The Gate to Futures Past (12 page)

Not fussing, I corrected. Reminding me I had a partner, one who understood such cold and logical minds. I shared what
Sona
had told me.

Well done,
he sent.
State that the memory in question must be left intact. Ask for options.

You can't take away memories,
I told
Sona
.
We mustn't forget what's happened. Do you understand? To move forward, we need to remember without—
I faltered. Without pain? Without grief?

Without guilt?

>Keeper, my understanding is this. Your initial request was “how would I help someone who has suffered a traumatic loss?” From your subsequent qualifications and their tone, I conclude this is of present, critical concern. Am I correct to rephrase your request as follows: “How can you make my memory of traumatic loss bearable?”<

Nothing could. I knew it, in that moment. Felt hopelessness replace everything and reeled.

Hundreds lost . . .

. . . a sister.

A world decimated . . .

. . . our home, destroyed.

Morgan wanted to heal the impossible—we were shattered beyond repair.

I was—

Sira.
Like arms around me, holding me upright.
Beloved.
Like the feel of a warm cheek against mine. My hair
lifted,
sweeping soft around me as other unseen but
felt
arms took hold. Morgan. Aryl, awake and with me. Putting themselves between me and the cliff beyond which plunged black, unending despair, somehow calming even the M'hir that connected us so we three seemed to float outside of time.

We aren't done, chit,
with confidence.
Not even close.

The support was theirs; the effort could only be mine.

With an act of will I didn't realize I had left, I made myself open my eyes to focus on those waiting nearby. To see them, as they really were. Odon and Degal, determined to succeed in a world new to both. Ruis and Ghos, committed to making us one Clan. Nik and Tle, refusing to consider defeat. Teris, ever-questioning. Destin, scarred and callused, ready for any battle. Kunthea, his face creased not from grief, but from a lifetime of smiles and laughter.

All but Tle had a Chosen, another life bound to theirs. Of the Chosen, three had children or unChosen or grandchildren, relying on them to make a future.

My eyes rested last on Barac, who'd lost as much as I or any.

Somehow, I'd known he'd smile at me. “Well, cousin?”

“We're not done,” I told him, surprised to believe it.

Meeting Morgan's gaze with a smile of my own, I sent to the ship.
You are correct,
Sona.
We all need to bear our losses and remain strong. Can you help without tampering with our memories? Everyone is unique, as is their loss.

>Words are insufficient, Keeper, for me to respond in a meaningful manner. Will you Dream with me?<

There it was, then. “
Sona
wants me to Dream,” I announced. “But I don't see how that can help. I wouldn't know what to do or say,” my voice shook. “I'm no Healer-of-minds.”

“I am.”

No. He couldn't think—

“I propose to Council that we Dream together, so I can show the ship how to help those in need if it becomes necessary.”

He did.

“No.” Morgan understood machines—but this wasn't the same, I thought, horrified. Dreaming with the ship, that mental invasion, was safe for me only because it had been designed for our species, not his. “No!” I said, and louder, in case anyone missed it the first time.

“The Keeper answers to Council, does she not?”

I turned my head, very slowly, to look at Ruis. Whatever she saw in my face made her blanch, but she didn't back down. “We ask a vote.”

Eyes flashing, Barac stepped forward. “We won't be remade again. Not even for this.”

“Agreed.” Morgan, reasonable. Confident. “We'll only use the Maker if I'm convinced it can and will heal this particular trauma—and do nothing more.”

Nothing more? They didn't know him as I did.

A starship we couldn't control; a captain intent on just that, asking to be put inside whatever passed for its mind—

My Human wanted to fix things. He always did. Starting with those afflicted, of course, but oh, he wouldn't stop there. We were at
Sona
's mercy, and he trusted the ship's ancient programming no more than I did.

This wasn't the way.
Dreaming is guided by the ship, not the Keeper,
I sent, with all the
urgency
I could.
Let me do this alone. It answers my questions. Tell me what to say.

I can't tell you how to Heal, Witchling. The ship can take that information from me.

And what if it takes more?

He didn't answer. Likely couldn't.

Hap signaled the others to sit. “The Council votes. Raise your hand with mine, if you agree our Healer-of-minds should Dream with our Keeper.”

“Wait!” Ghos stood and stepped forward, smiling. No, beaming, from ear-to-ear. “Worra's sent word. Gricel's baby's coming!” Their daughter's second. Ghos' joy and the news lightened spirits around in the room. “Sira, we have to go. Now. The vote can wait.”

“Pardon?” If that had a shrill note, I was entitled. This discussion was far from over, and I intended to stay for every word. I was the Keeper—Morgan my—

SIRA!! Come Come Come!
Andi, her sending
happy
enough to ring in my head, followed by Jacqui di Mendolar's calmer, but no less determined:
All those pregnant must be present. Hurry, Sira!

The baby's coming?
Aryl, with joy.
Sira, we mustn't be late.

All around the chamber, heads bobbed in agreement. Hap's smile was almost as wide as Ghos' “Go. We'll receive our First Scout's report.”

“Sira.” Ghos held out his hand. “They're in the Core.”

You'd best do as they say, Witchling.
Oh, and didn't Morgan look properly contrite?

I glowered.
Did you plan this, too?

He had the grace to blush.
No.

SIRA!

Defeated by biology, outnumbered, I gave an irritated bow before taking Ghos' hand and preparing the locate for the Core.

I paused, looking at Morgan. He opened his mouth, then closed it, lips tight. Not done, that expression said.

Oh, but I was.

I let a fraction of my Power
swell
outward to press against the shields of
Sona
's Council, and one Human, providing a relevant
comparison. The only authority they had over me was what I chose to give them, and in this?

I chose to give them none at all.

“Vote whenever you wish,” I told Council. “I'll refuse.”

Chit—

Excuse us. Baby being born—

T
HEY'D DISAGREED BEFORE.

This had been—different. True, some on Council could use a reminder exactly whom they'd been ordering around these past days, but that flex of Power, with its underlying
ANGER,
had been aimed right at him. For, Morgan thought with disgust, the very same reason.

“I do believe I deserved that.” He ran a rueful hand through his hair. Crossed the line, that's what he'd done. “What was I thinking?”

“I couldn't begin to guess, my friend.” Barac grinned. “You'll be forgiven. Eventually.”

The Human grimaced. Sira'd slammed a wall between them, leaving only the faintest thread of their link. “Or longer.”

“Good thing we're down here, then.” Where Council had sent them, unanimous in their concern over the First Scout's report.

Wisely so; anything amiss with their food supply posed an immediate threat. Morgan looked around the utilitarian space, free of the alien—to them all—swirls and patterns of color found in main living areas of the ship. The carts were secured and idle. The floor showed no sign it had been covered in food packets some hours before.

“Morgan.” No smile now. “You're sure? About—” Barac pointed to his head.

“You're fine,” he answered, firmly. “As is Ruti. And—” because the First Scout would be among those watching the others, “—Odon, Teris, Kunthea, and Destin. Tle, too.” Ruis having assured him, despite the
distress
he'd sensed from the Chooser, she'd none of the telltale signs.

“Good to know.” The Clansman shook his head. “But the rest. Ghos? Nik? Hap? Degal—” A twist of his lips. “He doesn't deserve this either.”

“It'll help to know their symptoms have a cause.” Even more, to have their Chosen warned and on guard. Morgan rubbed his forehead; Ruis was right, the resources he'd depleted were still too low to tap. “Need a night's sleep,” he admitted ruefully. Till then, he'd continue scanning those around him, as would Ruis, who would instruct their other Healers how to do the same.

The question of using the Maker had not come up again. And wouldn't, Morgan resolved, unless from Sira. He owed her that.

“I'd be surprised if any of us sleep tonight.” Barac chuckled at the Human's startled frown. “New baby, remember?”

“Ah.” There was a happier subject, Morgan thought, and one of recent and deeply personal interest to them both—which in no way took priority over their food supply. “Where did the sound come from?” He swung off his pack, pulling free his scanner.

The Clansman walked to the center of the room, turned around once, then shrugged. “I can't say for sure. It seemed to come from everywhere at once.”

“And you
tasted
change.”

“For what it's worth.” Exasperation. “About this, or Ruti. The business with Council—any of it or something we haven't seen yet. You?”

Shaking his head, Morgan aimed the scanner at the floor and took slow steps toward the still-open access port, moving the device back and forth. “‘For what it's worth,'” he echoed.

Barac watched him, then went to the carts, giving one an idle tug. “Any other schemes to take over the ship? I'm on your side, by the way.”

Seen through him, too, had he? Although “take over” required a system able to be controlled, something he'd yet to be
convinced existed. No, his mutinous ambitions were much simpler—to discover what he could of where they were going and when they'd arrive, in order to prepare as best they could.

And to be sure
Sona
had no more surprises in store.

Morgan half smiled. “Nothing I'd discuss over live coms.”

“‘Live—?'”
The ship's listening?

“I assume everything that can be recorded—” he waved the scanner “—is.” Not that he'd located any records storage—any he recognized, Morgan corrected. Sira'd passed along the question, the ship replying it was “unaware.” Just as it hadn't been aware of the Speaker pendants either, which they had caught transmitting. Implying secrecy—

Or such questions hadn't been anticipated by the ship's builders. Least cheerful prospect? Ignorance in its passengers served a purpose.

They'd no proof the experiment was over.

When Barac didn't respond, Morgan glanced up, grinning at the look on the other's face. “I wouldn't worry about it.”

“I would.” A faint smile in return. “But I'll add it to the list. Anything else, my friend?”

Morgan hesitated.

The Clansman stopped smiling. “Sorry I asked.”

“Don't be.” Sira preoccupied. Alone with the only other of her kind he trusted—who trusted him, that rare commodity. He made up his mind. “I'd like to show you something.”

Going to his pack, Morgan reached in, fingers finding the smooth, cool curve of the Hoveny cylinder. He'd brought it from the workshop, hoping for such an opportunity.

Before he could doubt, he pulled it forth.

“So that's what you've been up to.” Barac whistled, then gave a charming shrug. “The Om'ray were curious. What is it?”

“My chance to belong. Maybe.” He met the Clansman's gaze, braced himself for any reaction, including ridicule. “I've been trying to make it work, whatever it is. See if my Power can affect their—your technology.”

Giving him a purpose, a future, on a world that might run on nothing else.

Barac merely nodded. “Any luck?”

“Not yet. I'm only guessing it has a function.” If not, he'd been doing the equivalent of trying to start a fire inside a brick. “Even if it does, it could be broken.” Morgan held out the cylinder. “You can help me find out.”

Barac took it, his nose wrinkled in distaste. “It's old. What do you want me to do?”

“I've no idea.”

“Helpful.” But the Clansman was doing
something.
Morgan could feel his concentration, if not what he did.

The cylinder went from dull white to pale blue—

—dropping from Barac's hand to bounce on the floor, dull white again.

“What happened?”

The Clansman made a face. “It
talked.
” He stooped and picked it up between two fingers, gingerly offering it to Morgan. “Gibberish.” Something flickered across his face. “No. Numbers.”

Finally. Doing his best to stay calm, the Human took the cylinder back. He'd hunted for records; had he had one all along? Although numbers could mean a scanner readout. “How did you activate it?”

“I'm not sure. To fuel the ship—” with disgust, “—each of us
reached
into the M'hir while touching one of those hall panels. I tried with this, but nothing happened. So I—” Barac's cheeks turned an interesting color.

“Yes?”

“I was thinking I didn't want to fail. Ruti—she came on our link and—” His eyes widened. “Morgan, she sent me encouragement. The feeling. That's when the numbers started.”

“Let me try.” The Human lifted the cylinder, watching it, then
reached
for Sira.
Any sign of the baby?

A not-unexpected:
Don't distract me.
With a blast of
ice.

The cylinder turned vivid purple. Morgan poured everything he had into his inner sense. Concentrated.

“Hear anything?”

The pound of his heart. Barac's breathing and his. “No.”

He refused to admit disappointment. Useful, learning the
device—for now he knew it was a device, without question—responded to what passed unsaid between Chosen. Both Ruti and Sira were stronger than their partners. Relevant or not, another bit of data. The numbers could be a measurement of that strength, or potential along the link.

As easily, a coded message unlocked only when in the hands of a Chosen.

“Interesting.” Morgan concluded, turning the again-white cylinder over in his hands.

“Only to you. If you're done, put it away.” Barac gave an exaggerated shudder. “Taking what's inside us—using it to power machines? It's unnatural.”

The Human froze, caught by an incongruity. Barac was right. It was—and yet the ability to do just that had been bred into the
nature
of the Clan.

At great effort. With unimaginable sacrifice. They'd assumed it was to recover what the Hoveny had somehow lost from themselves.

What if they were wrong?

“I know that look.” The First Scout narrowed his eyes. “You've thought of something. I'm not going to like it, am I.”

“What we know of the Hoveny Concentrix comes from structures and artifacts locked in stone before there was a Trade Pact, but the creation of the M'hiray is almost contemporary.”

“Your point?”

“What took them so long?”

Barac blinked. “An interstellar civilization collapsed.”

“Without sign of destruction,” Morgan countered. “It's as if the Hoveny abandoned their technology—beyond our understanding even now—and walked away, leaving the rest of the Concentrix to fend for themselves. The rest did. Most species kept the capacity for sublight travel; members of the First were back trading between systems well before Humans arrived in their space. Yet knowledge surrounding the Hoveny themselves disappeared with them. Deliberately or as a consequence?”

Morgan kept from pacing with an effort, ideas tumbling faster than he would sort them. “Now we know they didn't die off.
Instead, the Hoveny hid themselves so well other spacefaring species had no idea they still existed or where. And a thousand years later, a new generation sent ships like this to Cersi—and who knows where else—in what I assure you was a very costly attempt to wake technology ancient even to them. Why?”

“They could have tried before or since,” argued Barac, “and succeeded. Nothing says we continue to matter,” with abrupt bitterness.

Except to themselves, but the Clansman wasn't wrong. Still . . .

“A worry on my list.” A keen look. “What's on yours?”

“A delay of a thousand years, Barac. Think about it.” The Human pressed his palms together, blowing through his fingers as if to warm them. “What if it was long enough for the Hoveny themselves to forget why they turned off the lights and ran?”

Barac made as if to speak, stopped, then gave a short laugh. “You almost had me, Morgan,” he said fondly. “The past is dead and gone. Whatever happened to the Hoveny is a mystery I don't need solved; we aren't them and weren't part of it. The future's what counts. Starting with making sure we have one.” A nod at the access port.

“Fair enough.” Speculation wasn't supper. Chuckling himself, the Human leaned into the opening, more than ready to get back to work. “Pass me my light, please. Outside left pocket.” Barac put it in his outstretched hand and Morgan squirmed inside, bracing himself with an elbow and hip against the far wall.

“Must you do that?”

“We're here. May as well be thorough.”

His voice echoed; hard surfaces. Good thing the headache was fading. His light danced along shiny metal racks, teethlike rows of them extending as far as the little beam reached. Empty.

Might be normal.

Might not. Until now the wide portal had opened on full racks, ready to be unloaded; he hadn't been able to crawl in like this to do a proper inspection. Morgan twisted to send light down, finding only space below. Rails along the walls implied the racks, once emptied, would move down, perhaps to cycle back around to be refilled.

“Seen enough?”

About to climb out, Morgan grunted something noncommittal, his attention caught. There. A spot on the wall with a different texture. “Now, what are you?” he murmured.

“Ready to leave.”

Ignoring the Clansman's plaintive comment, he put the light between his teeth and stretched, brushing the tips of his fingers over the wall. Hard. Smooth—

The tips sank in.

Quickly, Morgan pulled back his hand. His fingers were coated in a liquid the same color as the wall. “That can't be good.”

A head appeared. “What's wrong?” demanded the First Scout.

The next unpleasant surprise. Morgan held up his hand. “I'd say
Sona
's about to change something.”

“It can't,” Barac protested. “We're here.”

“Let hope it knows that.” Staying where he was, the Human played the light over the wall. More spots with that revealing texture. More and larger, he noticed uneasily, the longer he looked. “Time to go—”

His elbow and hip were suddenly braced against nothing. Morgan contorted as he began to fall, reaching up—

—meeting a firm grip. “Got you!” The Clansman hung by his hips, half-inside the opening.

“Don't 'port!”

The Human could almost feel Barac's incredulous stare, but the other didn't argue, pulling until Morgan could bring his feet against something still-solid and push himself up and out.

As the other steadied him, their feet began to sink. “Can we leave now?” Barac pleaded.

The walls were, Morgan noted, noticeably sagging in—explaining much about the reshaping process. He lunged for his pack and pulled it free of the floor. “Definitely.”

A hand clamped on his shoulder . . .

. . . and what had been food storage, now rapidly becoming something else, disappeared . . .

. . . The Human found himself standing in the deserted hallway outside the galley.

Barac gave him a shove before letting go. “Next time we're in a dissolving ship, I'm not waiting for your luggage.”

“Agreed.”

They looked at one another, neither moving.

“So that's it, then,” Barac said at last, very quietly. “We don't go mad. We starve to death. That's what I
tasted.
”

Curious he hadn't received any such warning. A first. Unless they hadn't been in real danger, other than being frightened to death. Made sense the ship would have some way to allow for passengers wandering where they shouldn't—