The Gate to Futures Past (25 page)

Hoveny Concentrix,
she confirmed, seeing through my eyes.
These look like the structures the Oud freed from the mountain ridge, that Marcus and the others were so excited to find.

The structures here hadn't been freed from the surrounding rock, but even this meager glimpse was enough to excite me. The architecture was unlike any I'd seen and stunningly beautiful, more art form than building. Throughout, the lights and wires were suspended from hooks in the rock overhead, or on poles, as if to protect the surfaces.
Marcus said they couldn't drill into the walls,
Aryl sent.

I passed that along to Morgan, who nodded, eyes bright with interest.

The “street” carried on, sometimes wider, often narrow and twisting. One long section shrank inward, threatening the sides of the Hoveny vehicle, but our driver drove through without slowing.

This hadn't happened three hundred years ago. I didn't know how long it took the surface of a planet to engulf what appeared to be an entire city—or how a city survived being buried like this, for that matter, so its streets and structures remained intact. Norval had succumbed to its own mass. The puzzle of the Hoveny Concentrix stared back at me, written in graceful lines and alien curves, no easier to comprehend than before.

When the tunnel opened again, widening into a bulb, I realized there were others looking for answers here. One building had been singled out for attention, the rock that must have encased it removed. Lights played upward, revealing the top to be a dome, rising to a central peak. Around the building's base were fabric-sided tents, some quite large, as well as a parking area presently filled with familiar vehicles.

As ours joined them, I could see beyond the tents. Dazzling beams of sunlight poured through an opening even larger than the one through which we'd entered. Through it, I glimpsed what interested me far more than the Hoveny relics.

A verdant, living landscape rose before my eyes, carpeted in
farm fields crossed by glittering streams. The gravel road from the tunnel continued outside, becoming a walled ditch up the middle.

The vehicle came to rest. I climbed out, then gave Morgan's pack a helpful push in his direction.

Our people are here,
Aryl, with relief.

I dared
reach,
keeping the searching tendril within the M'hir. Minds were tightly shielded, as I'd expected, emotions dampened. Sendings flickered along the bonds between Chosen. The impression I gained was a reassuring calm.

My Human shrugged on his pack, then raised an eyebrow at me. Situation update, that meant.

Improving, I decided, by the moment.

And found I could smile.

H
OME. Lemuel Dis wished ne'd thought to put in noseplugs. Planets stank, there was no way around it, and this one still smelled to ner of poverty, struggle, and despair.

Others holidayed dirtside. There was no accounting for taste.

Nor any acceptable delay. Ner absence would be remarked by the upcoming shift change, but not made public unless there was a system-wide emergency—

Say the sort brought about by knowledge of a ship from outside the system before context was established and the necessary controls in place. Ne didn't care to imagine the panic. Ne wouldn't permit it.

Hence the plunge straight from the moon, bringing those already exposed to the information: some of nes staff, the historian, and, of course, Thought Traveler.

To be delayed here.

Lemuel regarded the on-duty supervisor of Brightfall's SysCom with little favor. “Explain the problem, Nermein Dis. I ordered statements from every individual in contact with these visitors.” A neutral word for the shocking appearance out of nothing by one hundred and fifty-seven living things who pinged as Hoveny on remote detectors.

Plus one who registered “unknown.”

“I began the process at once, Director, but the Tikitik won't cooperate.”

Little became none. The Cooperative relied on two principles: no species' law overruled another's, and every member had the right of access to their own kind, however annoying. Lemuel hesitated. Involve Thought Traveler, presently contained with the others, in this mess?

Might as well call in the major newscomms now and be done. Tikitik of its status didn't come to Brightfall. Nothing happened here to attract their infamous curiosity.

Until now.

Nes role, to see the system worked for all. This supervisor should have arranged to have himself declared—albeit temporarily—a Tikitik. Lemuel arranged nes face to show benevolent patience. “Have you obtained dispensation from my counterpart on Tikitna?”

Nermein's eyes widened. No, that meant. “May I have your authorization to do so, Director?”

Save ner from the planetborn, who considered everything beyond their skin of sky out of reach. “You have it.” Lemuel waved to nes staff, who'd provide the codes.

Time wasn't on nes side or theirs
.
Several visitors had been killed, no doubt with blame to be laid and dealt with and protested. More pressing? There were others with the ability to detect the visitors and no guarantee their reactions would be palatable or safe. “Speed is of the essence.” Lemuel Dis ordered. “Send the statement directly to me once you've obtained it. And, Nermein?”

“Yes, Director.”

“I remind you this is a System matter, of the utmost sensitivity. Should news of it travel by unofficial channels to Brightfall's government or elsewhere, haisin will be charitably severed and everyone from this office relocated to an asteroid in the mining belt. A distant asteroid. For life. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Director.” He gave a short, proper bow. “Rest assured we appreciate the seriousness of the situation. The background you requested.” A data crystal changed hands from one of his staff to
nes
.
“You'll find it's complete: profiles of site personnel; a summary of the research underway.”

“‘Research?'” Lemuel was almost startled; nes thoughts had moved to the next step: meeting those visitors. “I was told the site was a construction project.” Specifically, another expansion into unsuitable land—it'd be the next generation of farmers who'd suffer for it, as far as ne was concerned. Brightfall's present government? Not known for its long view.

“A survey and record team, to be exact, Director. There's a
seesor
from Hilip present, with discretionary authority over the project's continuance. There are pre-Fall structures within the area to be flooded—of itself unremarkable—” it being impossible to dig anywhere on the planet without hitting one, “—but these are controversial. There's local resistance to their loss.”

Coincidence? In Lemuel's experience, it was wise never to assume so. “Your summary will be useful, Nermein.”

He'd a well-disciplined face, but ne caught a flash of gratification. “Your transport waits on the roof pad, Director.” A final bow. “May I offer my personal wish for your success?”

Discipline and the ability to grasp ramifications. An individual to watch, perhaps groom; new staff for the Hub being hard to find. Lemuel inclined nes head, slightly. “I accept, Nermein Dis. Though at this point, I've no idea what ‘success' will be.”

Or if they'd be fortunate to survive
it.

I
T DID the Hoveny a disservice to call the shelter they provided within their tunnel a tent. Temporary, maybe, but despite their woven appearance, the walls were solid to the touch, the ceiling featured inset lights and air circulation, and it boasted a cushioned floor. There was no obvious clue how they'd used this space before being inundated with Clan. Someone—likely several someones—had worked hard and fast to prep it for us.

We'd been lucky to find these people and be in their care.

Five cots with our wounded stood along one wall, each connected to a machine and tended by a Hoveny wearing a clear overcoat. Along another were rows of astonishingly pink inflated couches. The middle space held a selection of tables, chairs, and stools that looked to have been grabbed from a variety of sources. These were placed near a long counter loaded with white bins, half containing the round water flasks and the others filled with small clear bags of green crisps, with more Hoveny in brown standing by.

Their offerings sat neglected. My people stood without moving, carefully distant from any stranger, their grim faces streaked with dirt and blood, their belongings at their feet or still in their arms. They'd been betrayed too often, I realized, my heart aching.

I stepped away from Morgan, spreading my arms wide. “Our thanks to our gracious hosts,” I said, my voice ringing through the silent room. Under the words, I sent:
I've found no harm in these people but I am watchful. Trust me, if not them. Rest. Recover. Accept help.

SIRA! SIRA!
My name was their acknowledgment, like a warm blanket around my shoulders, and even those I'd angered gave me weary smiles and nodded. My hair, enthused, rose around me—to the intense interest of the Hoveny—and I was mildly surprised the stuff didn't fly in front of my face.

Motion, all at once, as statues became people, going to the counter, others choosing a spot to leave their things.

Much as I wanted to join them, there were those I needed to see first.

“Med-cocoons,” Morgan observed. “Close enough.”

The
Silver Fox
had had such a device, essential in a ship with a sole inhabitant. I hadn't liked it then.

I didn't like these. A featureless opaque dome covered each cot, making it impossible to see who was whom. That wouldn't stop my inner sense. I went to touch the nearest—

One of the Hoveny caregivers deftly put herself in the way. “Please do not interfere with treatment.”

“We won't,” Morgan said with a pointed emphasis on the “we.”

“Thank you. I am Aracel Dis,
edican
in charge.” Aracel was the oldest Hoveny I'd seen so far, wrinkles softening the corners of her upswept eyes and along her lips. Her white hair was so tightly bound mine twitched in sympathy and this close, I could see the clear material she wore over her work clothes had a hood, presently rolled up, and extended to cover her hands. Tall, of course. Rather than step back, I craned my neck to look her in the eyes, finding compassion and no little curiosity.

Inadvertently, I
reached,
to find nothing there.

No. Not nothing. A perfect shield. Morgan's were impressive, but this? I dipped into the M'hir and
looked.

There. Maybe.
Something
encased her mind in an impenetrable
bubble, keeping out the M'hir, keeping out any questing thought. Proof the Hoveny might not be as vulnerable as I'd feared, but how was it possible? This wasn't like the implants used by Bowman and her constables. This
felt
innate.

And purposeful. Even for protection, how could anyone choose such terrible silence? I'd experienced it; that I hadn't gone mad, trapped within my own mind, had more to do with finding Morgan than strength.

Who was amused at my distress.
Most do quite well, Witchling,
he reminded me. Aloud, with the impeccable manners of a trader, “You have our gratitude, Aracel. I'm Jason. This is Sira. How are our injured?”

“It's too soon to say,” the edican replied. “We've done all we can for them here.” She gestured toward the cocoons as though apologizing. “They've been stabilized for transport.”

Easy, chit,
Morgan sent, forestalling my protest.
This isn't a med-facility. Evacuation's likely standard procedure and could save their lives.

Two Om'ray: frail Eand and Destin's Chosen, Elnu. Three M'hiray: Kita di Teerac, Lakai sud Parth, and Vidya di Serona. Each a Chosen; worse, none were a pair. Ten lives at risk.

They were not leaving here like this—not alone. I managed to ask calmly, “Where will they go?”

“Landerslee. There's an excellent trauma center.” Aracel's face softened. “Heart-kin mustn't be separated at such a time. Please have them identify themselves to me or any of us, Sira. We'll ensure they're kept together.”

As though to the Hoveny ‘heart-kin' meant Chosen—

And as though no one else here is able to
sense
the link between our pairs,
from Aryl.
What sort of people are they?

Private,
I replied, wondering what else would prove different.

“May I treat this?” Aracel indicated the side of my face. I reached up, surprised by soreness and the feel of something sticky. My fingertips came away red.

I supposed I'd run a bit close to that flurry of Oud feet, though it had been that, or be plowed under its neighbor.

“I'll take care of her.” Morgan answered before I could, the tiniest edge to his voice.

Neither of us was in a state to make important decisions. “Water first,” I countered, forcing cheer into my voice. “And if that's food, Aracel?”

The edican smiled. “It's nourishment,” she qualified. “I'm sure Alisi Di—Site Seesor—will arrange for something better for you all, and accommodations, before this arn's end.”

Plans and time. Some of us lacked either. My gaze fell on the cocoons. “May I touch them? For—” The Hoveny might not have “luck,” though Morgan had told me most species had some expression for chance improving their fortune. “—my own comfort.”

Aracel inclined her head slightly.

So before I left the five, I did what little I could, sending
strength
through that meager contact. Most of all, letting those sleeping minds know they'd not been abandoned.

And wouldn't be.

“Not bad.” Morgan put another of the green crisps into his mouth and crunched, an intent look on his face. He would, I'd learned, eat anything, anywhere. Though these he'd scanned first, blatantly employing his offworld tech in front of the Hoveny.

Who were still fascinated by my hair. I grabbed for a straying lock; it evaded me to investigate Morgan's upper shirt pocket. Again. The stuff had stamina, I'd give it that.

Blue eyes glanced my way.
Care to tell me what's bothering you, Witchling?

“Other than those three?”

Our Council had reformed: Teris, Degal, and Nik. Absent was Odon, who'd elected to stay with Japel and guard their son. Noil nursed an arm the edicans had wrapped and secured with a sling; not coincidentally, Jacqui and Alet were circling, as far from each other as possible, but with equally avid interest. I'd no idea if his wounded state increased the unChosen's allure, or the Choosers reacted to the lack of alternatives in range, but whatever had
quenched their desire for Choice had been left with
Sona
in space.

Confounding expectation, our most potent Chooser—and once outspoken member of Council—sat on a pink couch with Eand's Chosen, Moyla. Tle di Parth, the image of restraint and courtesy?

I didn't plan to ask. We'd a table, two chairs, and a moment's peace. “They've requested a meeting with Alisi.” I dutifully nibbled a crisp. The things tasted pretty much as I imagined the bottom of a boot might taste—fried, of course.

“Let them.” Morgan finished his drink. “Come here.” He opened his med-kit, retrieved before he'd stowed his pack, and coat, under our table.

I turned the aching side of my face to him and found myself gazing at the doors through which we'd come. They remained open, affording an excellent view of the ancient building. “Who do you think lived there?”

“Someone who matters a great deal to our new friends.” My Chosen applied a cool spray to my cheek and jaw, shooing my hair aside with his free hand.

“Are they?” I asked very quietly. “Friends?”

“So far. The rest depends on us.” A tidy patch of medskin came next, from a scant and irreplaceable supply. “By that, I mean you. Hold still, chit.”

I'd flinched. Who wouldn't?
You think I can control the Clan—stop them doing here what they did in the Trade Pact.

I know you will.
Punctuated by a daring kiss behind my ear. “There.” Finished with his ministrations, Morgan pulled back, tucking away his kit. “Shouldn't scar.” He pretended to frown at me. “You need a bath.”

Who didn't? I stuck out my tongue.

Rewarded by a grin. “Charming.” He leaned forward, face serious again. “Now, what's going on?”

I put my hand on the table between us. His covered it at once, warm, rough, and alive.

Through that contact, I shared the voice of the dead.

I'd shaken him to the core; I could see it and certainly felt it. Fair enough. Reliving that impossible voice had shaken me, too.

“Rael,” Morgan said finally, his whisper hoarse and low. Much as I wanted to deny it, he knew my sister's mindvoice, too.

My sister, Rael di Sarc. Beautiful, powerful, proud. More than a sister. She'd been my heart-kin and truest friend in the years of my solitude, and afterward. Her final act had been to send me a desperate warning, for she and her Chosen had been betrayed by a Human she'd trusted.

A warning sent even as she'd dissolved, a ghost, to save those of us left from the same fate.

“It was Rael.” Cold settled around my heart.

Your sister, as Enris has called to me.
Aryl sounded every bit her age.
What is this, that uses love against us, and why? Where have we come that such things are even possible?

“All good questions.” Blue eyes glinted. “I've one. Say the others we've lost 'ported themselves into Andi's “boxes,” or somehow followed ghosts into the M'hir. Then what?”

The only fact was their absence. “I can't sense them,” I told him, “even as ghosts.”

They're dead. You
heard
the Watchers, Great-granddaughter.

I'd
hear
them now, if I dared
listen.
I gave a weary nod, accepting the truth. “Aryl's right. Answering these voices is fatal.” My fingertips dug into my thighs. Aware of those around us, I chose to send instead of whisper.
We're being hunted again. This time it isn't by strangers.
Though it was still, I thought bitterly, because of what we were.
Anyone who can 'port is in danger.