It renewed our heart to walk the corridors of the Dreaming City, to see the world the members of Muungano had built. The archways with sculptures of bronze-leaved trees. The stacked kraals. The courtyards and classrooms. This was the world we knew, all we knew. There were worlds, perhaps whole galaxies, now open to us. That we longed to explore. The burden of leadership would trap us here. We never wanted to think of our home as a cage. Home. Music. Exploration. The usual pull of a young person’s heart. Whatever our decision would determine the next several decades of our life, and no matter which profound journey we would embark on, we wanted assurance from the Universe that we were on the right path.

Without thinking about it, our footsteps took us to the library. The meeting place of the Ijo. In the central chamber, Maulana sat. His chair enclosed him, a protective shell. Its tiered metal disguised armaments as art. Weapons casings, detonated ordnance scraps, the discards of war repurposed and reshaped into his seat. Even the rich draperies were canvas heat shields from low-atmosphere, suborbital jumps with netting as overlay. He shifted in his seat, a series of holovids and displays all about him. Too much visual data for an unaided human brain to take in. To our knowledge, he did not have a griot’s crown or any other cybernetic enhancement. He simply enjoyed the ambiance of knowing as much as possible.

“Habari gani?” Maulana nodded without glancing over.

“Nia,” we said. “We question our purpose.”

“Have a seat, then. Maybe I can provide some clarity.” Maulana turned his attention from his monitors. Sleep had eluded him, perhaps for days. He had that way about him when he was in one of his manic periods. Chasing down reports monitoring communications, searching for details he would know only once he found them. “I grieve the loss of Xola.”

“We know. We all do.”

“But someone must take his place.”

“That’s what we came here to discuss.”

Maulana stared across the room, his attention focused on whatever dust mote, light reflection, or fleeting sound only he heard. “I’m sorry. I’m a little distracted. I was going over some files related to your father.”

“Which ones?”

“All of them.” Maulana stretched within the confines of his chair.

“What do you mean ‘all of—’”

“Medical history. Autopsy report. Political uprisings in Bronzeville. Briefings. Genestream analysis. Communiqués. Correspondence. Calendar. Movements.”

“Hold up, genestreams are proprietary,” we say.

“I have clearance. And I wanted to know if there were any deviations.”

“In his locked genetic sequence?”

“Drift could happen. And there were some irregularities.”

“Such as?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out. Which is why I reached out to Titan. Thing is, they recently ran across a similar kind of drift case.”