It seems like Kern has always been on the ship.
In the fleet he’s come to see a purposefulness—whatever it is that they desire, they desire it absolutely, and it has, he is sure, nothing to do with him. In this, somehow, they’re good company. He imagines them racing forever over the seas, circling the world.
He studies the sea from the shade of the missile pods, bathes in the pools in the deck’s declivities, sleeps for hours in the sun. At dusk he sits on the sloping prow, his hands just visible in the slight luminance of the bow wave, watching for the lights of other ships. Akemi never speaks, but he feels that she’s present.
He tries to find his GPS, but just gets an error message—CODE 391—TELEMETRY IRRECONCILABLE.
When the sun sets he lies on the deck, taking in its fading heat, ear pressed to the nubbled black ceramic, listening to the subtle harmonics of the hull. The sound varies, slightly, from minute to minute, like it’s the ship’s song, one of hunger, distance, hatred, mourning.