The words didn’t come. Her head dropped as she tried to think of a reason, or argument. He would have known. They might not have accepted his argument but Fari would have known what to say. He always did, whereas she … Ray looked up, eyes misty. ‘I really—’ She stopped, swallowing tears. ‘This is everything I’ve wished for. I can’t imagine going back. I can’t. I mean it. I really want to do this. There’s got to be a way.’

‘Ah,’ Mesi said. ‘He’s here.’

She didn’t understand until she followed Mesi’s gaze. Twisting, there was Fari, locks alive and bouncing as he jogged, heels spitting sand, hotel lights surrounding him in aura. He was there, with her. She threw her arms around him, laughed. He squeezed her waist, pulling her into his warmth.

‘You’re not going anywhere without me. You’re not,’ he repeated, burying his head in her shoulder, useless words she could hardly hear falling from her mouth.

They released each other. The Nommo were smiling, seawater lapping at their calves, a tame beast.

‘The ancestors are pleased,’ Okoro said. ‘Now we must leave.’

They suited up, made a quick gear check and looked over each other’s. Ray kissed Fari roughly, feeling solid teeth behind lips, then pressed her head against his chest. The soft pounding made her smile. She squeezed harder.

‘Ready?’

‘We are,’ he told Ray.

They followed the Nommo into high tide. When it reached their chests they threw themselves forward, going under. Five metres down, Ray took Fari’s hand. They made their descent into the blue.

THE SANKOFA PRINCIPLE

Eighty seconds after the prototype WiSP1 drive came online, Mimas 4 blinked out of existence. Saturn probes searched the immediate region for traces of its arrival, macro or subatomic, yet found nothing. Ten years would pass before EASN2 finally declared the craft and its entire crew destroyed. What happened afterwards became the greatest occurrence in space exploration history.

A cylindrical shape just shy of sixty metres, a curved groove spiralling its length like a giant, headless screw. The surface, black as the expanse between galaxies, betrays equally unfathomable depths. Even when inoperative the drive is forever in motion, much like the human heart when the body is at rest. The WiSP never sleeps. It’s programmed to spin clockwise eternally, elegant and pure as a ballerina. The translucent liquid-cooled surface ripples with trapped artificial light. The machinery is practically noiseless until its true purpose is engaged. It’s mesmerising to see first-hand, believe me. The WiSP. Mimas’s lost soul.

Much of the story behind the WiSP’s creation is classified, which makes a detailed examination of its origins supremely difficult. Research undertaken leads to silence, unreturned calls, redacted or destroyed documents, university posts long vacated. Voids, if you will. It’s obviously all very apt. There’s a beginning, but no end. A call, but no response.