Fela’s position wasn’t much farther down the hallway. Just at the next junction. Keeping their heads down, the HOVA skulked through the hallways. They gambled that the shock of spotting them might buy them precious seconds to defend themselves. A peculiar light radiated along the shaft. Epyc Ro’s eyes struggled to adjust to it. The air thickened. The deeper they went into the structure, the less the air had been scrubbed. The tunnel opened up. Thick, cloying puddles collected in front of several chamber doors along a wide ledge that funneled the open air waste down the grating. The more chambers they passed, the more the air ripened with the rot of pressed meat. Each cell door they ran by reduced to an abattoir of interrogation. Epyc Ro could do little more than repress her abject horror. And her fear.

They reached the junction in a few minutes. Once Robin pointed to the correct cell, Epyc Ro and Ellis flanked either side of the door to prepare to breach. Setting some charges along the hinges and lock, Robin blew the door. Epyc Ro and Ellis breached the entrance before the smoke had a chance to clear.

The cell was empty.

16 AMACHI ADISA
The Dreaming City to the Citadel

You wake up stewing over the fact that no one explained the dress code for an Ijo security council briefing. And you’re cold. A chill runs down your calves and deep into your core, leaving you unable to get warm no matter the layers of blankets nor Maya controlling the room temperature. Your muscles ache, and you hurt all over with a distant, dull soreness. Your body groans, your joints grinding together like ill-fitting stones as you decide to push through until you feel normal again. Self-conscious of your fashion choice, you keep to the edges of the chambers.

Perhaps a strapless dress with a nanomesh overlay, its pattern a series of textiles, might be an eye-catching outfit. But it doesn’t inspire the serious note you now realize you want. No one would take you seriously. Still, you had to carve your own way forward. The sun sank below the moon’s ridgeline, its rays yellow and orange through the filter screens of the observation glass. The filter along the outer dome dimmed to imitate twilight; the refracted illumination lit the central stage. You pass Jaha, whose casual down-her-nose glance causes you to tug the hem of your dress to make sure you hadn’t left anything unintentionally exposed. You hurry to take your seat.

The amiable chatter of the gathered crowd draws down as Maulana prepares to call the meeting to order. He moves with such natural gravitas, even the elders shift as if intimidated. With an uptick of his chin, he chants the words as if reciting a poem. “Habari gani?”

“Umoja!” the council responds in unison and takes their seats.