-Chiral Day, Excerpt from the Races with Indigo