The Gate to Futures Past (21 page)

“You'll be notified when I'm done,” Lemuel said, signaling. Techs festooned with gear and goggles hadn't been all ne'd brought to the moon.

The seniormost of nes security left nes post, coming to the engineer's elbow. “This way, honored official.”

Sorina had no choice but to incline her head and leave without argument, though she shot the Tikitik a disturbed look when it barked its laugh. Most Hoveny wouldn't encounter an active Thought Traveler in their lifetime.

Lucky them.

“It's no artifact,” Lemuel murmured, walking around what had been an inert pillar of ancient dark green metal, aware the Tikitik paced behind. “Not anymore.” The object was disconcertingly familiar. Ne'd spent nes youth on a farm in the Ribbon Lands. Dig an
um
anywhere, and you'd find the same; farmers plowed around them, or used them for gate posts. The pillars were among the more useful of the empire's remains.

Familiar, yet nothing so ordinary. This pillar had been found, as had this curve-walled complex, beneath Raynthe's surface. Luck or fate. The moon was slated for a life-sustaining atmosphere and all the fittings to please Oud and Tikitik alike before they began establishing a working biosphere. Surveyors readying a crater for its new life as a lake had discovered this centuries-abandoned installation; more accurately, they'd rediscovered it, for the site proved to be listed in documents produced by a mid-rank historian.

Lemuel had been briefed on the flight here. Brought in to inspect the site, Koleor Su had claimed the entire complex to be a control facility, over three hundred cycles old, built in secret by a rebellious planetary government.

Over the generations, there'd been several so inclined. Brightfall remained the thorn in more reasonable hides. Sentimentality, to allow it to be resettled, but it had been before nes time.

The pristine condition of the find, itself rare, meant postponing demolition until the complex could be thoroughly studied, the start of Sorina Din's scheduling woes.

A form of demolition was presently underway, techs with no interest in history going through rooms and corridors, where necessary tearing open walls, while Koleor Su sat fuming on a stool, barefoot and in his nightshift, having been dragged from his bed at Lemuel's order. Seeing the pillar, he'd exclaimed once, then fallen stubbornly silent.

A “su” had no heart-kin—yet—and so no haisin to breach security. He could wait.

The pillar, now surrounded with recording apparatus, continued to flash a dizzying display as it cycled fruitlessly through what Lemuel's techs concluded was a preset sequence of reception and transmission. They'd thrown a frequency specific shutdown field over this side of the moon once the location had been verified.

Perhaps in time to keep this quiet. Nes staff were the best.

“Tech,” Thought Traveler dismissed the object. “Old at that.”

“Director.” A tech offered Lemuel a curled sheet that, by rights, should be protected in a case; that it had been spat out by the pillar before the shutdown gave ner a profound sense of dislocation. The present mattered. Planning for the next cycle mattered. Offensive, to have the past assert itself.

There were marks on the sheet, none familiar. Lemuel tossed it at the historian. “Read this.”

The stool toppled with a bang as Koleor scrambled for the sheet. Cradling it, he glared at ner, fury burning red on his cheeks. Like younglings, academics; to be forgiven their lack of social grace. Certain no emotion crossed nes features, Lemuel gestured for him to proceed.

His anger faded as he concentrated, lips moving silently. All at once, Koleor's hands trembled. “Received or sent?” he demanded, looking up. “Quickly! I must know!”

Nes staff were offended, the Tikitik bored, but the question was, Lemuel deemed, pertinent. “Received.”

The historian let the sheet fall, his face gone sickly pale.

The techs paused to stare; at nes look, they resumed their activities, shoulders hunched. “What did it say?”

“It's impossible.” He collected himself, lips twisting. “Exactly that. This is some trick to discredit—”

Lemuel Dis swept up the sheet and closed the distance between them, boots clicking on the colored metal floor. “My presence proves it is not.”

He recoiled, dread flooding his appallingly expressive face.

Ne raised the sheet with the marks toward him. “Please.” Quietly. “Tell me what it says.”

Later, Lemuel would remember the moment and wish ne'd listened to Sorina Din, destroyed the pillar and everything here, then run, not walked away.

“Yes, Director.” Koleor locked eyes with ner as if for strength
.
“‘Confirmation request. Identification: Cersi-So.'”

Lemuel ignored the tech who gasped out loud, busy controlling shock of nes own.

“Let me explain the significance—”

“One of the Twelve,” Thought Traveler broke in. “Is it not, Director?”

“It is.” Children learned the names; the religious prayed with them. Twelve starships had been sent into the Heavens by Brightfall in 1030 AF, their mission to circumvent the System Government by establishing contact outside it. To recreate the Hoveny Concentrix with themselves once more in charge. “The Twelve disappeared without a trace,” Lemuel responded, keeping nes eyes on the historian. “You're telling me this—” ne crumbled the sheet in a fist, “—is from a ship lost over three hundred cycles ago?”

Koleor pointed to the pillar, still flickering through its display. “That's telling you.”

“I find your reaction inappropriate.” The Tikitik prowled close, cilia tasting the air near the historian. “I read about your work. You've spent your life researching the Cersi Rebellion. Surely this is vindication. Why are you fearful?”

A grimace. “I didn't expect the past to just—show up. If this is Cersi-So—” The historian swallowed. “Director, how freely may I speak?” He tipped his head at those around them.

Ne didn't look. If nes personal staff couldn't be trusted with what he planned to reveal, no one in the System could. As for Thought Traveler?

Oh, there was curiosity aplenty twirling its eyecones now. “Say what you wish,” Lemuel stated, “but do not waste my time.”

“I won't.” Though his skin remained paler than normal, Koleor steadied. “The Twelve weren't what we're taught, nor was their mission. I planned to release my findings—” he waved the rest away impatiently. “Director, those ships couldn't return, not on their own. They were built around pre-Fall technology and the only way back was to get it working again. Do you understand? Their real mission was to find and restore the null-grid. That's what Cersi and her followers believed would bring back the Concentrix.”

Thought Traveler gestured abruptly, bells strident. “Fools and nonsense. That technology failed. It destroyed your Concentrix.”

Technology the Tikitik had rejected, Pre-Fall. Afterward, they'd helped the rest of the System recover from its loss.

If by “helped” you meant traded for permanent and equal say in the new order. Fair enough. Thanks to the Tikitik, the surviving Hoveny hadn't lost their space capability.

Only their taste for it.

The null-grid, Lemuel thought, mind whirling, was like something out of a dream. Ne signaled and a tech hurried to bring ner a stool. In the brief pause, the historian retrieved his and sat, grim-faced, an improbable prophet in a nightshirt.

The null-grid had created the Concentrix, for that had been the Hoveny's lavish gift to any who joined: a pure and inexhaustible power source greater than any previously known. No physical fuel. No wires or broadcasts. No waste or stockpiles. The null-grid
arrived in the marvelous technology the Hoveny offered, from buildings to machines to the tiniest devices; those who adopted them could be forgiven for believing the Hoveny had ushered in a new golden age, for such it seemed.

Until the Fall: the instant, without warning, the null-grid disconnected and vanished. Communication devices no longer worked, starships plunged from subspace, lost, and this remote system, birthplace of the Hoveny and heart of their empire, was cut off from all else.

At first, they hadn't understood the scope of the disaster. Civilization continued, technology predating the null-grid brought into play even as questions were asked. The capital world suffered most, having been completely rebuilt as a gleaming showcase for all that was new, all that was promised. The other worlds went from chagrined at being left behind to quietly grateful for their older buildings and tired infrastructure—

To horrified. Nothing remained of the billions who'd lived in the capital. The discovery of handfuls of survivors, clustered in remote regions, was scant comfort.

Still, surely this was temporary. Surely they'd be helped. The priority was to reestablish contact outside the system but before they could reach out, a flood of messages began to pour in.

Messages of anger, fear, and betrayal. The Hoveny had done this—the Hoveny had stolen back their power—the Hoveny had abandoned them.

The null-grid hadn't failed here, in this system; it had failed everywhere. The empire was gone, and more.

As they listened, the surviving Hoveny had cowered in silent despair. Where were the multitudes who'd made homes on other worlds?

For none of the voices were theirs.

Cycles passed, decades. The Hoveny no longer heard their name, truth be told, they no longer listened, and hoped to be forgotten. Centuries, and the Hoveny—sensible, ordinary Hoveny—no longer thought about the universe beyond their warm, yellow sun.

Until now, and another message: “Confirmation request. Identification: Cersi-So.”

No wonder her predecessors had set alarms. Lemuel roused. “Our ancestors buried their dead cities. That's where the past belongs.”

“Yet,” the Tikitik lifted a hand, turned it over with the faintest chime of bells. “Are there not those who remember the name of your world? Might they not be—interested?”

In the deathly silence after the words, the faint
chirp
of a comm notification made them all start. A tech lifted her head. “Director,” almost a whisper.

“What?” What could possibly matter at this moment, Lemuel thought, when the shape of the universe failed to hold and—

“Your pardon, Lemuel Dis, but Sar-lyn Station reports a ship on approach.”

They hadn't been in time. Hadn't stopped whatever “confirmation” Cersi-So had demanded.

What would be next? Thought Traveler was right. Their world had had another name, long ago, before being renamed Brightfall to mark the end.

If the Twelve had found what they'd sought—could it have that name again?

Hoveny Prime.

I
T WAS
PASSAGE
, in that we rode within the M'hir, and I could feel its darkness
seethe
at our intrusion.

It was not, for I could feel my pulse hammering and the awkward press of Morgan's pack—which smelled comfortingly of the
Silver Fox
and him—

Yet was, for all around me crowded my
sense
of the Clan, my people, each dealing with the strangeness in their own way.

There!
Morgan, for his part filled with curiosity and delight, as if being flung through space in a bubble was the height of normalcy and he couldn't wait to see what happened next.

Even as I tried to find my own anticipation, I reeled, hit by a flare of
loss.

No! I refused. We were so close. No more. No more—

<>

—wrong, that voice. Hollow. Reaching into my consciousness like burning fingers, leaving ash behind and grief.

I
pushed
it away with all my will even as
loss
after
loss
struck me, those torn from their understanding of the possible escaping the only way they could
.

<>

—I wouldn't listen, terrified those slipping away were
hearing
voices of their own.

Watchers began
howling
names—too many, so many. I despaired.
No!
I shouted in answer, in anger.
Stay!
I urged those left.
Trust me! Don't
LISTEN!

I felt others pick up my plea and send it forth.

Felt it
hold
us together.

Then everything . . .

Stopped.

C
ESSATION OF—he wouldn't, Morgan thought grimly, have called
that
movement. More being shaken like the yolk in an egg.

Little wonder he'd felt stabs of panic through his link to Sira. They hadn't all arrived, of that he was certain. Nothing to be done about it, but care for those here.

The pod cracked like a shell, letting in—he took a deep daring breath—air.

Cool. Not so much fragrant as sharp. Fresh.

Moist.

Rain! The Human worked himself to his feet, shoving aside pieces of the now-brittle pod. Using a hand to shelter his eyes, he took an eager look around.

Daylight, luck or intention. Gloom rather than bright, but the rain was falling from scudding gray clouds. Darker and massed to his left; pale and broken, tinged with rose to the right.

If dawn? East. West.

Flat here, where they'd come down; again, luck or intention. A featureless plain as far as he could see, which would be farther once the sun—for now he assumed only one—broke the cloud layer. And they'd come down—or arrived—together. More than together. The pods formed a tight spiral, with his midway down the left arm.

Lowering his hand, Morgan tilted his face to the rain.

Going to turn purple and die?
Sira's mindvoice was light, his
sense
of her muted but calm. She'd bury her grief as all the times before. Draw strength from it. Move forward.

Gods, he loved her.

“One way to find out, chit.” He stuck out his tongue to collect drops and brought them back into his mouth. Cool, fleeting, tasteless. Sensual stuff, rain. Born of an open sky. A spacer thought, most likely.
So far, so good.

The Human eased from what was left of his pod, wary of sharp points. Contact had shattered the pieces along regular planes; curious, he stepped on one.

Snap. Blue flickered along the newly made edges, like a tiny flame quickly burning itself out. If not for the gloom, he'd have missed it. Morgan put his boot to another shard, releasing more blue light.

A spark leaped to the ground. The ground, almost too quickly to see, flared blue in answer.

Sira, are you seeing this?

Now that he knew what to look for, the subtle discharge was taking place everywhere as people struggled free of their pods, cracking the material. The ground's fleeting response didn't echo the spiral; tempting, to discern a meaningful pattern in what could be random.

And was gone, most likely before anyone else noticed. Freed, the Clan were immediately preoccupied, standing without motion or sound, busy communing with those closest to their hearts. All but one. Morgan grinned, spotting that slender arm waving vigorously.

He waved back and headed toward Sira, then stopped, staring at a brightening horizon no longer flat, but rippling with movement.

Movement coming this way. He changed course, walking forward to intercept whatever it was. One pocket disgorged a distance lens he quickly pressed to his left eye. The lens had a targeting function as well, though the blaster now filling his right hand wasn't precise.

It could, however, make an impression.