“I pledged myself to be at your side, not in Maulana’s leadership circle. Besides, this is no longer the Muungano I know. And I fear it will be even less recognizable as time moves on.”

“We don’t know what we’re getting into.” People passed by, close but not bumping into us. We want her to grab our hand, draw us into an embrace and hold us in the Dreaming City.

Jaha rubbed our back. “Where you go, I go.”

We glanced about the docking bay one last time. Inhaling sharply, we boarded the Saqqara, bound for wherever it was heading. The ship wasn’t as crowded. The tension of the past few weeks had dampened the spirit of travel. Especially away from the Dreaming City. We were able to secure the seats near the rear of the Saqqara. The closest passengers to us were several rows ahead.

“We have a long trip ahead of us. What do you want to do first?” we asked.

“Let me tell you a story.” Jaha engaged a virtual imaging womb. The hard light sealed off our row, and it appeared as if the two of us sat around a campfire. “Each word in its place; none forgotten. The order is sacred, exactly as I once heard it…”

29 AMACHI ADISA
Mars

Your last conscious memory was your Saqqara plunging into a crater. You can only surmise that it and you are now buried deep within it. Your ship has twisted into a sarcophagus of crumpled molybdenum and carbon nanotubes around you. All consciousness brought for you was the press of darkness and pain so ubiquitous you didn’t know where it ended and you began. You know your life ebbs from you in uncounted trickles. Clawing to stay awake, you are desperate not to be drawn into the all-consuming darkness awaiting you. Too wounded to move, you can no longer feel your toes. In your mind, your fingernails rake against the encroaching darkness that you slowly slide into. A part of you already knows and begins to accept that you’re fated to die here. Cold and alone.

You don’t quite make it back to consciousness. Your mind—maybe not even it, perhaps only a corner of your emi—becomes aware that hands unwind metal, creating just enough room to free you from the jutting struts pinning you. Those same hands gently lift you from the wreckage. They examine your wounds, checking the extent of your injuries. Your breath comes in thin gasps. You don’t know how much air you have left. Fitting a mask over your face, the hands slough you onto a board of some sort. A cool spray of air washes over you. You inhale sharply; the exertion wears you out. You recall the sensation of being dragged as the night calls to you again.