The Gate to Futures Past (9 page)

F
OOD STORAGE was two levels down from the former Council Chamber, reached by a lift that had appeared, first shipnight, behind a door that had also appeared.

Leading Barac, from that morning, to think twice before opening any door and be sure his Chosen did, too.

Down the lift, then a short walk along a plain corridor that ended in two doors, also “new,” set side-by-side. The left door gave access to a seemingly bottomless chute, identified by
Sona
's Keeper as for the disposal of emptied food packets.

Jason Morgan, who knew about such things, suggested they drop nothing other than food packets in the chute, the ship silent on how it dealt with waste and there being significant risk involved in messing up a system that might use heat and/or other form of disintegration. Apparently, it was impossible to toss garbage out into subspace. Another horrifying tidbit known only to the Human.

The right door led to food storage, a large room lined on one side with wheeled carts clipped to one another or the wall. Each cart was a metal box with slots for fifty packets, either full or ready for disposal.

Meaning every day, before anyone could eat, the ship expected someone—several someones—to walk here, load those carts, and
wheel them up to the galley. The return trip, to waste disposal, was equally necessary, it being unwise—according to Jason Morgan, who knew about such things—to leave anything that could move during an unexpected maneuver loose and able to do so.

To no one's surprise, the Om'ray thought this an admirable arrangement, especially, Barac thought glumly, those still unable to 'port themselves, let alone a cart.

To the M'hiray who took shifts? Some were unpleasantly surprised when Council expected them to walk as well, in interests of fairness. And, as Jason Morgan suggested, to get at least some exercise.

Barbaric, the entire process. Practicing with his force blade was exercise. Making love with Ruti—definitely worthwhile exertion.

Give him a fine restaurant, servo-free, like Huido's
Claws & Jaws.
He'd even settle for full automation, assuming the ship's food replicator was up-to-date. But no, for the duration of the voyage, they'd this.

Hopefully, they had this.

“Well?” Gurutz di Ulse peered over his shoulder. “What do you think?”

“What I think doesn't matter.” The business side of the room was opposite the carts. Barac straightened, causing the shorter Om'ray to step back. He wouldn't be rushed, particularly when faced with a mechanical maw large enough to swallow an aircar.

Machinery of any sort couldn't be trusted, in his experience. Especially this machinery, having spewed food packets like so much vomit and now gaping as though exhausted.

They'd cleaned its mess, for once eschewing the carts in favor of 'porting packets by the armload to the galley. The faster they could sort out damaged packets, the better. Luckily, most were still intact, now taking up useful table space. He supposed Morgan would insist they be secured, too. Maybe the Om'ray could make nets—

Gurutz scowled. Maybe it was his normal expression; Barac hadn't seen the Sona scout smile since the Cloisters turned into a starship. “We should have brought the Human.”

“Holl sent us.” A selection based, the First Scout suspected, on
his cousin's whim. Sira might forgive the interruption of her stolen moment with her Chosen; that didn't put her beyond making the cause—him—pay. “If you can find Morgan, feel free to invite him along.”

“Find that one? Easier to spot a red brofer under a blood bush.”

No doubt an apt comparison, whatever a “brofer” might be. He'd known Morgan wandered. Where, being the question. Barac eyed the Om'ray with real curiosity. “You tried to follow him, didn't you?” Something he'd have advised against. The Human had—disquieting—skills.

Then again, so did the Sona. Gurutz lifted a hand, holding it out empty. “We've all tried,” he admitted. “Do you know where he goes?”

Away from us, Barac guessed, with a certain sympathy. “Mapping,” he said out loud. “Besides, we've the help we need right here.” He glanced down to his left, where a silent presence quivered with desire to matter. “Ready, Arla?”

Dappled fingers touched the strip of cloth acting as a blindfold. “Whenever you say, First Scout.” Young Arla di Licor was a Looker, his rare Talent reacting to any change from his last memory of a place.

It wasn't a comfortable gift, the sensation incurred ranging from mild awareness to nauseating disorientation. Which would be why Arla hadn't come alone. His older brother, Asdny, hovered nearby. His role, normally, was to keep Arla away from
Sona
's modifications and safe.

Not today. That Talent should tell Barac what they needed to know.

Holl and Leesems hadn't objected when he'd included their son in this excursion—who would, seeing the delight on Arla's face—but they'd not been pleased. Holding him responsible, they were, for Arla's well-being.

As if he could guarantee the unknowable.

The younger M'hiray waited, fingers ready. Gurutz looked at Arla, frowned, then dared send
disapproval
at Barac.
He shouldn't be here.

The First Scout didn't bother to reply. Gurutz grumbled because Om'ray were like Arla's eccentric family, keeping their unChosen close until ready for Choice and even after, the newly Chosen living with one set of parents or the other. More protective than Aryl remembered, but Cersi's Clans had been forced to change, isolated by the Oud, under attack by the Vyna.

They weren't on Cersi, Barac told himself. Arla's temporary discomfort could identify a serious problem. Besides, as a M'hiray, he should consider the male unChosen expendable, if he considered him at all.

Enora hadn't—why was he arguing with himself? Enora sud Sarc, his mother, was—had been—an empath and kind. Oh, he'd known his worth to the Clan; he'd been made a First Scout because his death wouldn't matter.

Gurutz and other Om'ray scouts were selected from Chosen who'd earned the right. They had skill, experience—

The best of reasons to be cautious. When his brother had been murdered, hadn't his Chosen, Dorsen, and their unborn died, too?

Different ways—he was M'hiray—

“Something wrong, First Scout?” Was the corner of Gurutz's lips turning up?

“We each have our strengths,” Barac replied, uncaring if he made sense. Why keep comparing them? Why not—combine them?

Why stay M'hiray and Om'ray? Together, weren't they already something else? Something new?

Clan.

Sira's type of thinking. Contagious, heady stuff. Barac gave himself an inner shake. It was all too much for a simple scout. He couldn't change anything.

You just did,
Ruti sent, her attention drawn by his troubled thoughts. He felt her
smile.

Barac stiffened.
What do you mean?

Yourself. Us. How our family will be. I
see
the future you do, beloved, and I want it, too. We all do.
A tender
warmth.

Daunting, her faith in him.
I don't suppose you can tell me how?

You already know.
His sense of her faded.

He knew enough to start small, Barac thought warily. Smiling at Asdny, he put his hand on Arla's thin shoulder, sent
reassurance.
“If anything bothers you, your brother's to 'port you both to the Core at once. Find your mother or any Healer. That's an order.”

“But I—”

“Prepare your locate,” Barac said sternly, receiving Asdny's nod of agreement. He ignored Gurutz's small but growing smile. “Or I send you both back now.”

He felt the sigh. “Yes, First Scout.”

Barac tensed as Arla lifted the blindfold from his eyes.

The Looker squinted at the machine, then around the empty, high-ceilinged room. His dappled face filled with relief. “It's the same as it was before. All of it.” He pointed to the gaping machine. “That's just how the unit opens to deliver the packets, First Scout. Then it closes.”

“Excellent.” In every way. Barac coughed. “Let's hope it doesn't close now.”

Hiding his reluctance, he put his hands on the rim of the mechanical mouth and leaned cautiously into the cavity, craning his neck to look up. There, well out of reach, he could see the wire racks that—until this morning—slid down to offer one hundred and seventy-nine packets with machine precision before each of the ship's two meals.

They looked empty. Didn't mean anything, he told himself. The cavity stretched beyond those moving racks, disappearing into the dark bowels of the ship. For all he knew, the racks weren't filled until ready to drop down—

—through the space presently occupied by his head and shoulders. The First Scout hastily pulled himself clear. “I imagine it will reset itself before breakfast, during shipnight.” He waved his hands to imply that complex but surely normal process.

The youngsters smiled trustingly.

Gurutz looked skeptical but didn't argue. How could he? The Om'ray knew even less than he did about machines. What they needed down here was the Human.

Failing that? Well, he'd one more trick, as Morgan would say,
up his sleeve. “Gurutz. You and the lads report to Holl.” Barac gestured gratitude, finishing with a bow. “Well done.”

They bowed back, Arla's eyes glistening with pride. His brother patted him on the shoulder.

“Will you make your own?” the Sona scout asked, no longer smiling.

“Only,” Barac said honestly, “if I've one to make.”

Once they'd disappeared, the Clansman sat on the floor, choosing a spot in the middle, his back to the maw. Wrapping his arms around his calves, he dropped his forehead to a knee.

Cleared his mind.

Waited.

Discipline, he had. It only felt as though the walls were as thin as issa-silk, the deadly twisted space outside as apt to consume him as the M'hir itself.

It only felt he could, for all he really knew, be buried beneath dirt instead, running out of air.

Barac waited. He'd the Talent to
taste
change. A flinch rather than insight, but a reliable warning nonetheless.

Even if, half the time, such
tastes
arrived too late for him to do more than pull his blade and duck.

CLANK!

“Seventeen Hells!” Barac scrambled to his feet and whirled to face the dispenser, heart pounding in his ears. His hand reached for his force blade—

—stopped short.

The machine looked the same. Was the same. He took a deep breath. Resetting, that was all. Not that he'd stick his head in again to see for himself. And what was that? Faint, steady—
grindgrindgrind
—barely louder than his pulse at first.

Getting louder.

A sound like that, Barac decided, came from a machine too busy to be bothered.

Time to leave.

Barac, could you come here?
Ruti.
I've a situation—

CHANGE!
He staggered, the
taste
overwhelming.

Gone again.

—
need your advice. Is everything all right?

Yes.

Nothing was. He'd his warning: a strong one. But was it about the noises, his Chosen's “situation” . . .

Or some trouble yet to reveal itself?

Barac laughed at himself. Not all was his concern. Morgan could take care of the machine; his powerful cousin, the unknown future.

He concentrated.
Coming, Ruti.

The
taste
still rank in his mind, Barac picked his way through a maze of children. Given the freedom of the galley between meals, they whooped and laughed, some running between tables, the rest 'porting ahead to surprise them. Their mothers were gathered around a table of their own, outwardly unaware; bonds
sizzled
, connecting each with their child. The need to hold on to one another burned Power through the M'hir so long as their bond lasted, be it days or months—or Sira di Sarc's incredible years.

Only three of the eighteen so bonded were M'hiray: Andi sud Prendolat and two toddlers. All had been with their mothers, by chance safe during the Assemblers' first attack.

They'd lost the rest. M'hiray children were fostered, taken as far as possible from their mothers. The strain on their bond produced passages, those scars through the M'hir that made it easier for others to 'port between those points. The M'hiray, forever turning instinct to advantage.

It had put everyone at risk. Fosters died with their hosts, the bond dooming distant mothers; or mothers died first, dragging their children behind. Chosen died worlds apart and the M'hiray left were pursued—

To their deaths. Yes, the Om'ray had died as well, but not like this, Barac thought bitterly. When the Oud reshaped the ground beneath them, families rushed to the safety of each Cloisters and survived, together.