The Gate to Futures Past (24 page)

G
LANCES. An instant's distraction. The beard, maybe. Have to lose it if he wanted to blend, Morgan judged, though if this group represented the majority of Hoveny, it wouldn't be remotely enough. Oh, in the dark, maybe, but here he fit, strange as it was to think, best with M'hiray like Barac.

The Hoveny had hair, though none here had the thick tumble of opinion that marked the Clan Chosen, but what he did see was white. They'd more variety in skin tone, from midnight black to the translucence of the Vyna. For Vyna, beyond question, had been the control, the baseline, the real, if he'd call them that, Hoveny. He'd come up to the chin of the shortest here. Outmassed any, for they were slender. Two thumbs and four fingers per hand, though these had nails and were the same length as his. Clothing was similar, there being practicality in tough pants, boots, and jackets. Workers.

Could be a mine after all.

They knew he was different, Morgan thought, if not how or what it meant, but no one wasted time on him and he approved. Without invitation or greeting, the Hoveny flowed through the Clan like a wave, sweeping them up in a triage and evacuation procedure either regularly used—or well practiced.

Practice was his guess. The Human picked out the individual
in charge, a tall male, older than most, with devices in both ears and “Hope's” version of a noteplas in one hand. Confident, calm, but a little too intense for this not to be their first real emergency.

Their tech was sophisticated. Wheels instead of anti-grav on the vehicles, but that could be economics or some constraint of the work. The quiet engines contained nothing more mysterious than detectable powercells and the Hoveny med-kits could pass for those ubiquitous on Human worlds, other than being black with green bands. Up close, the sturdy clothes had no markings to imply rank or service. Civilians.

Perhaps.

Add the space capability implied by the Tikitik, and—too soon, but he'd dare think it— “Hope” was starting to look reassuringly familiar.

Palming his scanner, the Human set it to record. As with the Tikitik, the language was the one he'd learned, from Cersi, though the accent differed. These Hoveny clipped and shortened some words, added others, but nothing that hindered mutual understanding.

Kindness and competence lent their own. The wounded were being assessed, the most serious lifted on the flat backs of freight vehicles that moved off at once, slowly enough that those caring for them—and those concerned—could walk alongside. Just as well. They'd started with too few Healers.

They'd less now. Ahur hadn't reached the planet, Ghos had been killed by Oud, and elderly Eand was one of those carried off.

The survivors able to walk were to go in small personnel carriers, with paired bench seats, and those waiting their turn had clumped into groups. Tellingly so. He looked over at his Chosen, standing alone and at a small distance, and knew better than
reach
along their link.

Sira stood, her hands together, her hair straight, clothing dust-covered and stained with blood from a scrape along her jaw that promised a bruise beneath.

And was so much more. Ancient. Ageless. Powerful. He wasn't
the only one to feel it. She radiated strength, a strength that denied fear and insisted on peace. The Hoveny needed no introduction to grasp who led these people, and who protected them.

If they glanced at him? Morgan thought with grim pride.

They stared at
her.

I
STOOD gazing out at the Hoveny and the Clan, living legacies of a shared past, and instead of satisfaction or wonder or anything else I'd hoped to feel, I was frozen with fear. At last I understood how Aryl could have put herself in that crystal. She'd feared what she saw our people becoming enough to reach from the past to stop it. It hadn't worked, not as she'd planned. The M'hiray had taken advantage of their Human hosts and paid the price. She'd arrived in time to save us from our folly.

Could I, here and now? For what I saw was the same dreadful potential for harm. What I knew? The cost.

I was aware of Morgan. He hovered—not that he'd use the word—nearby, offering comfort by his silent, understanding presence. Not that he was idle. I'd seen him unobtrusively adjust his scanner. By now, my Human likely already knew more than anyone else about our new “friends.”

On the outside. The instinct to
reach
for like minds, to
compare
Power was hard to resist at a distance, impossible to deny if touch was offered. Our rescuers showed no restraint, handling the wounded, placing blankets over shoulders. It was as if they didn't comprehend—

Oh, but they didn't. I'd realized it almost at once. The Hoveny were Clan enough to be glowing, albeit dimly, in the M'hir, but I
sensed no deep connection to one another, nothing like that pervading our minds. The Hoveny were
real
by Om'ray standards and possessed the rudiments of Power.

Yet, as far as I could tell, these individuals lacked the Talents to use it.

Making them weak. Defenseless.

I wouldn't be the only one to sense it. While the Prime Laws existed to protect such vulnerable minds, forbidding the stronger from entering to touch their thoughts, we'd those among us accustomed to doing far worse.

To Humans. The aliens they'd feared most and used. And where had that brought us?

They mustn't make the same mistake here.

They won't,
Aryl sent grimly.
You won't let them.

Whatever it takes,
I agreed, feeling the vow take hold inside me. To safeguard our place among the Hoveny, as equals. Nothing less. Nothing more.

So as I stood, waiting for the questions sure to come, I watched the M'hiray.

To see who might threaten this world.

Gurutz was the first to approach me, his hurried gesture of respect little more than a flick of his fingers. “Your help, Keeper—Sira. There's a problem with the husks.”

Morgan came alert. “I'll go.”

“We both will.” I shook off the stasis I'd been in, glad to have a purpose.

The M'hiray
pushed
the physical remnants of our lives into the M'hir. The Om'ray disposed of theirs even more simply—dropping them into a swamp, to be eaten, or leaving them out on the ground, to be eaten. Not an option for those of us who'd lived in cities.

Especially Human ones, where authorities tended to frown upon the eating of corpses. It was, as I recalled, a humanoid-specific prejudice; they'd no problem at all with beings who didn't look like them serving a grandparent for supper.

From what Gurutz could tell us as we walked to the knot of people around our husks, the Hoveny shared the Human view, insisting “something be done” with them.

Not, I sighed to myself, the inaugural topic I'd thought to discuss with our rediscovered kin.
Care to take this one?
I sent, willing to play the coward with my Chosen. Who was, I reminded myself, our negotiation specialist.

Deal.

Sona
's blankets and bright coveralls lay strewn on the ground, along with soiled lengths of gauze and heavy coats. No knives or other objects of use; the Om'ray were efficient. There were bodies, too, some unrecognizable, others that might have been asleep. We'd lost eighteen M'hiray in the M'hir during our passage.

Twenty-one more, Om'ray and M'hiray, had died here. Only twelve husks remained, a disturbing discrepancy we wouldn't mention to the Hoveny. More had fled reality.

The mere thought tormented me. Had each heard a familiar voice? A loved one—now dead?

Had I?

I shuddered and Morgan's fingers brushed warm against my wrist.
Okay?

I've something to tell you—
The leader, at least of this group of rescuers, was walking toward us.

Offering his hand.

My Human didn't hesitate, stepping forward to grip it in his. The Hoveny looked down, turning their clasped hands. Counting digits at a guess. His eyes, pale and intelligent, widened briefly before he let go. “I am Pauvan Di,” he said, his voice pleasantly deep. “We grieve with you.”

“Thank you,” Morgan replied, dipping his head. He'd been observing their ways, I realized. “Jason Morgan. This is Sira and Gurutz.”

The Sona scout pointedly put his thumbs through his belt, but I didn't hesitate to offer my hand to the Hoveny, bending my head that slight bit, too. “We are all grateful,” I said earnestly.

His skin to mine allowed a subtle exploration. I sensed
goodwill
and burning
curiosity.
There. Another presence. So they'd Chosen, or something like it.

The mind linked to his was stronger, as we measured Power, roughly equivalent to the average Human telepath. She, for I sensed that, too, saw what Pauvan saw. They'd be able to communicate.

Unfair to hide what I was, but this wasn't the time for revelation. In case either of the pair could sense emotion—consciously or not—I filled the outermost layer of my thoughts with
gratitude,
adding the
worry
and
grief
he'd expect
.
The truth—always the safer course. I reclaimed my hand.

“We would like to remove your—” the Hoveny's hesitation made me like him even more, “—your lost ones.” He gestured toward a waiting transport, larger than the others and with an enclosed back.

Let me, chit.
“We appreciate it,” Morgan said, his tone somber. “How can we help?”

“We're strangers.” Pauvan appeared to brace himself. “We shouldn't—strangers shouldn't handle the dead.”

I felt Gurutz's
impatience.
From the look of those in the vicinity, the Hoveny had tried to make this point already and failed. The Clan, tired and upset, weren't about to volunteer to clean up after the Oud.

Morgan handed me his pack. “I'll do it.”

Jason—

It's not the first time, Witchling.
With quiet resolve.
Let's make it the last.

I helped. Seeing what we were doing, Barac came, and Ruis, then a few others. The Hoveny proved willing to place the husks, if wrapped in blankets, in the transport. They did so with such respect and care, I might have been ashamed.

But these pieces of flesh weren't us and hadn't been. This was work, filthy and hard, and like Barac and the others, I did it not for the Hoveny sensibilities or for our dead, but for Morgan.

When we were done, the Hoveny gave us round flasks of water, pausing for a moment's silence before drinking themselves.

While the Clan watched.

And some of them judged.

There will be those who fall, Sira
. Aryl's mind voice was almost stern.
There was nothing anyone could have done.

Though I'd rinsed my mouth and drank, the acrid taste of dust, what it meant, lingered.
Tell Ruti.
One of the husks had belonged to Rasa. Since that dreadful discovery, Barac's Chosen had gathered the other children together, keeping them and their parents as far from me as possible.

I will not. If blaming you helps her function, so be it.
Grimly.
You're strong enough to give her time.

She's not the only one who blames me.
Josa and Nik, the latter having yet to let go of their daughter's hand, stood pointedly with Degal.

And me.
Morgan entered the conversation, his sending dark with grief
. I brought the Oud.

You stopped them from running us down!
Aryl's tone softened.
We've been here before. Do not regret what can't be changed.

Listen to our daughter-to-be.
I slipped my hand into Morgan's, sent
strength.
Not that my Human was in need, but to see something warm again in his eyes and know I'd put it there.

One of the Hoveny approached, dipping his head courteously. It was Pauvan Di. His face was drawn, sweat-dampened dust caught in the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “If you'll come with me, please, Sira. Jason.” He indicated the remaining vehicle.

I'd sent Tle di Parth first, with Destin, the pair being the most potent combination of Power and suspicion among us. The Chooser had agreed to stay connected; I'd felt nothing but her
attention
along our link, deep inside the M'hir.

We were the rearguard, in Morgan's parlance. Against what, I'd no idea and would be delighted not to discover.
Any problems?
I asked Tle.

We're fine. Waiting for you.
The Chooser's tone for once had no bite to it.
Our hosts are courteous.

Would there be Candidates for her among them? Our initial sample didn't bode well.

Morgan picked up his pack. “Lead on.”

I climbed in and sat. The bench seat wasn't padded. That, and the lack of doors suggested the climate here was moderate—or would be hotter. The little bit of reasoning pleased me, even though I suspected my ever-capable Human had determined how to drive and rebuild the vehicle, as well as predict the weather for the coming—what did I call it here, months? The Om'ray used fists.

Months would do, I decided, till I knew better.

The driver sat in the middle of the front bench, Pauvan Di to her right. Or his right. She or he was one of the individuals here who, though adult, felt neither female nor male to my inner sense, doubtless the reason for the Tikitik's consternation over our being “all sexed.” I needed new pronouns, as well as names for time.

Though tempted to lean forward and ask, I stayed put, not that I'd much choice, squeezed between the open side and Morgan's pack. He grinned at me over the top and pointed.

The archway, with its lit tunnel, was about to swallow us.

As we drove inside, I craned my neck, determined to observe everything I could. Not that I expected a tunnel to be all that informative, but at this point, anything about this place and people had to help.

The construction was new, based on the perfect brickwork lining the walls. The light fixtures were more haphazard, strung along ribbons of thick wire—primitive, or expedient. I could almost hear Morgan warning me against premature assumption. The wheels crunched on a road made of coarse gravel, dampened to keep down dust.

Our destination became clear before we'd gone far: another world.

An old one. Instead of smooth brick to either side, we drove between the rounded sides of buildings, as though entering a
narrow street within a buried city. Making this tunnel an excavation and these buildings?
Aryl, what do you think?