When they arrive, the voice of Sigutolo will become a chorus. It will form a building crescendo stemming from the thrum of heating, the rattle of lift-shaft pulleys, the reactivation of bots on every deck, a collective tick of CPUs, the shift of a machine army large and small, from standby to functional, all over the craft. The final whoosh of rushing wind, the air needed to breathe, before the mechanised, stuttering whine of a thousand pod doors. The hiss, beeps, chatter and wails, the calls of joy or fear. The ship will return to life as the Ancient Kemetians once believed they could, yet this belief is not in vain, not with AMA, their mechanical God, watching over all. The Sigutolo will exhale like a newborn and burst into a song designed by long-dead architects. The brilliant white light of an alien star will flood its windows and align with their music. A new composition will begin.

NOMMO

Blue hurt Ray’s eyes. Stung them into submission. She gave up searching clouds to stare at her bare toes instead, the background of glittering sand dulled by her length of shadow. Fari’s warmth enveloped her. He smelt of Armani mixed with the tang of aloe vera he used after shaving. Just above her shoulder blades, Ray felt the delicate thud of his heart.

‘Silly.’

‘What?’ She allowed her head to fall backwards for a kiss, leaning deep into his solid weight, touched his ear and brought him close for another.

‘Wear your glasses. OK? The sun’s too high.’

‘OK.’

She drew out the word like her stubborn defiance, pulling the sunglasses from between the crevice of her wetsuit, one emaciated arm folded against her sports bra. She put them on, but it really wasn’t the same. The gentle sea was cast dirt-brown just like everything else. The fauna of blue and red parasols, sun loungers stretched beneath them like thick white roots. The quartet of kids wielding spades, hunched around a deepening hole, thin rainbows of sand arcing behind them. A couple strolling on the beach, her blonde hair trailing down to pitching bikini bottoms, him baseball-capped, wide bare deltoids, Bermuda shorts, flip flops. The constant ambient white noise, shrieks and clinking bottles, tourists’ chatter, a shifting tide and far-away treble of Soca giving Ray the sensation of being outside herself, analysing how it felt to revel in the moment. It burned her worse than reflected light on water. She tasted salt, focusing on sand darkened with a tint of brown.

‘I wanted to see it with my own eyes.’

Her pout was unconscious. She caught herself, couldn’t retract it.

‘I know, babe. I know.’

The rumble of his voice and the vibration against her skull made Ray close her eyes. She wanted him to scold her petulance, listening to the thought. She was doing it again. She rubbed his hand with the heel of hers, gripping it tight.

‘Thank you.’

‘Come on. I love you.’