The Gate to Futures Past (17 page)

The shipmind tried to answer and was unable to do so. To me that suggests an internal setting to prevent alarming its Keeper and so its passengers.

I'm alarmed,
I assured him.
What can we do?

Not worry, Witchling. The Hoveny built this ship to last. The Source will be just as well-maintained.
Sona
will receive its confirmation, and all will go as planned.

Things never went according to plan. I started to roll over, to try and see his face. Morgan held me still and I felt him chuckle. His beard tickled my ear, followed by a barely audible whisper in Comspeak: “Time to stay off the record, chit.” Louder, in the language of Cersi, “Time to sleep. It's been a very long day.”

My resourceful Human had a plan. Something the ship—which did, I admit, seem to pay too much attention to whatever I said aloud or, chilling notion, sent by what should have been most private of means—shouldn't know about.

Liking the sound of that, I yawned and snuggled close.

Tomorrow was going to be, as Morgan would put it, “interesting.”

Then I remembered what else tomorrow would bring: having to tell everyone about our food supply, as in lack of, ideally before anyone tried to go to the nonexistent food storage to collect the day's ration and started a panic.

On the bright side?

After ten shipdays hurtling through subspace—

I could tell them to pack.

“Sira.”

I cracked open an eye. Dark. With a firm, if incomprehensible, “Mummphf,” I pulled the blanket over my head. There should be rules about facing the next day before it arrived.

The blanket disappeared. I squinted at Morgan, who was a looming more-dark standing over me, handlight aimed down. “Not morning,” I pointed out.

A corner of the little beam illuminated the noteplas he pushed under my nose as I rose to an elbow.

A noteplas with a message written in Comspeak. I came fully awake as I read.

Can't trust the ship didn't pick up my sleepteach. Will brief Barac same way.

I put my hand in the light, gave the signal for agreement. He flipped the page, revealing more lines in his tidy script.

Today prep to disembark. As is, ship's not secured for landing, so warn them to watch for more modifications. No one to be alone. Everyone ready to 'port here. Be confident and keep telling them you trust the ship.

So
Sona
would believe it.

Next page.
Ship refuses to land, we destroy the interface. Take a chance there's an emergency landing protocol. If we land and the ship refuses let us out, we blow the exit.

Forget trying to reason with it. Stop hunting for nonexistent controls. Prepare to act. To die on our own terms, if necessary. This was the Morgan who'd grown up in a war—and survived it.

I wished for half his courage.
Nik said seven days on rations.

The noteplas and light moved away. I counted five heavy heartbeats before they came back for me to read:

We land or die in one.

He put away the noteplas, then Morgan's hand entered the light, found mine.
I'll be back to hear your breakfast speech. I could use company.

He wore his coat; was dressed, I realized, to roam the still-cold halls before anyone else woke to notice.

I hated getting up in the cold even more than the dark, but so be it. I started to move.

I've someone else in mind, Witchling.

Gratefully snuggling back down, I
reached,
finding a mind I knew well, even asleep, and gave my cousin a sharp
nudge. Dress and meet Morgan at the door. Quietly.

Barac came awake with a speed I envied.
Problem?

Our hope to survive one.

Keep him safe.

As my Chosen's hand left mine, the light vanished. He stepped away like a ghost.

I tucked my nose under the blanket, warm. Cozy.

Then flung myself on my back.

As if I'd sleep
now.

T
HEIR BREATH left clouds in the air and Barac, coatless, shivered violently, but the lift continued to work and that hadn't been guaranteed. Morgan watched walls, floor, and ceiling for any sign of softening, knowing his companion did the same. All looked solid.

Nonetheless, when he saw the number marking their destination, he wasted no time getting through the doors as their sections split apart. “We're here.”

The Clansman was right behind him. Lights were on in the narrow corridor, already or provided in timely fashion. “Wh-where-ss—her-re?”

Sona
wouldn't heat outside the Core for another hour. “Hang on.” Morgan swung off his pack and produced a blanket. “Put this around your shoulders. Don't,” when Barac made a face, “argue.”

The other wrapped himself without a word. Morgan led the way to the workshop door, knocking twice. It opened and he waited for Barac to go through before doing the same. The door closed behind them.

Barac gave a low whistle. “What's all this?” He wandered around the arms of the bench, examining but not offering to touch the objects along it.

“Some are tools, the same age as the ship.” Morgan picked up a flattened disk with an inlay of crystal. “The rest, and the cylinder I showed you, date much older.”

“Older as in Hoveny Concentrix?” At the Human's nod, Barac peered curiously at the disk, then straightened with a shrug, holding the blanket tighter. “I assume you've a reason for dragging us down here.”

“We'll grab what we can.” Morgan put his pack on a stool. “There are bags over there.” Originally intended for waste, at a guess, but they'd nothing else.

And no time to hunt for more.

The Clansman looked incredulous. “Take these things with us? You don't even know what they are.”

“Someone thought them worth bringing to Cersi. They've value, whether in what they are or what they represent. We may need that.”

“Once a trader—” Barac shook his head, but went to the shelf, pulling out the green-colored bags. “At least we're landing soon.” At Morgan's expression, he gave a wan smile. “We're down here before anyone's awake—Sira orders me to come along, no doubt to 'port us back without wasting time. Am I right?”

“After breakfast tomorrow, according to
Sona
.”

“It's true, then.” The Clansman let out a long slow breath. “I wasn't sure I believed there'd ever be an end to this.”

A feeling, Morgan thought, he shared. He walked over to Barac, right hand smoothly taking a share of the bags, while his left, held low, slipped the noteplas into the other's free hand.

He returned to the bench, standing by the stool with his pack, and deftly began to fill one of the bags. “Learned something else interesting,” the Human said conversationally, his tone light. “The ship refers to the M'hir as the ‘null-grid.'” Finally, a name that offered something to work with. The M'hir. The Scented Way. Only the Rugherans knew what they called it. “Could be a clue.” He glanced at Barac.

The First Scout's face was set and pale, jaw working. He used the blanket to shield his arm and hand as he wrote a reply, the precaution perhaps unnecessary.

Considering what he planned, and the demonstrated nature of
Sona
? Morgan preferred unnecessary to any mistakes now.

“You'll need this.” Barac joined him at the bench, handing him the noteplas with another bag.

“Thanks. I've sorted the artifacts from the tools here. Leave anything too big to fit. I'll just check this.” Morgan bent over as if to examine the disk, instead reading what Barac had written.

Must you always blow things up?

He almost smiled.

On your signal, I'll open the door. Hope you don't give it.

Raising his head, he met Barac's steady gaze and nodded, once. Morgan tied off the top of the bag in front of him on the bench, having surreptitiously switched its contents for a pair of small objects neither Hoveny nor Clan. He gave it to Barac. “These could be special. I'll let you take care of them.”

Barac's eyes widened and if he took the bag with extra care, just as well. It contained two blastglobes: sufficient to obliterate the former main entrance—as well as crack the hull. He'd written instructions in their use. Twist top and bottom firmly in opposite directions, put on the floor near the target, then get back to the Core. Until twisted, they were harmless. Undetectable.

Expensive, though he hadn't paid in credits. Omacron III's telepaths had a useful curiosity about the Human variety. Playing along had been—instructive.

Another life. Morgan intended to preserve this one. “Two bags each, no more,” he advised, not without regret. They were leaving ten times as much and he picked by instinct alone.

He felt the material of a bag: resilient, but tough. “Might be watertight,” he mused and collecting the unused remainder to add to his pack. If so, they could prove of more value than any of these trinkets.

Barac shrugged off the blanket and folded it, offering it to Morgan. “Heat's back on.”

So it was. Meaning lights would come on in the Core, with breakfast to soon follow. Sira would tell her people the truth. Morgan wondered what the Clan would make of it.

“Time's
up.”

I
GRABBED THE CLOTHES I hadn't put away yesterday and 'ported to the accommodation, seizing the chance to shower—and think. We'd till tomorrow, if Morgan interpreted
Sona
correctly; a shipday and night to prepare for the best possibility, arriving on our Homeworld.

No point preparing for anything else.

As my hair vibrated and squeezed itself dry, I dressed, pondering how to break the news.
I could wake Council first,
I suggested to Aryl, pleased with myself.
Let them make the announcement.

I've briefed them. They voted to have you to do it.

That wasn't fair—
I may have forgotten, temporarily, who rode inside my body: the Clanswoman who'd once led all M'hiray.

This isn't about fair, Keeper,
with a tiny
snap.
Then, with characteristic bluntness,
They'll look first to you, Sira, whatever else. Trust yourself. You know what to say.

And what to keep to myself, I thought grimly. Morgan's plan to sabotage the ship was pure desperation, more likely to buy us a quick end than freedom. He hadn't said it.

He hadn't had to.
We've run long enough
, I sent, oddly at peace.

Ready, I stepped outside, pleased to see the lights were up and people rousing.

I opened my mind to the ship. Sona,
are you there?

>Keeper, what is your will?<

Let's get this day started.

“Good morning.”
Sona
carried my voice to the far corners of the Core; I stood on the nearest empty table to be seen—and see.

As I'd seen Morgan and Barac appear near our sleeping area, depositing unfamiliar green bags on our bed. I appreciated their timing; the sooner I did this, the sooner—well, it'd be done.

“This has been a journey none of us expected to make. Full of hardships we couldn't have predicted, as well as joy.” I gestured to Gricel, standing with Yanti in her arms.

Nods, one or two hesitant smiles, but those who allowed me to sense their feelings were sharing an understandable
doubt,
this being how I'd started their day—

Was it only yesterday?

I'd be embarrassed some remote time in the future, when we could look back and laugh. “Our journey began when I asked our great starship,
Sona
—” a little flattery couldn't hurt, “—to take us home. I'm glad to tell you it's about to end. We arrive tomorrow.” And if I put a flare of
hope
under the words, with the Power to reach each and every one?

It was no more than they deserved—and needed.

With a collective gasp, smiles blossomed and people turned to one another. Some hugged, others brushed fingers. There were no few tears. Sendings
sizzled
and voices rose, full of excited anticipation.

Well done.
I let myself look at Morgan. He sat at seeming ease on our bed, hands locked around a knee. He wasn't smiling.

Waiting for the rest, I thought, steeling myself for the same reason. “We have a great deal to do.” The Core fell silent; all eyes fixed on me. “Breakfast's waiting for us, as are packets for our final two meals before landing. The ship's begun to prepare for that, starting with what was the food storage room.” A fine job of justification, if I did say so myself. “More changes could happen at any moment, in any area, so please stay with someone who can 'port you to safety.”

They settled, growing serious. Change and peril was a connection we'd learned to make. Now what did I say?

Council's turn,
Aryl said.
I've conversed with each. They're ready to support you, Sira. We all are.

I made the gesture of respect between equals. “Council will detail what's needed and apportion tasks. We're almost home.”

Jumping down, I headed straight for Morgan.

People absorbed the news, unsure what it meant—for none knew where
Sona
took us—but with relief. We'd existed since leaving the Trade Pact and Cersi, nothing more. All would be glad to see this journey's end.

Council kept us busy. Belongings were packed into rolls made from extra blankets, secured with the last of the gauze brought on board by the Sona and Tuana, including that from the party bows. Groups scoured the ship—on foot and ready to 'port away if spots appeared in the walls—looking for anything useful.

Not that anyone knew what useful would be, but we wouldn't abandon what could be moved. Barring a welcome we knew better than to expect,
Sona
would have to shelter us. Would the starship reshape itself again to our convenience? Be a building again?

An outcome I knew Morgan would consider “interesting.” For myself, the sooner we moved out of these walls, the happier I'd be.

Morgan, of course, had completed his gleaning, his pack having gained a few new bulges, plus whatever was in the bags. He wore the pack at all times now and others took notice; soon it was common to see blanket rolls under an arm or slung across a shoulder, rather than left behind.

Destin stayed by the water dispenser, supervising the filling of whatever containers could be found that were clean and didn't leak. Drought might be a novel concept to those familiar with Cersi's rain-filled groves, but the former scout comprehended the danger it posed. Morgan gave her bags like the ones he'd left on our bed. Filled, they resembled bright green balloons.

And might, I reminded myself, save lives.

In case we faced a blizzard instead, Barac volunteered to sort what warm clothing we had, something that amused Morgan, if not the result. The Amna had brought seven heavy coats and there were a few decorative fur wraps. Moyla set Eloe and any who'd skill with a needle to making cloaklike covers from our extra blankets.

Sona
filled with an atmosphere of purpose and urgency, refreshing as the showers everyone took care to have.

Our Healers had been busy, too. Like a cheerful tide, they'd eased through families, going from person to person, chatting and smiling as they checked for what they termed “readiness.” While I'd no doubt they did exactly that, they also scanned for that perilous strain within minds. Our list of those to watch, and who could need help and soon, had grown.

The topic likely under discussion, I decided as I approached the table where Morgan sat, deep in conversation with Ruis and Ahur sud Vendan.

The oldest of the M'hiray to have survived, Ahur was renowned not for his Power, which was limited, but his Healer's Talent and breadth of knowledge. The great Cenebar di Teerac had studied under him; Jorn di Annk was—had been one of Ahur's most promising new students. I gestured respect as I sat.

“—joyful, yes, but with the uncertainty of how we land and what we find, some could tip over the edge,” Morgan was saying. Blue eyes flicked up to acknowledge my arrival, then went back to Ruis. “We should keep a close watch on the Chosen at risk.”

“Should, yet cannot,” Ahur disagreed in his slow, soft voice. “Our patients are not only spread about but 'porting from place to place, or roaming the ship. Tonight, together in the Core, yes. Until then, we must rely on them to watch one another.”

“I'm more concerned about what happens if several fail at once. Sixty-three M'hiray show signs.” Ruis leaned forward, her gaze turning to me. “Morgan's told us that the Maker could help, but the ship won't let us use it. Is there anything you can do, Keeper?”

“Ask again,” I told her. “That's all.”

I could see the pillar past their shoulders. Machines should prove they were working, be it lights, bells, or annoying hums, as far as I was concerned. The Maker—the ship's vital “access portal interface”—might have been an inert chunk of stone.

Sona, I sent, as I had regularly since waking,
have you received confirmation from the Source?
Wording my Chosen and I had agreed upon: neutral and clear.

>
I will receive confirmation, Keeper.<

Excellent,
I replied, despite it being the same as every previous answer. Morgan sensibly warned not to ascribe emotion to the ship; it made me happier to believe I heard stubborn optimism. After all, the ship couldn't want to fail and die either. Could it?

A question I was not going to ask.

“The Maker remains unavailable.” I put my hand on the table, turned it palm up. “My strength is yours, if ever you need it.”

Morgan's eyes softened; Ahur and Ruis gestured gratitude. “A great comfort, Sira,” the latter added. She eased back, lifting her hand upward. “Our people are full of hope and well-occupied. They're as safe from themselves as can be, for now.”

Ahur raised a gnarled finger to the side of his head. “I suggest we offer a peaceful night to any who ask it.”

Imposed sleep had its risk. Each person would have to be awakened as well, taking time. I saw that understanding cross my Human's face, waited for him to protest. Instead, “I concur. It would be a kindness.”

Morgan, if there's an emergency—

An eyebrow lifted.

Nothing we could do, that meant, awake or asleep.

There were times, I sighed to myself with resignation, I'd have liked a less honest Chosen.

Having no skill whatsoever with a needle and thread, I offered my help elsewhere, 'porting containers of water to the Core, joining the search through what remained accessible on the ship, and, likely most useful of all, stopping to listen. Everyone had a
question or opinion or concern. I answered, nodded, and consoled as best I could.

Everyone, it seemed, but Aryl. She'd withdrawn after the morning's excitement to a distant brooding presence. We each prepared in our own way; if hers required solitude, I was the last to disturb her.

The day flew past, full of odd moments. I tried to explain landing on a planet to four Om'ray elders—not that we knew
Sona
would power its way down like the
Silver Fox
, but at least I'd that experience to share—only to then have to explain what a planet was. Signy di Sawnda'at, Degal's Chosen, drew me aside, offering her rings to help cover any parking fees, leading me to wonder how she'd known such things existed. Clan 'ported to stations like Plexis Supermarket; they didn't dock starships. I assured her, shamelessly, that such details were under control.

Morgan had laughed.

Odon's Chosen, Japel di Rihma'at, came with a more delicate concern: Noil, their son and our most likely Candidate for Choice, had expressed interest in Alet di Uruus, the Tuana Chooser. Understandable. While I'd hoped for Tle or Jacqui, Alet had lived in the canopy, training, like Noil, to harvest dresel with the astonishing-to-me skills of that life. When I said as much, Japel had looked distressed. Did I know if there were groves where we were going? Should they encourage him to look elsewhere, to someone with the skills needed on our new home? What could I tell her about it, please, to prepare him? And if the proud Om'ray begged, and if her eyes filled with tears?