The Gate to Futures Past (6 page)

For someone who'd been a M'hir Denouncer, she'd come a long way in a very short time.

“A glitch in the storage system,” Holl announced. “There are food packets strewn everywhere. Nothing appeared damaged,” as
alarm
spread through the room. That
Sona
had preserved food suited to all of us, most of which Morgan safely could eat, too, had been the best news of all. To lose it? I shuddered inwardly. “We'll need to deal with the mess,” she continued with reassuring confidence. “Move the packets to the galley for storage.”

Lucky,
Morgan concurred. I chose to ignore the hint of
incredulity
.

Faced with a clearly defined problem, my people wasted no time. In moments, they'd dressed and organized themselves into working groups, the first 'porting away with Holl to assess the task ahead, those charged with obtaining breakfast going out the door.

Those left tried not to stare at Morgan and Eloe, or look where Nyso and Luek still lay as though dead, their imposed sleep unaffected by the ruckus of moments ago.

Will there be more?
Aryl, asking the hard question.

I don't know.
The Clan I could see appeared the same as they had yesterday. If anything, they looked better: those who'd starved gaining flesh from a now-ample diet, our wounded able to stand and walk. Most showed reminders of their hurts, if only fading bruises. Our Healers couldn't regenerate limbs or prevent scars, but thanks to them—and Morgan's med-kit—we hadn't lost any to their injuries.

What was I missing?

Eloe had seemed fine yesterday, cheerful and busily occupied with Merr di Ulse, an Om'ray weaver, and others; the youngster had skill with needle and thread and Merr's group sought to salvage what clothing had come on board. The Om'ray regarded every scrap of value; M'hiray were happy to relinquish theirs, much of it in rags or ill-suited to daily wear, in favor of the ship's coveralls.

It wasn't as if most Om'ray hadn't adopted the new clothes as well, favoring grays and browns over more vivid choices, but in common with Morgan, they retained some small item of their own, be it vest, jacket, or a white gauze hood around their necks. In comparison, the M'hiray looked like shoppers on Plexis, bedecked in blues, reds, and swirls of yellow.

A dozen other Om'ray followed Destin's example and kept their former garb, complete with the knives of the canopy. Barac, only to me, expressed the opinion they couldn't fathom there was vacuum outside; as he kept his force blade on or near his person at all times, he was hardly one to talk.

The truth was, I knew Barac worried what might be inside the ship, well aware we couldn't open all of
Sona
's doors or scan deeper levels. He wasn't alone.

To assuage such fears, I'd asked Morgan if he thought there could be something dangerous on the ship, something in hiding. What he'd said—

Aryl had followed the thought.
I remember, too. He said, “It won't be hiding.”

I'd taken it as a joke, to reassure me. Hearing it again, I felt chilled to the bone. A Chosen pair who'd lost touch with reality,
now an unChosen no longer in her right mind. What had my Human seen that I hadn't?

He'd have warned me about a threat or if he'd
tasted
change coming, that warning having saved us both times without count.

Something more nebulous, though. A suspicion without facts. Oh, that I was quite sure Morgan would keep to himself until he'd proof.

He knows something,
I replied at last, looking at my Chosen.

Nothing in his expression suggested it was anything
good.

B
AD ENOUGH the ship only took orders from someone qualified to pop in a course disk and cycle air locks, Morgan thought grimly. While he loved and respected Sira with all his being, that wasn't the point. The wrong command could kill them.

Sira knew it, too. She'd promised not to give another operational command without consulting him first. She'd—

Gotten away with it again. The result appeared harmless, and it was keeping most of the Clan busy elsewhere.

Those still here gave him space, but he didn't need to lower his shields to feel the Clan's attention. Gazes slid his way. Mouths were downturned and shoulders hunched, ever so slightly. Worry and dread. A species able to share emotion and thoughts appeared uniformly terrible at concealing them.

Sira had picked up that Human skill. She'd taken charge, erect and graceful, her lovely face serene. For a wonder her hair held to the ruse, its usually opinionated red-gold a calm waterfall down her back, its ends moving no more than living hair should.

There was nothing serene to his inner sense of her. The Clan, reliant on their minds and will, had a horror of either failing. The connection between their minds, as the Human understood it, meant such illness could spread, one to the next. Sira was right to worry.

Just wrong about why.

An ache started in his hip, the one that had taken the brunt of an aircar mishap years ago, and his sore ribs protested in harmony, but Morgan didn't move. He hadn't since putting his hand on the bed. The distraught young Om'ray needed quiet and consistency. Time. To relax, if she could. He'd wait as long as it took.

As he'd waited for this: the moment the frenzy of survival reverted to the ordinary routines of life, a life different from any they'd known, and minds subjected to fear and overwhelming loss—

—broke.

This illness didn't need to spread. To some extent, everyone on this ship already suffered, whether they showed it overtly or not. He'd been through his own version of their hell, after the war on Karolus. Only the understanding of a friend had kept him from self-destruction; even then, he'd needed time and lots of it.

Time they didn't have, not with close to two hundred potential Eloes onboard ready to explode, not with their destination minutes—or possibly years—away.

Oh, and didn't that uncertainty add a knife twist to what seethed inside the Clan?

Lips moved. Shaped words without sound. “Go 'way.”

Morgan couldn't obey; she'd only harm herself further. He had to act, but how?

Memory was pliable. He could remove the worst of hers.

No. Memories were all they had.

Dull the worst, make them bearable. That he could try to do, but it was the more delicate work. In the contrary way of things involving the M'hir and the Clan, delicacy required significantly more Power.

Sira's was his for the asking—and even when he didn't. There was something adorable about her belief he hadn't noticed her little gifts. Each flood of
strength
she sent surged through him like a stim, and it was just as well he'd had other reasons for gasping.

Morgan frowned. Whether they'd admit it or not, the Clan came close to worshipping Sira these days, especially the younger ones. Maybe it was his Human thinking, but he'd prefer to
salvage this unChosen's pride. Ruis di Nemat? Was needed where she was.

Let alone the folly of risking both Healers-of-minds at once.

Morgan made up his mind.
Barac.

The M'hiray First Scout excused himself from a discussion and walked over. His eyes, dark and expressive, filled with pity as he took in Eloe's woeful state, then fixed on Morgan.
What can I do?

I'll need to borrow strength to help her. Not yours,
before the other could offer.
It should be someone she knows. I'm strange enough.

A fleeting smile acknowledged the truth of that. Barac and his brother Kurr had been among the few Clan to work freely near Humans.
Eloe lost her family when Tuana was buried, but Ruti will know if she has heart-kin here.

Heart-kin being those closer than blood, as Barac di Bowart had become, to him as well as Sira. Morgan moved his free hand in the gesture of gratitude, hoping Eloe would see he wasn't totally alien.
Make it quick.

Grim-looking Clan surrounded the bed. The Chosen pair, faces lined with grief, were what remained of Tuana's Council: Nockal and Kunthea di Mendolar. Both were Adepts, learned and powerful; Nockal nodded a greeting to Morgan, her stump of an arm tucked into a pocket. With them came two slight unChosen, a male and female, alike enough to be sibs. They gripped Ruti di Bowart's hands, or she held theirs. Likely both. Before
Sona
had lifted from Cersi, Barac's Chosen had taken the young of Om'ray and M'hiray into her care and woe betide any who might harm them.

Being pregnant with new life herself.

Sira might seem absent. She wasn't. Morgan
felt
her presence tight along their link.
Give the word and I'll 'port the lot to the farthest part of the ship.

She could. Where a similar group of Humans would object strenuously to being forcibly removed, the Om'ray would not. Sira's right to lead was based on her greater Power and unquestioned.

No need to exert it. The familiar faces had brought up Eloe's head, started a flow of unheeded tears. All to the good.
I'll let you know, Witchling.

“Who's done this?” Ruti bristled. “Who's harmed this child?”

“Are you blind?” Nockal kept her voice low. “She's done it to herself.”

Ruti, shorter by a head and a quarter the age, didn't back down. “Who made her? Can you tell, Morgan?” Her look at him was pleading. “Who it was?”

Behind her, Barac gave an oddly Human shrug. Morgan understood. Before they'd fled to Cersi, Ruti's mind had been taken over by the will of another's. She feared her attacker or an ally might have come with them, to bide his or her time before acting again. She could be right.

Just not now. “Eloe hasn't been
influenced,
Ruti,” Morgan assured her. He looked at the sibs. “Which of you is Eloe's heart-kin?” The male unChosen swallowed and went pale. Ah.

“Both of us, Hom Morgan,” the female asserted. “Well, we are,” at something her brother must have
sent.
Rude that was, a private sending in front of other Clan; dangerous, in front of those more Powerful.

Brave, that above all.

“Let me introduce Dama and Tal di Lorimar.” Kunthea reached over and rubbed Tal's head, the younger male blushing. “They're a set, these three. Always have been.”

Eloe's eyelids flickered.

She gave a tiny nod.

Now, Morgan judged. He rose, gesturing to the bed. “Sit with Eloe, please.”

Tugging their hands, gently, from Ruti's grasp, Dama and Tal took their places, careful to stay clear of Eloe. Even heart-kin had that instinct.

“I need the rest of you to leave.”

A flash of dark eyes.
Is that a good idea?

If it worked, yes. The Human wasn't about to open a discussion. “Please.”

Ruti took her Chosen's arm. “If anyone can help her,” she said
firmly, “it's Morgan.” With that, she led Barac and the other Chosen aside.

Leaving him with what were children.

The Human went to his knees, offered his open hands, and waited.

Dama touched two fingers to his right palm. Not to be outdone, Tal did the same to his left. If those fingers trembled, it merely spoke to their courage. He'd been right to ask for them.

As for risking them? If he was right, Morgan thought grimly, these two might need his help as much as Eloe. No time like the present.

He lowered his shields, inviting them in on their terms, not his. Their exploration was tentative at first, then grew bold. A little too bold, finding a moment of
heat
between Chosen.

Far enough,
the Human sent, adding
amusement.

Two pairs of eyes widened.
You sound normal.
A protest.

Of course he does, Tal!
The sister gestured apology with her free hand.
Excuse my brother, Chosen of Sira. Take what you need from us.
The pair took firm hold of Morgan's hands, dropping their own shields with shattering trust.

He stayed clear of their thoughts. All he need draw upon was their Power, bonded to their love of Eloe, heart-kin to both.

If only it had been that
simple.

“Y
OU SHOULDN'T ALLOW THIS. It's too dangerous, Sira.” Barac rubbed a hand over his face, uncharacteristically flushed. “I don't doubt Morgan's skill—”

“Nor do I,” I interrupted, stung by the reminder. That skill had repaired damage I'd done to my cousin's mind and would always regret. “Stop fussing.”

Offense wiped the worry from his handsome features. “I report a potential risk to you, Keeper,” he said stiffly. “As is my duty.”

Because Chosen followed each other into death. Since his Joining to Ruti di Bowart, Barac had acquired an annoying air of superiority on the subject, apparently convinced Morgan and I treated our lives as casually as any unChosen.

Far from it, but that wasn't for anyone else to know. “Noted.” Relenting, I gestured apology.
We mustn't lose any more.

He nodded. M'hiray shared the gesture; the Om'ray Clans adopted it, slowly. What we did share was Choice and Joining, with its perilous permanence.

Until my own, I'd known only the hunger. Like any—all—unChosen, I'd been incomplete. When my bond to my mother had snapped, strained by distance and overuse, something inside me, innate and wordless, longed to be filled. That mutual need brought Chooser and unChosen together.

Since, I'd learned more than was comfortable about Clan Joinings. The Drapsk, a species who roamed the stars in ships crewed by vast tribes, studied the M'hir, which they called the Scented Way. They'd proved to me the existence of
things
in the M'hir able to cling to Choosers,
things
drawn to the Power-of-Choice used to test unChosen candidates—to kill them, if their own Power failed. The
things
consumed the energy released within that contest.

Making us food, plain and simple.

Or not so simple. My Human had taught me to look deeper, to assume anything alien could surprise, and what could be more alien than M'hir-life? The Rugherans were, yet weren't at whim, plunging like giant fish into the M'hir, only to squeeze inside a starship corridor and bargain for what they wanted. Or what their world, White, wanted, for that was another disturbing truth about the M'hir. Some planets existed there as well. The Drapsk settled on them to fulfill their own desire to be complete; the planets themselves seemed to Join, one to another.

The entire business being ridiculously erotic, discussing the topic with my Chosen most often ended in an enlightening lack of words. My hair twitched. Human and Clan were conveniently similar but we'd such intriguing differences—

A thought to save for later, Witchling, if you don't mind?

I felt myself blush in earnest and couldn't help glancing at my Chosen.

Morgan knelt by Eloe's bed, holding hands with Tal and Dama. His head was bowed in concentration, the muscles of shoulders and upper arms tensed. Eloe remained curled around the handlight, her eyes closed.

Tempting, to
reach
toward him, and them, to see for myself what Morgan attempted. As that could be worse than distracting, I shifted my attention back to my cousin. “Morgan knows what he's—”

Disorientation . . .

I lurched, grabbing Barac, feeling him steady me, his
alarm—

Darkness!

Wasn't the M'hir, but suddenly, I couldn't see. Wasn't the ship, but I couldn't breathe. I smothered, choked, couldn't scream—

NOT REAL!
Aryl's mindvoice, like a blow.
Sira. This is their
memory of Tuana and the Oud, not yours. What they felt.
Sensed
from others. You can breathe. You can see.

I heaved for air, blinked for a stunned second at Barac, seeing my horror mirrored in his expression. Tearing free of his hold, I ran for Morgan, staggering as if the flat deck beneath me was loose soil and treacherous.

Too late. The three on the bed had tumbled together into a still heap. My Chosen, trapped in memory, convulsed on the floor.

Throwing myself atop him, I
plunged
along our link, seeking his consciousness. There. Faint, strained, but aware.
HERE! I AM REAL!
I sent with everything in me,
awareness
plus
strength,
knowing I'd one chance.

He
reached
as someone drowning.
Sira . . .

YES!

I felt Morgan's chest shudder, then expand and fall in great gasps. His eyes opened, their blue at first dazed, then grim. “The others—”

Abandoning my Human, I went to the bed. The three unChosen had stretched out, Eloe sandwiched between the sibs, now sound asleep. Their faces were peaceful, arms overlapped. I let out a trace of Power, finding nothing unusual.

Morgan leaned on my shoulder. “Good,” he whispered, gazing down. “It was just me.”

And me.

That being a point to make later, once certain he'd recovered—and after I'd listened to Barac's “I warned you” and apologized—I eased my arm around my Chosen's waist. “What say we get you dressed?”

To my dismay, Morgan dressed in record time, determined to consult with his fellow Healer-of-minds while, as he put it, everything was fresh.

Fresh was one way to put it. I still felt the urge to gasp, as if being smothered. “Are you sure about this?”

“No time like the present, Witchling,” he said. The tone might be cheerful, but I knew that look.

He'd made a discovery while healing Eloe's mind, something important—

It was, I feared, nothing good.

He won't burden you until he's sure,
Aryl sent, sounding more distant than usual.
My Enris was the same. We were Chosen, but our opinions and decisions were ever our own. I remember he once—
My awareness of her abruptly faded.

I understood—how could I not? Aryl and her beloved Chosen Enris had done the unthinkable, severing their Joining so Aryl could leave herself, mind and Power, in that crystal.

They'd done it because she'd feared what the M'hiray would become within the Trade Pact, and sought to save us from ourselves. They'd paid the ultimate price, she and her Chosen, without any surety of success.

I couldn't imagine such courage. If, every so often, Aryl needed to draw aside and renew it, or simply mourn, I thought fiercely, she'd more than earned the right. Without her, the M'hiray would have ended.

Without her, the life growing inside me would be empty and its birth—was much too distant to worry about now, having sufficient on my plate at the moment.

Morgan grabbed his pack with one hand, easing that concern; what he'd brought on board shouldn't be left unguarded, although having that pack at all opened a host of new and uncomfortable possibilities.

“You're not going to tell me, are you?” I asked my Chosen as we headed for the Rayna section of the Core.

The corner of his mouth I could see went down and
tension
sang along our link.

“Only if I'm right, chit.”

The distinct appearance of Om'ray Clans was, we now believed, no accident of nature. The original population would have been
selected for the greatest variation. Since, each Clan had been subjected to different environmental stresses, with individual maturation speeded by additives to their diet to create new generations in a quarter the M'hiray norm. Clans were, in a real sense, pools of breeders, isolated other than the passage allowed unChosen who were themselves selected, we suspected, at least in part by ruthless shepherds. For the Tikitik had the knowledge to guide the evolution of living things, and the Oud—

Were partners in that endeavor, subjects themselves of the experiment, or somehow both. Those on
Sona
trying to piece together the whys and hows of Cersi remained undecided on that and other key points. I won't say it kept me from sleeping, but if
Sona
was taking us back to where all this started, those gaps could become serious problems. As Morgan would say, the cost of ignorance only went up.

The experiment conducted by the Hoveny had produced more than the M'hiray, with our ability to reattach the M'hir to waiting tech. Faces, voices, shapes, and sizes. Genealogy had been my passion, once, and walking through the Om'ray section of the Core was to experience the wild and wonderful diversity once inherent in the Clan. A diversity that would fold back together and blend, as it had in the M'hiray of the Trade Pact.

Giving us a fresh start. For most of my life, I'd known the Clan were doomed to extinction and sought a solution. The Om'ray, with their lesser Power and successful Joinings, offered one I'd never thought to find.

Survive first, I reminded myself. Repopulate later.

The Core remained empty of all but a handful, I hoped due to the natural Clan caution around faltering minds and not because of a worrisome number of food packets to tidy.

The Tuana watched over Eloe and her heart-kin; Ruis di Nemat tended the di Kessa'ats and she stood at our approach, relief written on her face. If I could judge a Clan by common features, like Ruis the few Rayna who'd survived were shorter than other Om'ray, with brown curly hair streaked with white from a young age. Their noses were blunter than those of Amna or Sona, cheekbones higher, and all had oblong eyes of pale yellow.

“My fellow Healer-of-minds. Keeper.” Ruis made the gesture of respect we echoed. “I'm glad you've come. I'd like to try waking them simultaneously.” A wave to her patients. “For that, I'll need your help, Morgan.”

Nyso and Luek lay together on the same bed, their bodies wrapped as one would a newborn, arms snugged to their sides. While their expressions were those of any sleeper, slack and peaceful, their eyelids twitched without pause. Dreaming, I thought.

Nightmares, more likely.

“Of course.” Morgan gazed down at Nyso and Luek, eyes filled with compassion, then up at Ruis. “My experience with Eloe may be relevant.”

“Show me.” Without hesitation, Ruis held out her hand, palm up.

I warmed to her at once.

Just as quickly, my hair took offense. Touch my Chosen? Locks writhed out, intent on slapping her palm away. I caught them just in time, gesturing apology with full hands as the stuff squirmed. The Om'ray Healer looked intrigued. “How—exuberant,” she said tactfully. “A family trait, I assume?”

“So I'm told,” I replied. An annoying one. “I'll get out of the way.” Should I stand at the end of one bed or the others or—

Morgan raised an expressive eyebrow.

Meaning I—and my hair—belonged elsewhere. I resisted the impulse to stick out my tongue.
Be careful.

Always.
With
warmth.

“I'll leave you to your work, then,” I said aloud. Catching a flicker of
concern
from Ruis, I added with a smile, “My Birth Watcher's expecting me at breakfast.”

I 'ported to what had been the Council Chamber and was now
Sona
's galley, not bothering to look for my Birth Watcher. Little Andi sud Prendolat had made friends on the ship and had more interesting things to do with her time than check my eating habits. When Aryl and I needed her, she'd be there to help. Let her be a child till then.