“Aw, nah, baby,” Jaha says. “This ain’t going to be done your way. This is a Griot Circle issue. My area. However you choose to participate in this you’d better work out.”

You have no idea how long you were asleep. Out the observation window, the stars have barely moved. Not that you could tell much without Maya’s astrometric assistance. Your Saqqara blasts on a course to the Citadel, the capital of the asteroid belt of the Oyigiyigi. You unravel a thick braid and slowly re-braid it. You check your harnesses and adjust the seals along your phase suit, wishing you’d been issued a military-grade meshsuit since, under Maulana’s jurisdiction, this mission is technically on their behalf. The suits functioned not too differently from the nanomesh the HOVA use, acting as both a filtering system and interface with the outer carapace of the navsuit. Together they generated a field that interacted with Oyigiyigi’s field to better simulate gravity, working in a way, as you understand it, analogous to magnets. Your seat squeaks when you shift positions, drawing Ishant’s attention.

Many in the Ijo speak of the cultural attaché as if he were cut from the same bolt of cloth as Jaha, but you don’t see it. He lacks her presence and gravitas. People snap to attention like they served in the HOVA when she enters a room. Ishant’s easy to overlook. Even dismiss.

Still, you can’t help but feel a little … Scared is perhaps too strong a word. He’s had formal education from universities all over O.E., and compared to him, you have just bounced around the streets of the Belts with nothing sticking. Until you arrived at the Dreaming City, you were raised by or taking care of broken people. It took running away from your family and making your way to Muungano to even realize that your life mattered.

“I was surprised you were able to sleep.” Ishant adjusts the lighting level back to nominal. Many lights illuminate the instrument panel. Ishant’s fingers dance along them like a well-trained octopus. “Most people take awhile to adjust to phase suits.”

“They weren’t designed for comfort, but I’ve slept in worse conditions.” You already resent the sound of his voice. He presumes you some pampered one-percenter. That’s how many perceived the founding families of the Ijo. The Adisas. You. “I’ll appreciate them more when walking about Nguni.”

“Have you been before?” He ran his cybernetic arm through his white-streaked black hair.

“I haven’t had the chance.”

“They call it the Citadel.” He summons a series of holovid data streams and slides them over to you.