“Wherever we find ourselves. To not forget that we depend on it and it has a place in our conversations. To find a way of being within nature.” Selamault considered herself the moon’s representative in the Ijo. The people of Muungano’s practice allowed the moon to own itself again: procured from the “original” O.E. settlers who chartered First World, to give it back to itself. The land was their ancestors’, giving the organs of its body to birth life. The current members of Muungano served more like stewards, a collective ownership, weaving together generations to make the space sacred. A safe container of relationship. Because they had only one another.

“You want nature’s version of how our funkentelechy works with technology. Our way of being powering how we move alongside the world.”

“Yes. You were quite the genius back in the day developing that.”

“‘Were’?” Xola arched an eyebrow.

“I suppose we can’t help but find our way to your favorite doorstep. Still, I don’t want it going to your head. It’s hard enough to deal with you most days.”

He really was, though. Xola loved going on about magic, how science was limited by assumptions that restricted inquiry. And that there was much people didn’t understand about consciousness. About being. He pioneered an entire technology around morphic resonance. Theorizing that previous structures of activity influenced subsequent similar structures by morphic fields. That even memories could pass across space and time. The more similar, the greater, the influence of morphic resonance. Which meant all self-organizing systems—from molecules to crystals to societies—had a collective memory that an individual could draw upon. Tapping into that memory allowed them to control the nanites via funkentelechy.

“Heh. I’m the devil you know.” The smile on his face faltered about the edges, and Xola rubbed his head.

“What is it? The headaches getting worse?”

“Yes. Though that might be more about LISC being a pain in my behind. I got them, O.E. Chamber of Commerce, and Bronzeville all reaching out since the bombing. The weight of it, the heightened tension everyone’s experiencing, leaves each person I talk to so … tight. It’s draining just being around them.”

“And your emi senses it. Reacts to it,” she said.

“I just need to get out of my own headspace for a bit.” Xola’s fingers waved in the air. He always drew or conducted or whatever he did to communicate with the thoughts whirling about in his head.

“Then join me in my meditation.”

“Does your meditation involve the practice of edibles?” His eyes still closed. Even if her eyes were closed, she would still recognize the grin in his voice.

“You know it doesn’t. That isn’t our way.”

“This would be strictly spiritual use, not medicinal.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“You always so serious. I love it.”

“I love you, too,” Selamault said.