The Muungano empire strived and struggled to form a utopia when they split away from old earth… In the fire to come they will face down their greatest struggle yet.
We’re thrilled to share an excerpt of Sweep of Stars, the first volume of a powerful Afrofuturist space opera trilogy by Maurice Broaddus—available now from Tor Books, with a brand new paperback edition coming on February 28!
Please enjoy the second chapter of Sweep of Stars below. (Chapter one can be found here.)
“The beauty in blackness is its ability to transform. Like energy we are neither created nor destroyed, though many try.” —West African Proverb
The Muungano empire strived and struggled to form a utopia when they split away from old earth. Freeing themselves from the endless wars and oppression of their home planet in order to shape their own futures and create a far-reaching coalition of city-states that stretched from Earth and Mars to Titan.
With the wisdom of their ancestors, the leadership of their elders, the power and vision of their scientists and warriors they charted a course to a better future. But the old powers could not allow them to thrive and have now set in motion new plots to destroy all that they’ve built.
In the fire to come they will face down their greatest struggle yet.
Amachi Adisa and other young leaders will contend with each other for the power to galvanize their people and chart the next course for the empire.
Fela Buhari and her elite unit will take the fight to regions not seen by human eyes, but no training will be enough to bring them all home.
Stacia Chikeke, captain of the starship Cypher, will face down enemies across the stars, and within her own vessel, as she searches for the answers that could save them all.
2
JAHA DIMKA
The Muungano Embassy on (Original) Earth
“A storyteller is a master strategist. A skilled griot sees people as characters, participants in a tale. They apply motives and goals to people, because stories are driven by them. They police Muungano by confronting our members with reminders of who they are, who we are, and pointing them to the future of what we hope to become.”
Jaha Dimka fastened a red, black, and green head wrap into place, tucking the escaping stray curls underneath. No one would ever see her without her head being covered, be it by hat, scarf, or artificial hairpiece. She fitted an octopus-shaped headband, which matched her chakram necklace, over her hair before binding it. Metallic-green eye shadow framed a black kohl-rimmed eye, highlighted against her bronze complexion. Leaning back in her chair, she listened for a response from her cultural attaché. Thin lines framed the fierce set of her jaw.
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“Mm-hmm,” he said to acknowledge her statement. A slight huffiness to his tone, an intimated impatience since he waited on the other side of the fashioned screen.
As was her habit, Jaha was the first to arrive at the embassy. Because she leapt immediately into her work, she hadn’t changed into anything formal. In short, she hadn’t done her hair. And her cultural attaché would just have to wait until she was ready. Jaha numbered among the oldest of Muungano’s members. People often asked when she planned on retiring, which she took as her cue to inform them that she was living with intentionality and there was no retiring from that except by death. Back in the day, when the community being formed was still called First World, legendary cofounder Astra Black had been her mentor.
She drew her robes, which were the Legba colors of griots—black with red sleeves—tighter around her with a green sash. A collar with a near-metallic sheen extended up high along her neck. Once she was satisfied, Jaha dropped the nanotech curtain. The array dissolved into an umber puddle, which skirted over to her to wrap itself about her, the nanomesh forming along her like a second skin.
Ishant Sangsuwangul stood revealed on the other side, a smirk of bemused indifference plastered on his face. Without a word, he walked over to the workstation adjacent to her. He’d kept his back to her. He hadn’t bothered to give her a greeting, no “I see you” nor a hand clasp. Though young, he sported a premature streak of white in his hair. With his short, lithe figure, he wore a tight-fitting shirt and, if possible, tighter-fitting pants, which was all the fashion rage on Original Earth. His outfit casually displayed his thin muscles. It annoyed Jaha’s fashion sensibilities, but the elder wouldn’t begrudge the young their poor fashion choices as long as they retained some semblance of cultural decorum.
The Legacy of Alexandria was the hub of the O.E. Muungano embassy. They dubbed the room that because the Muungano physical library was housed there. Shelves lined every wall space, filled with books. Every nook filled with hand-carved masks or figurines. Jaha loved the look and feel of actual books. She labored in the shadow of the largest collection of Third World Press first editions. Even though it also meant that she had to suffer through Camara Xola’s “The hegemony of text is dead” rants whenever he visited.
“What’s the first lesson of the griot?” Jaha raised her voice as if he hadn’t heard her the first time. Young people benefited from being constantly tested. It taught them to always be ready.
“When you see a challenge in your community, you are already in the best position to help solve it.” Ishant sighed. “That was never the question. I already believed the philosophies of Muungano and what it was about. That when we all prosper, we all grow together. It was a dream I hadn’t figured out the language for.”
A brace at the shoulder wrapped around his torso, framing his left arm. A cybernetic arm sheathed in bioplastic, it allowed him to plug into AI and other tech systems. Ishant was a streamer, jacking into the data streams for pleasure. Young people were going to young people, Jaha had long ago concluded as she could not wrap her head around sensate culture. Jaha wouldn’t allow him to jack in around her. “We don’t have to get the language right. It changes because Muungano is a continuing experiment.”
“My issue is how. How to use stories to correct and push people.”
“What I’m saying is that we do it all the time.” Jaha strode over to him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “What’s really bothering you? I can feel an ill energy all over your emi.”
Ishant avoided making eye contact with her, instead focusing on his tasks. With his features and light complexion, he could pass for a mzungu. Speaking in a clipped manner and often half snorting at his own jokes, his prim mouth was framed by a thin ash of stubble. With his slight build, she suspected a sudden strong gust could topple him. “How can I be expected to become a griot when I still get treated as an obroni by some?”
“Some call any who aren’t Ugenini, Asili, or Maroon outsiders. It doesn’t matter. It’s the nature of humanity to latch on to differences. Still, that goes against the Muungano way. All are and should feel welcome, or else we are failing our own ideal. What matters is if you are steeped in the culture and understand the nature of the work. We encourage our people to always find someone who doesn’t look like them or think like them. It’s how we grow our perspective. The tension of not agreeing is where creativity is sparked.”
Jaha understood the root of his insecurity but, more important, appreciated that he kept asking the right questions. Ishant had followed a strange path to Muungano membership, the journey of the outsider. Born in Thailand, he studied dance and regenerative economics in what remained of California, after the coastal reshaping by what was now politely referred to as “climate terraforming.” It was there that he joined the Liberation Investment Support Cooperative, the corporate entity running the O.E. government, just as they decided it was fitting to move the nation’s capital inland to Indianapolis, since its layout mirrored Washington, D.C.’s. While no longer the arable breadbasket of the world, the Midwest was still relatively stable.
Afterward, Ishant returned to his homeland, where he worked in his family’s restaurant until he figured out what his next move would be. Ishant didn’t have the language for the hole he felt in his emi, which led him to join LISC Corps, LISC’s volunteer civil organization. It steered committed members toward public service and helping others, with their stated goal of “meeting the critical needs in the community.”
The fact that LISC worked so hard to mimic the language of Muungano always amused Jaha.
LISC Corps assigned Ishant to the Thema Academy as a community ambassador. He worked alongside their students, gradually shifting more and more into Muungano space and culture until he formally applied to the academy’s equity fellows program. For the last eight years, he worked there, rising to become Jaha’s right-hand person.
“Today’s Leah’s Naming Ceremony. We should send notice if we are not planning to attend,” he said.
“I have trained that girl since she could raise a chakram. We’ll make it, but we still have a job to do.”
With a shimmer and a sigh, the wall behind them shifted, its very components seeming to blink out as an opening formed. Lij Matata Okoro stepped through. His breastplate joined together in ceremonial vestments. The gold band of his chakram laid flat in a circle about his neck, ready to become a bladed weapon at his touch. His jacket glimmered in the light, black with an iridescent quality. A Basotho blanket slung across his shoulder like a kaross, embroidered with the sacred triangles of Alkebulan. His head shaved on the sides, though the top appeared carved with geometric precision. The personal shield for the personal shields of the governing family.
“Get back!” He stationed himself between Jaha and the window.
“Aw, nah, baby, I’m not going anywhere.” Jaha’s voice rang sweet as a steel baton to the head, more irritated than alarmed.
“It’s a security issue.” Matata held his arm out.
“I realize that you are the Lij of this unit, but I’m the security head.”
“Former.”
Jaha was Nyamakalaw of the Griot Circle. She had made the circle her own, though her singular voice still directed much of its day-to-day operations (because the words forever honored or retired meant nothing to her). What impressed her about Matata was that, to him, his answer was always the right answer. When he ran toward a wall, he committed at full tilt. She expected the young to show their ass on occasion. That was simply what they did and how they learned. Only once he smacked into the wall would she give her input. Part of her striving to remain relevant as an elder was simply wanting to share her thoughts and have them received by young people. Both sides had to remain in a posture of learning.
“Look into my eyes.” Jaha stepped toward him with a quiet air of menace. “Do you see anything in there that reads ‘former’?”
“No.” Lij Matata’s face remained resolute, but his demeanor softened, stepping aside for her experience.
Jaha granted him a measure of grace since technically she was no longer Ras of the Niyabinghi. But she was now head of the Griot Circle, Muungano’s domestic security, which still afforded her experience he could benefit from. “What’s the situation?”
“There’s been an encroachment on our security perimeter.” Lij Matata continued to scan the room.
“What kind of… encroachment?” Jaha tired of trailing him like she was his harried assistant.
“Armed protestors. There’ve been reports of weapons fire.” Lij Matata nodded toward the window.
Several figures wearing light-scattering masks designed to defeat facial recognition algorithm stormed about. Some toted phase EMP carronades. The International District of Indianapolis originally was once the side of town that suffered from the benign neglect of city officials. Property values plummeted, and immigrants moved in. And flourished. Through LISC, the city found money enough to rebrand the area the International District. This grew into the International Marketplace, which soon housed several embassies once the nation’s capital shifted to the booming metropolis.
“You want me to get all worked up because folks are protesting?” Jaha stationed herself at the window’s edge to better take in the scene. “What are they protesting this week? Our taking in more O.E. refugees? Our not accepting their latest currency exchange? Our existence?”
“That’s… not clear yet. But their numbers are increasing.” Lij Matata angled his head toward her, the way an unsure actor new to the stage might.
“Threat assessment?”
“The situation is still fluid. Uncertain. Security protocol red is in effect. It may be best for you to make a… diplomatic withdrawal.” Matata paused, attempting to dance around his own suggestion. “Maybe even head back to the Dreaming City.”
“You may want to check my eyes again to see if they are in the habit of anything close to any kind of… withdrawal.” Jaha hard-eyed the man, staring him up and down to take his measure. “We have a standard deployment of Niyabinghi?”
“Yes.” Lij Matata snapped to attention.
“Then with any escalation of any kind, we dig in and keep an eye on their movements. Give O.E.—well, LISC—one hour to handle this. Then we do what we do.” She softened, since her aim wasn’t to humiliate or demean him. “With your people stationed here, we should be as secure as if we were at the Dreaming City.”
His shoulders relaxing, Lij Matata appeared relieved, the tension of holding his breath while dealing with her leaving him. “That’s good to hear.”
“The Niyabinghi should be visible, however. As a deterrent to any… unnecessary antics on anyone’s part.”
“Understood.” Lij Matata gestured to his contingent, who deployed down each hallway before the door resealed itself. “Nanny fe Queen.”
“Nanny fe Queen.” Jaha waited several heartbeats as if not wanting to be interrupted again. Part of her missed when she was once a Lij and the uncomfortable tension of watching this new generation of young people run forward with the work.
“Ishant, come over here.” Jaha strode to the nearest window. “You got them young eyes. What do you see?”
After all of her genmods, her eyes were as sharp as anyone’s. Still, Ishant approached the window with a put-upon sniff, as if suspecting another test. It was. His travels gave him a valuable global perspective on what was happening around the world and an appreciation of the power of community. How people who cared about one another worked together.
“Maybe fifty protestors. Lots of noise. Any weapons fire is aimed at the sky. Probably at drones.” Ishant cocked his head as if momentarily caught in an information loop. Jaha wondered if he was streaming, but he snapped back as if he’d concluded his analysis.
“There are a lot of people who want to bring Muungano down. I daresay from within as well as without. No advance rumblings of this assembly?” she asked.
“Not any chatter from any of my sources.”
“Let’s see if you’ve been paying attention.” Jaha clasped her hands behind her back. “There are protests outside embassies all over the world. What tells you if we have a growing security threat?”
“Organization.” Ishant closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as he was trained, allowing his mind to reach out, search his emi. “This feels too coordinated to be random, but they haven’t named themselves or their cause. All important characters in a story name themselves.”
“Or are named,” Jaha pointed out, in the way of griots.
“Direction of retaliation. Every character wants something. Has an agenda or goal that they pursue.”
“They haven’t issued any clear demands. Only collective pissing and moaning,” Jaha noted.
“Platform. They need to get their story out. If their first attempt doesn’t get link coverage, they’ll have to go bigger.” Ishant opened his eyes and began to scan data matrixes and linkage networks.
“Or get more creative.” Jaha backed away from the window. “Maya, can you get me VOP Harrison?”
LISC was only emblematic of the illiberal democracy running O.E. VOP Harrison was the perfect example of what happened when a populist rose to power but needed to secure their ability to stay there. Look at how he ran his government: criminalizing dissent; suppressing link sources and coverage; harassing what passed for the opposition (which was a different slice of the same pie); sowing distrust in their remaining institutions; all while disempowering his people. Leaving folks feeling like since everything was broken or rigged, there was no point in doing anything. Only those desperate for change bothered protesting. Even the title VOP, which stood for Voice of the People, was meant to mirror the Muungano title Camara after LISC deciding some of the Muungano words wouldn’t “translate” well.
“He’s ‘on a walkabout,’” Ishant said. Walkabout was LISC code for some new secret negotiation. Every one was soon followed by an announcement of some new accords. LISC providing infrastructure support in South America. LISC brokering some cease-fire for a conflict they probably initiated.
“He’d better walk his ass to my link,” Jaha said.
<Commencing link,> the AI said in a no-nonsense tone.
“Maya, hold that connection.” Never afraid to check or question even an elder, Ishant glanced up from his panel. “You’re skipping a lot of diplomatic channels. This may be seen as an unwarranted escalation on our part.”
“VOP Harrison may be a shill for the dominant caste, but he is soon to be installed as the presiding head of LISC. Sometimes you have to go straight to the top when you want to get shit done.”
“I don’t think we can risk the appearance of a military action. Theirs or ours.”
“‘When the drummers change their beats, the dancers must also change their steps.’” Giving his words of caution due consideration, Jaha paced. After a weary sigh, she turned back to him. “You may be right. Go on ahead. Get our people to more secure locations like Lij Matata wanted, in case we have to scramble out of here on short notice.”
“What about you?” Ishant arched a skeptical eyebrow. He was used to her brand of capitulation, which usually amounted to her saying enough for folks to lower their guards, then do what she wanted. But they were both learning, and she was striving to do better. Most days.
“I’ll coordinate from here but will be right behind you. Someone has to deal with LISC and make sure they contain the situation before we have to,” Jaha said.
With a slight wai, Ishant gestured for a door.
Jaha stood in the center of the room enjoying the moment of quiet before considering what new work this situation was going to create and the most efficient order to tackle the incoming projects. Her emi crackled in alarm. A pressure built within her. On instinct, she dove for cover.
Time stood still. A pause before everything upended itself.
A series of flashes lit up behind her with the spectacle of lightning in a dry season. A massive boom followed. A rumble experienced deep within her like a sound that was too big for her ears. A thrum reached a crescendo in an instant. Air pushed out of the space so fast there was no room to draw a breath.
The detonation ripped through the room.
The flooring rose up in an earthen billow. Glass sprayed in a glittering hailstorm. Books tumbled from the surrounding shelves. Pages fluttered through the air, flitting leaves on fire. The acrid smoke burned her nostrils. The air became nearly too hot to breathe. The walls crashed in from all sides.
Jaha lost all sense of equilibrium, having only the sensation of falling. Down, down, down, with barely the wondering of when she was going to hit the ground. The blast threw her to the floor. The ceiling collapsed as if tired of carrying its heavy load on its own. All about her toppled into a terrible darkness, thick and mocking, smothering all of her soft groans.
“Where are you?” a distant voice called. Followed by an eerie silence.
Excerpted from Sweep of Stars, copyright © 2022 by Maurice Broaddus.
