The Gate to Futures Past (15 page)

W
E MADE IT to the naming ceremony before missing anything important or being missed, taking seats near the back, on the only empty bench.

You were right,
I told Morgan. They'd know soon enough, the thought painful as I opened my
awareness,
feeling the hope and joy flowing back and forth through my people. Even Tle looked, if not happy, then entertained.

There were small knots of nameless
misery,
shielded, if not well enough to prevent my sensing them if I tried. I could guess. Barac. Ruti. Likely the scientists who'd come with us. Holl and Leesems squeezed in to sit with their sons, Arla and Asdny. Nik and Josa might have hoped to be near Andi, but the child was with her friends.

We may not have been missed, but our arrival was noticed. Ruis excused herself, coming over to sit beside Morgan. “We've had no more incidents,” she reported quietly. “That won't last.”

I'd almost forgotten how this day'd started. Amazing how a new crisis could shove an old one right out the air lock.

“We've finished scanning the Om'ray,” Ruis continued. “Only eleven show the signs and every Healer knows who they are. I'll give you their names.” She touched Morgan's forehead with casual ease.

“You've told them,” he said, when she was done.

The Rayna shrugged. “We aren't enough to watch them properly, let alone the M'hiray we identify. Their families know what to watch for—they'll alert us of any change. I didn't see any choice.”

Morgan nodded. “You're right.”

“Eleven. That's good news, isn't it?” I ventured, thinking of Nik's numbers.

“So long as they don't all fail at the same time. In that case, we'll need another option.”

Morgan, who didn't forget a thing—or, for that matter, abandon a plan—still intended to see if the Maker could help. I looked over rows of heads toward the dais. The machine was a tall cylinder wider around than our arms could have reached together. It stood in its spot, sporting a large gauze bow. Its dull green surface no longer rippled with light, meaning it was quiescent. Harmless.

Nothing here was.
Don't make me regret this,
I sent dourly.

Odds are we won't live long enough for regret, chit. That's what makes this fun.

“Fun?” I tried not to smile, but it was hopeless. Morgan was, with his dare-anything approach to life. A life I was determined not to lose. In agreement, a lock of my hair looped around his wrist, tangled in his fingers.

“We Dream tonight, Ruis,” I informed the Rayna Healer-of-minds. “If anyone can teach
Sona
how to help those who'll need it, it's Morgan.” I leaned into his shoulder, cheerful for no sane reason beyond we were going into this, as we should, together. Find a cure for those mad with grief. Seize control of this capricious ship, once and for all.

Determine our own fate.

What, I dared think, could go wrong?

Besides, this was a party. When the moment came, we added our voices to the rest as Gricel and Oluk held up the newest member of the Clan, to name and welcome Yanti di Eathem.

A shriek cut through like a knife.

In horrified unison, we turned to stare at Dre.

While Morgan moved.

He ran to the child—no, children, for Dre, Andi, and their friends stood close together, all looking down. Threw himself to his knees, gently pushing them aside.

They parted, keeping hold of one another, to reveal what I took at first for a pile of discarded clothing.

Until Morgan scooped up a limp little body, rising to his feet. His dear face—the look on it—

I shut my eyes.

“Risa asked us to mind Noson,” I heard Andi say in her clear, high voice. “Then she went away. She went too far. Why would she do that?”

Risa di Annk and her Chosen, Jorn, were no longer on the ship. Neither M'hiray had the strength to 'port to any conceivable safety.

They'd gone anyway, whether one first or together didn't matter, leaving behind a baby too young to survive the tearing of his bond to his mother.

I'd thought I'd saved my people. Instead, I continued to fail them. No more, I vowed, watching Andi go to her parents. Others came, were comforting their children. Ruti arrived, taking the husk of our latest dead from Morgan despite his inchoate protest.

To send it into the M'hir, as was our way.

Morgan. If he could stop any more of this, I had to let him try. I closed my eyes, seeing him as if he stood before me, and concentrated . . .

. . . we arrived in the Core—no, the Dream Chamber.

Come to safety,
I ordered my people.
Rest if you can.

But do not disturb us as we Dream.

Turning, I opened my arms. Morgan stared at me, his eyes unfocused and swimming with tears.

I took the step to bring us together.

“The ship will put us to sleep,” I told Morgan. “Temporarily. I could go first.”

He gave me a look that needed no interpretation.

“Together, then.” He'd witnessed what happened when
Sona
drew its Keeper into its embrace. Whatever bed I chose would be drawn up to the high ceiling. Wires would emerge from hiding to—it didn't matter.

Neither of us could bear another tragedy. None of us had time to waste.

I sat beside him, a lock of hair slipping up his arm to curl around his neck. “It may not work.”
Aryl?

This is your duty, Keeper,
came the reply.
I plan to stay well clear.
With that, my sense of her faded . . .

As my sense of my Chosen increased, our link strengthening until I felt his heartbeat echo mine, the boundary between who we were less than that between our lips.

Now,
I told
Sona.

And fell asleep.

>W
HAT ARE YOU . . . <

Asleep, Morgan thought. Which was a surprise. He'd planned to pay close attention to the happening in the Dream Chamber. Catch the machinery at work. The last thing he remembered paying attention to was the comforting strength of Sira's mind within his, and the warm soft press of her lips.

Cheating, that was. She'd distracted him.

>You are not the Right Kind. Only the Right Kind are able to access this portal. What are you?<

Ah, a machine brain. Cheered, Morgan challenged the dream voice.
If only the “Right Kind” are able to access this portal, does it not follow I must be one of them?

>You are Chosen of the Keeper
.
As she is the Right Kind, you have taken advantage of her to access this portal.<

Sly, for a starship. He'd best not underestimate it, even in a dream.

No one takes advantage of me.
Sira's voice, endearingly grumpy.
What's going on here? Oh.
As she came awake, so to speak, her tone turned formal.
Captain Jason Morgan. Meet
Sona.

>Hello.<

Dream or not, the courtesy sent a chill down Morgan's spine. Yes, he'd imbued the
Silver Fox
with personality. Their
conversations—albeit one-sided—had helped pass many a lonely voyage, but he'd never lost his awareness of the dangerous line between imagination and real. Never dared add an AI to the ship and have that line blur in the depths of space.

Greetings,
Sona.

>Keeper, have you come for my answer to your question about traumatic loss?<

Straight to the point. He'd thought to start with ship operations—

No. He couldn't hold another tiny body. He would not.
That is why I am here,
he told the ship.
I've been able to help afflicted minds.
No boast; he'd checked on Eloe and her heart-kin before going to the Council meeting, relieved to find them clear-eyed and sane; grieving, yes, but no longer fixated on the Oud attack.
My technique—

>I see it.<

How? What? Morgan hurriedly checked his mental shields, relieved, then puzzled to find them exactly as they should be: impenetrable, other than by his Chosen. What this implied about the technology in play here—

The ship continued. >
Your abilities are impressive, Captain Jason Morgan, but not relevant. I cannot replicate them. I can neither merge nor connect with a living mind other than the Keeper.<
A pause. >
And you.<

Sira entered the conversation.
What can you do?
Warily. She would have noticed
Sona
ignoring his shields.

>I can move a memory to storage. I can supply memories from those provided me.<

A bank of memories, cued to be “supplied” as necessary to the Clan on their new home? Those wouldn't help now.
If that's all you can do,
words Morgan aimed as much at his Chosen as the ship,
why did you request this Dream?

>I can do this.<

And he was no longer dreaming.

And no longer on the ship.

Terk grunted, slowed their rush through the air, then pushed a control to release the aircar's portlights, sending them soaring outward, their broad white beams slicing through the night. Water, water. Then a shoreline, reed grass burned in a long streak, wreckage—Morgan heard 'Whix muttering into a com—then the edge of a tiny forest, dwarf trees toppled this way and that, as though tossed by a giant before taking root.

“We'll land back at the wreckage,” Terk began, slowing the aircar even more and beginning a banking turn.

Morgan didn't listen. His every sense insisted Sira was below them—and there was no time left. His hand was already on the latch to the emergency door. He heaved it open with one quick jerk.

Then threw himself out into the darkness.

But this wasn't real, it wasn't now. He'd left Russell Terk and P'tr wit 'Whix behind on Stonerim III, the enforcers, in their gray body armor, covering their escape from the Assemblers. This—this was the past, when they'd helped him search the swamps of Ret 7—search for Sira, who was near death—