The Gate to Futures Past (18 page)

She wasn't the only one. I told her, as I'd told the others, we'd find out together, tomorrow.

Then
reached
along our link to my Chosen, for the comfort of his understanding.

Given the number of such conversations I'd had by day's end, I'd firmly expected one would have been with Ruti, about Andi and the dead, but whenever I'd passed through the galley, Barac's Chosen was in the midst of sixteen excited children, plus a newborn, a marvel of calm behind a noisy, impenetrable barrier.

The same couldn't be said about Ruti's Birth Watcher, Jacqui
di Mendolar. I spotted her sitting alone, eyes downcast, at the far end of the galley. Our second-last meal was underway, unChosen at the dais heating packets and handing them to those waiting. The shrinking stack of food was proof of Nik and Holl's calculations—and slightly terrifying.

Sona?
Have
—

>
I will receive confirmation, Keeper.<

Learned to anticipate the question, had it? Well, that saved time. I refused to worry if it was a good thing.

Worry. The word, or something I was sensing, drew my attention back to Jacqui. Making up my mind, I took my food packet and walked to her table.

The Chooser made to stand and bow as I approached. I motioned her to sit. “May I join you?”

“Of course, Sira.” She'd yet to touch her own supper.

I settled in, smiling comfortably. “All that packing—I'm exhausted!” The little joke was running through the room; like the rest of the M'hiray, I'd only what I wore and what I'd arrived on Cersi wearing—mended and more-or-less clean. Oh, and a night shift and blanket.

Jacqui di Mendolar didn't smile back. The Birth Watcher was slight, with upturned green eyes and fine black hair. Normally, she had an air of calm attentiveness, her eyes sparkling with intelligence. Now, though, her gaze fixed on her hands, long fingers toying restlessly with a strip of gauze; perhaps the remnant of a bow.

No need to
reach
; the Chooser broadcast
anxiety
like a beacon. About what? There were, regrettably, more than a few possibilities, beginning with Noil and Alet.

I ate in silence, having learned from Morgan the importance of eating when the chance arose. It also gave Jacqui time.

Finally, her eyes lifted. “I've meant to talk to you, Sira. About Andi.”

Ah. I nodded encouragement. “Go on.”

“It's—” The gauze knotted and she put it aside. “Not—just Andi.” Jacqui hesitated, then offered her hand.

Odd. No one sat nearby. Or was this invited intimacy because she found it difficult to utter the words aloud?

I touched two fingers to her palm.

Worry. FEAR!

At once I responded with
reassurance
and
peace
, my shields protecting Aryl and Morgan, waiting while Jacqui reestablished control.

The flood of emotion shrank back to the trickle of
anxiety.
“I'm sorry, Sira,” Jacqui whispered.

I hadn't moved my fingers.
Tell me what's wrong.

Birth Watchers are closer to the M'hir than any others. It's our Talent, so we
see
the bond between mother and child and form our own. Andi's ability to
find
other Clan could be an extension of the same gift, so I thought I might—I've tried, but I can't, Sira.

This couldn't be what upset her. Mystified, I sent
encouragement.

Andi doesn't just
find
the living. She says she
hears
the dead.
Sees
them
. Jacqui stopped, fighting to remain calm.

The matter was worsening. Ghosts were
heard
, not
seen
. I should have dealt with the child. Instead of being swept up in the anticipation of landing, I should have found Andi and stopped her before her wild claims could cause harm.
Her imagination,
I sent gently.
It's not possible.

Her eyes filled with horror.
Then why do I
see
them, too?

Sira?
My Chosen, feeling my echoing
dismay
.

It's all right,
I reassured him, knowing it wasn't.
Show me,
I sent to Jacqui.

And me,
suddenly, from Aryl.

Take it,
the Birth Watcher sent.
Here.
Shields toppled, exposing her deepest thoughts.

As befitted someone who would have happily spent her life archiving old and rare bits of our past, Jacqui's mind was orderly, with strong, ingrained patterns and a fondness for connections. Had it been safe, she would have found a new home with Holl and the other scientists.

Spotting a distinct, breathless naïveté in how she viewed the outside world, especially the unChosen, I stayed carefully distant.
Where?

I see it.
Aryl drew me with her.

. . . 
A Clansman stood at a counter in his workroom, busy with
something I couldn't see. A salt-scented breeze came from my left, and I heard more distant sounds from the city that sprawled down the hill to the sea, just beyond the garden wall . . .

I saw him only in profile, but I knew who it was. That hawk's beak of a nose and angular jaw—it was my father, Jarad di Sarc.

And he was, most certainly, dead.

. . . His head turned and he looked right at me . . .

“That was—” I pulled my hand back, fingers curling into a fist. “—not what I expected.”

“Nor I. I mean, I didn't know what to expect. I'd never seen a ghost before,” Jacqui explained hastily. “I didn't think they looked so—real.”

They were screams. Echoes. Incoherent mutterings. Not this. Never this. It had to be a memory. “I didn't know you'd been to my father's home. On Garatis 17.”

“His—?” Her hands began to tremble and Jacqui seized the knot of gauze as if drowning. “No. I never went there. I wanted to, to see his new collection, but the Watchers wouldn't allow any visitors.”

The Watchers. I'd successfully avoided them since leaving Cersi. Among their more disturbing habits was to
howl
the names of the newly deceased through the M'hir, as though the
gibbering
of ghosts weren't enough.

Whatever the Watchers were, attracting their
attention
in the M'hir was the last thing I wanted to do again, yet this time, when Jacqui said their name—

What is it, Witchling?

—it was as though I'd heard my own.

“Sira. Am I going mad—like Risa?”

The whispered plea brought me back to the present, and poor Jacqui. I took her hands; they were cold and trembled. “Morgan scanned you. You're fine. Whatever this is, it doesn't appear dangerous. I think it's possible you and Andi are drawing from the memories of those around you—not deliberately—” as she looked even more upset, “—but we did Dream together while under the influence of the Hoveny machine. Who knows what that did to us?”

I watched the idea sink in, putting color back in her cheeks. Her hands warmed. “Yes. That makes much more sense than ghosts.” Jacqui managed a timid smile. “Thank you.”

You shouldn't lie to the child,
Aryl scolded.
It wasn't the Maker.

Do you know what it was?

Silence answered. Well enough.
Until we know what it was, Great-grandmother, I'd prefer to spare her nightmares.

I'd hoped to have none myself. A fresh vision of my father didn't bode well for that ambition.

I can help with that,
Morgan, oh so innocent.

You are not putting me to sleep,
I told him.

Nor me!

I could
feel
him laugh.

“Sira.” Jacqui, her equilibrium restored, nodded toward another table. “I'll explain to Andi what's happening, if you like. I'm sure she'll understand—she's very quick.”

“That she is.” Easy to see the child's head of tousled golden hair; less easy, I thought, to know what to say. “I'll talk to her, thank you. Aryl and I could use more time with our Birth Watcher.”

Jacqui rose with me, bowed, gesturing gratitude. “Should I—would you like me to tell you—or someone—if this happens to me again?”

“Tell me— or Morgan,” I added, seeing him come toward us. Good.

I could use his help with Andi. Ruti believed what the child didn't understand was death, something I'd envy—

If it wasn't now my duty to ensure she did.

Brows furrowed in concentration, her eyes closed, Andi moved hands half the size of mine over my abdomen with adult assurance. “Good,” she murmured. “Good.” Her eyes shot open and she looked down at me, her entire face a silent laugh.

“Let me guess,” I said wryly. “My great-grandmother's complaining I don't get enough sleep for her liking.”

“And you eat too fast.” Gray-green eyes rounded with curiosity. “She says you can swallow an entire packet in one gulp, like an esans. Can you?”

“Not quite.” Admittedly, I could have picked up some bad habits on the
Silver Fox.
The number of times we'd grabbed tubes of e-rations and eaten while working?

Grumbling at the taste.
Morgan smiled.

Then. Now? I'd give anything, I thought wistfully, to be back there.

Unhelpful. Aryl was being just that, engaging with the child, making her comfortable. I swung my legs over and sat up, patting the bed beside me. “Sit with us, Andi. I'd like to talk to you, too.”

We were in her “home,” not ours. Her parents were nearby, silently packing up their bits and pieces of gear. They had what Deni and Cha had brought from Stonerim III as well, but fortunately it had come in tall custom-made brown packs.

The color wasn't the only difference between their packs and Morgan's, on the floor by the Human's feet. His was larger, wider, a worn dark gray, and had padded straps, including one that rode his hips. Its capacity seemed endless, by the stream of previously unseen objects he produced from its depths. When I'd commented, my Chosen had given his quiet half-smile. Just practice, he'd assured me. More likely, I'd judged, there were clever hidden compartments; on my list, one day, was to have a thorough look inside.

In so small a way, I'd joined the rest and thought of a time outside the ship and safe. Ruis had been right in her assessment. The mood on the ship, tonight, held as much content as excitement. “At last” was the most common phrase to be heard.

A mood easily lost. I met Morgan's gaze and found the resolve I needed. This wouldn't be a happy conversation, but it would be spoken. Nik and Josa must hear what I said to their daughter; they'd have to reinforce it and be ready to offer comfort.

Andi leaned against me, tucking her little arm under mine. My hair swept around her small shoulders as if to protect her and she wove a lock of the stuff between and around her fingers as though
we played a game. “What do you want to talk about, Sira?” she asked. “Is it the people I see?”

“Yes, it is.” Morgan smiled at her. “I'd like to hear about them, too, if you don't mind.”

“I don't mind, Hom Morgan. But—” Her fingers stilled. “I'm very sorry, but I don't see anyone like you. I think Humans go away when they die.”

Something flickered across his dear face before it returned to its normal, pleasant attentiveness. “I think so, too,” he replied softly.

Nik and Josa, leaking
concern,
no longer pretended to pack.

Their daughter, on the other hand, appeared more at ease than any of us. Fair enough. “When Clan die,” I asked, “what happens to them?”

She resumed playing with my hair. “Oh, they go to their boxes. They like it there.”

DENIAL!
struck with such speed and fury I knew I couldn't protect Andi or Morgan, except—

Only I'd felt it. I reeled with
pain,
mutely grateful.

Witchling?!

Great-grandmother . . . took offense,
I told Morgan, who looked ready to leap to his feet. He settled with a frown.

At what?

I'll ask her later.
When my head finished pounding and Aryl di Sarc was in a safer mood and I wasn't so off balance—“
Boxes?”

—something Morgan felt, too.
Could she mean the rooms on the ship? The ones containing the M'hir? Could you have swept ghosts up as well?

I stared at him while the universe continued its thoroughly unpleasant tilt.
What?

Something troubling our heart-kin lately.
His eyes were somber.
Barac either wanted me to
hear
or couldn't help broadcasting when I would.

“Andi. The boxes you say the Clan go to—that they like. Are the boxes here, on the ship?” My entire body tensed as I awaited the answer.