The Gate to Futures Past (3 page)

While I'd no such gift, I sent him my strength whenever he was too preoccupied to notice, to speed things along.

“Well, then,” I said, answering his smile with my own, and stepped on the blanket, arms open. Time to be preoccupied.

My hair rose in a cloud of gold, fully in agreement.

An uncounted while or so later, at the delicious point of no longer caring where we were and well on our way to somewhere else entirely, a voice intruded like a shower of cold, slimy eggs.

“Your pardon.”

Normally, I was happy to see my cousin and heart-kin, Barac di Bowart, as was Morgan.

Normally, seeing what he was seeing in return, Barac would have made himself unseen as quickly as possible. That he didn't?

Meant a problem. I growled under my breath as Morgan's arms tightened and then let go. He whispered “Later” in my ear, finishing with the press of his lips. Beneath,
heat.

With laudable, if ominous, composure, I detached from my Chosen and stood. Locks of hair, still aroused, whipped my shoulders, then sulked down my back.

No need to ask how Barac found us—he'd skills of his own, and was First Scout for good reason—only why. More exactly, why me? We had a Council. “What is it?” I grumbled, not hurrying to pull my clothing together.

“Who. Luek and Nyso.”

I knew the pair. The di Kessa'ats were from Camos, the Inner System world where the Clan had had such concentrated Power and wealth, they'd built our Council Chamber inside the Human capital building with no one the wiser. It hadn't saved them from the Assemblers.

Like many who'd survived, the di Kessa'ats struggled to comprehend the drastic change in their fortunes, let alone find their place in a shipful of strangers. Nyso'd been having a harder time than most.

He'd the Power to be a problem, one well beyond my cousin. Tle di Parth had the strength to overrule him and would relish using it, but Barac, like others, prudently kept his distance from the unpredictable Chooser.

Making this, I sighed inwardly, my job. “What have they done?”

“They've moved back to their room. I couldn't stop them.” Gesturing apology, Barac kept his gaze pointedly over my shoulder.

“Why?” I paused, my arm half inside its sleeve. “It's almost shipnight.” After liftoff, we'd been relieved to find
Sona
provided an alternating cycle of light and dark; the need for a diurnal rhythm being common to Human and Clan. We'd spread ourselves out to satisfy another need, for privacy,
Sona
having more than sufficient unused rooms.

Only to discover that
Sona
stopped heating any area outside the Dream Chamber during shipnight.

I may have lost my temper with it then, too.

“They can't stay there.” Morgan tucked away our blanket, unconcerned by the alien circuitry blinking under his boots. “They'll freeze.”

“I told them.” Barac gave a small shrug. “They claim they can't stay in the Core.” My Human's term for the Dream Chamber; we all used it.

Just as we accepted his reasoning, for Morgan viewed
Sona
's bullying tactic as for our benefit, to ensure we stayed as much as possible in the center of the ship, which offered the greatest protection from radiation.

The Om'ray were reasonably content, appeased by their sense of one another; the M'hiray, who'd lived worlds apart, were far less so. Morgan had silenced complaints, including mine, with a too-casual comment that the ship could as easily confine us to the Core for the duration of the journey and there was no telling what might trigger that decision.

A reminder we dealt with a preexisting set of instructions, with consequences we couldn't predict. Only a fool would stir that pot, especially for something as minor as this. I gave in to the inevitable. “Leave Nyso and Luek to me, cousin.”

Barac gestured gratitude and disappeared, leaving a hint of
relief
behind.

Later it is,
I sent to my Chosen as I finished dressing.

When Morgan didn't respond, I glanced up in time to catch a frown. “What is it?”

He gave a dissatisfied shrug, as though unsure himself. “Treat them gently, Sira. Moving out of the Core doesn't make sense.”

It made sense to me, I thought, keeping my bitterness from our link. They didn't deserve Morgan's compassion. The di Kessa'ats were among those who believed me unaware how assiduously they avoided my Human's presence, how they turned from him as though breathing the same air held contamination. So long as they kept their xenophobia to themselves, I could force myself to ignore it.

If it became overt, the Clan would become fewer; a loss I wouldn't mourn.

Morgan waited. There was palpable weight to his patience when it involved me and a point he wanted made. Feeling it, I eyed him askance. What was he after this time? I set my face to innocence.

“Gently,” he repeated.

“Nyso,” I said stiffly, “was a thoughtless, selfish child, even for Clan.” A Choice delayed by over seventy standard years made me, despite my appearance, the eldest here, a detail I'd happily refresh should Nyso prove obstinate. “I see no signs of improvement.”

A brow lifted.

“I promise to resist the urge to knock their stubborn heads together. Will that do?”

Hefting his pack into place, Morgan smiled at me. “I ask no more.” He gave me a quick kiss, beard soft, lips cool and dry.

Good-bye, that was. My turn to look a question. “You aren't coming.”

Tossing the placer up, my Human caught it with a flourish. “Time to stretch my legs. There's mapmaking to do, Witchling.”

Something he enjoyed. I kissed him back, adding a flash of
affection.
“Happy hunting.”

I concentrated, forming the locate of the Core, and
pushed . . .

. . . to find myself surrounded by busy Clan who paused to gesture a polite greeting before going back to whatever they'd been doing: making beds, soothing children, talking, carrying burdens, finding clever ways to store belongings and keep Choosers apart from unChosen, doing what they must to share a limited space.

However much the di Kessa'ats disliked being here, I thought sadly, edging through the crowd, I knew someone who could hardly bear it.

Morgan.

W
ASN'T RUNNING, Morgan assured himself. A brisk walk stretched legs in need of exercise, a fact of shiplife he enjoyed pointing out to the Clan. Just as well
Sona
's levels were a maze of corridors. Most still open. Most still to explore. Why, he could walk like this for hours. Had done, pulling the coat from his pack come shipnight's chill.

He wasn't running from the powerful Nyso di Kessa'at and those like him, despite their being the sort of Clan who'd thought nothing of ripping apart Human minds to make pliable servants and pawns.

They couldn't touch his and knew it.

He kept his alien nose clear of Clan business, that was all. With him there, Nyso might dig in and force a confrontation. One the Clansman would lose, yes, but Sira would be miserable. She disliked exercising her authority at the best of times.

He wasn't, he told himself, running from the decent among the M'hiray, either, even if they—unconsciously or not—saw in him all they'd lost.

And who'd taken it.

The Om'ray? Well, they'd accepted he was
real,
but he suspected most lumped him with the ship and other incomprehensible
technology now ruling their daily lives. Something to respect—from a safe distance.

Not running. To prove it, Morgan stopped and lifted his scanner instead of the placer, aiming it at another of what appeared a door but was, in effect, the outer casing of a power cell.

As usual, the scanner insisted there was nothing to scan behind the door, a small red flashing light its objection to squandering what remained of its own power.

Still a result, the Human thought, switching the device off and tucking it back in his vest. A significant one. The scanner might be old tech, but it would have given a reading for solid metal or vacuum. Nothing was—interesting. Evocative.

Or incredibly disturbing.

Morgan rubbed his beard. He'd shaved last onboard the
Fox
and hadn't found the inclination to do so since. The result entertained the Clan youngsters and if it reminded the rest what he was? Well enough. “Too late to change course.” The words echoed down the curved hall, losing themselves in distance.

Not that he was flying this one. Not that he could pilot the ship or even talk to it or, so far, been able to do anything productive except map where the Clan couldn't go.

He'd hoped to find something better.

Trade Pact starships—proper starships—had controls. Controls related to internal systems, standardized across species by physics and common sense, systems accessible for maintenance.

Oh, he'd searched for them. Searched with growing desperation for the first, what, five shipdays—and some nights. Kept searching till he'd been forced to an unsettling conclusion, one he'd yet to share with Sira.
Sona
might not be a starship, not in the true sense. It might be nothing more than a gigantic lifepod: a well-supplied box programmed to ferry its naïve cargo to their destination.

If so, he hadn't found controls or system accesses because there were none to find. Galling, yes, but didn't that lock into the pattern he'd seen on Cersi? The Clan were pieces in a game, property, unable to act on their own until free again.

Putting away the placer, for this area he didn't want on any
map, Morgan walked until he came to a junction, then took the right-hand corridor.

Free again. He'd known freedom once, had relished the life of an independent trader, however often he'd survived by his wits and luck. A luck aided by a Talent for
tasting
change, to be sure, but everyone had their tricks for dodging danger. Avoiding traps. Making the trades no one else could.

When Sira stumbled aboard the
Fox,
when she'd touched his heart and filled the emptiness inside, his life—their lives—had been perfect.

He should have known. Should have turned the
Fox
and run the instant he'd
tasted
that overwhelming warning. Stayed free.

Morgan snorted. “Had to find a partner with a conscience.” Not that he'd have done differently. It helped to grumble in private.

The lift doors split on diagonals, four sections pulling apart in silence. He'd have preferred doors that made a proper
whoosh
of effort, a clue to the sort of mechanism he'd need to maintain or repair in future.

At least, he thought wryly, there were lifts. He stepped inside, the sections meeting behind him. The Om'ray Adepts, familiar with their Cloisters, had been shocked when the conveniences appeared overnight in various walls. Before, they'd moved from level to level using the ramplike corridor that spiraled around the outermost wall of the building, or taken the smaller, more discreet internal ramp that became, in some areas, a ladder. When
Sona
morphed into a starship, well, lifts were effective time- and space savers. The Human approved.

Once he'd figured out how they worked. The Makers—the Hoveny, Morgan corrected to himself, still feeling the thrill of that discovery—had been humanoid, meaning a design suited to hands like his as well as a placement of sensory organs like his. Eye level readouts. Finger-ready panels.

Even better, once they left the planet, he'd discovered the lifts accepted verbal commands. In the right language, but he had that now. “Thirty-four,” he ordered, feeling the mechanism engage.

Sleepteach, reinforced by daily use, had made him fluent to the point where the Human caught himself thinking in the Hoveny tongue every so often. He'd begun to acquire the written language. Nockal di Mendolar had been his first teacher; while bedridden, she'd been glad to trade lessons for stories of other worlds. The elder Adept from Amna had an unClan-like curiosity about aliens; that she'd lost an arm to the Oud might have been part of it.

There was a fierce courage in all the Om'ray Morgan enjoyed.

The readout flashed symbols too quickly to read. No matter. He'd made this trip often enough to step forward before the door fully opened.

Shifting his pack to one shoulder, the Human strode down the bright corridor. A narrower hall, this, lacking the cushioned flooring and touches of art of the main living areas. When he'd discovered it, he'd felt at home. Closer, anyway. What did that say about him?

Morgan grinned. “Once a spacer, always a spacer.” The walls, here true bulkheads, returned hollow echoes. Alone, at last.

Never lonely, not with Sira's warm, if presently distracted, presence along their link. Before her company, he'd had the
Silver Fox,
hard as that was to explain to grounders, the finicky old ship the ideal companion for a telepath who'd struggled to keep out the noise of other minds.

Not a problem around Clan, taught from childhood to shield their innermost thoughts and emotions. Anything they
leaked
was deliberate. By invitation.

To make a point.

Not a problem, regardless; with Sira's training, he'd added Clan shields to his own cobbled-together training. Morgan's lips twitched. Besides. Other Human minds?

No longer a problem.

He passed two doors, stopping in front of the third. The corridor curved right, with an upward slope. It led to a section of more and larger portals, widely spaced and locked.

Morgan chuckled and rapped his knuckles on the door in front of him. Once, twice.

It turned open, just as it had when he'd banged a fist against it in frustration. He hadn't found another door which would—likely wouldn't, as
Sona
continued to collapse unused levels.

Besides, he'd enough to explore right here, with no guarantee of time in which to do it.

Morgan walked through, the door turning closed behind him. From inside, it opened to the same knocking. He suspected he'd have liked the original user of this room.

Say, rather, workshop.

He'd recognized it instantly, despite the alien shapes. Countertops lined three walls, crowded with objects in various stages of assembly. A workbench filled the middle of the room, shaped like an X, with four outstretched arms, each brightly lit. A stool stood waiting beside one such arm. On top Morgan had found what had to be tools, laid as if put down mid-use, and a tipped-over glass mug. Someone had left in a hurry.

A mattress shoved underneath suggested a reluctance to leave some task. Or a task too important to leave.

Like his. Setting his pack on the nearest empty arm of the bench, the Human perched on the stool before an array of small objects, including the tools from that first day of discovery, sorted by shape and size, with the larger to the left.

“Which of you today?” The Comspeak sounded quaint, almost foreign to his ears.

All the more reason to use it. He'd another. The Hoveny language might be replete with scientific and technological terms, but he wanted to think as himself, for himself.

He had to. Morgan picked up a tool. The handle fit his hand, with indentations for four fingers and a thumb. Some Om'ray—including those Vyna Clan he'd seen—had a second thumblike digit. There was a dimple to accommodate it; for comfort, he decided, not function. The tool resembled a torch. The Human waved it experimentally, the business end aimed away, pressing various combinations of the indentations. It warmed; no more than explained by the heat of his skin.

“Hmm.” He'd found this tool next to one very like a wrench or clamp, with nothing nearby to be held.

Shouldn't make assumptions. Still, the gap was the right size for the end of the torchlike tool.

Morgan eased the two together.

clickclick

Startled, he looked for the source of the tiny sound. It came from a small object toward the end of the array, a plain cylinder that rattled in place,
clicking
until he pulled the pair of tools apart.

His scans had pegged the age of the cylinder and its companion objects as older than what he took for tools. Older than the ship. Implying this room contained a treasure trove to make the syndicates of the Trade Pact wet themselves, or whatever they did, with greed.

Hoveny tech. His, for now, and worth more than wealth.

“Interesting.” Putting aside those tools, Morgan picked up the cylinder and gave it a little shake.
clickclick.
Fainter, but still clear. Broken? Maybe. He didn't think so. A sensor, perhaps, or gauge.

For what? Holding his breath, the Human gripped the cylinder in both hands and
concentrated,
letting his consciousness touch the M'hir.

Nothing. And it no longer
clicked.

Morgan refused to be disappointed. Hoveny tech was activated using the M'hir. As far as he'd been able to determine,
Sona
moved as any Trade Pact starship through subspace, the only difference being this ship drew its power from the M'hir. There were rooms connected to that other dimension.

A connection made by the Clan, descendants of the Hoveny. By something inside them. Something Humans weren't supposed to have, not being Clan.

“Sorry to disappoint.” Morgan drew on his inner Power and
pushed.
The cylinder disappeared from his hands, to reappear on his pack. Sending objects through the M'hir he'd mastered. Moved the
Fox
, hadn't he?

“I can do this.” Tech. Tangible. He'd figure it out.

Before
Sona
's ports opened on whatever world would be home. Before they learned the price of their freedom there.

There was always a price.