The Gate to Futures Past (4 page)

I
N TRADE PACT SPACE, we'd had our Prime Laws, set by the ruling Council of the Clan. They'd nothing to do with notions of justice held by other species, including Humans. Over my long life, I'd obeyed most, found some irrelevant, and broken, lately, more than a few.

The Om'ray had their own, by the sound of them a mix of the disturbingly familiar guidelines the Maker had imposed on our memories—and so on those who'd first come to Cersi—and those related to the practicalities of life with alien neighbors.

While we'd yet to sit down together and compare specifics, I expected all would agree to keep those laws meant to guard us from each other. Courtesies to permit the testing of Power without giving offense. Protocols to protect the unChosen and oversee the meeting of Chooser and potential Candidate, mutual safety as important as a successful Choice. Rules to limit the depth within another's weaker mind to be touched, unless invited.

Then there was the one about not 'porting into a room unannounced—

Much as it pained me, flaunting that particular rule would offend the di Kessa'ats, and Morgan wanted them treated gently.

I hadn't been entirely fair in my description of Nyso. Yes, he'd
been what my Human would call a brat, but as an unChosen, Nyso had shown a gift and love of music I'd nurtured. I'd started him with the keffleflute, delighted to see him quickly soar far beyond my skill to become a remarkable composer. That had been the start of the trouble. Most Clan only dabbled in the arts, more consumers than creators. Few could read his music, let alone play it. His Chosen, Luek, was tone deaf. Worse, she doted on small birds, claiming they required quiet surroundings, not that she and Nyso shared the same home. Or planet, for that matter.

Infuriated by his own species, Nyso dared the unthinkable.

He became Human.

As best he could, anyway. A new name, a rented apartment, and Gersle Nape the composer burst upon the stage like a shooting star, with an unnamed benefactor (himself) luring the finest musicians of Camos with fabulous salaries and the promise they would be the first to play Nape's work.

Whoever he was.

The mystery created quite the stir, as I recalled. Not only among Humans. The Council, notified by a justly alarmed Luek, sent First Scouts to make sure Nyso wasn't exposed as Clan. They needn't have worried.

Nyso, blinded by the chance to hear his music played, took up his shiny new conductor's wand and walked into the first rehearsal, completely unprepared to face professional musicians, let alone aliens.

Within minutes they'd tossed him out, as the Human expression goes, on his ear.

His music, they kept. They called it pure genius, and it was. Sold-out performances went on for years, proceeds sent to Nape's account, and for years the public clamored for more. Nyso ignored it all. If the Clan had one trait in common, it was pride. His own kind considered him a dangerous fool; his beloved music had been taken by Humans; and he couldn't even claim credit without resorting to a now-hateful disguise as one of them.

When his studio and instruments went up in flames, no one was surprised.

In hindsight, knowing Humans as I now did, the orchestra had treated “Gersle Nape” exactly as they would any Human amateur who'd presumed to lead them. If there was fault, it was in how little any of my kind understood normal Human interactions. We hadn't cared or needed to, was the truth.

My job, to make sure they understood Morgan.

Putting me outside this closed door. I let out a tendril of Power, enough to confirm those on the other side without alerting them, then knocked.

I counted to five, slowly.

Knocked again, though they'd surely heard me the first time.
Sona
's interior doors transmitted the rap of knuckle.

But didn't, I thought all at once, transmit voices. If Nyso and Luek were unaware, they could have bid me enter and be wondering why I hadn't.

Or, I glowered, have told me to go away and leave them be.

Erring on the side of manners, I sent a calm, tactful
May I enter?
No need to name myself, as a Human might—the feel of my Power identified me to them beyond any doubt.

Silence.

Abruptly uneasy, I pressed the door control.

The tall panel turned open. The space beyond was dark, and I paused to let my eyes adjust, waiting to be acknowledged.

Like the others on this level, the room was rectangular, being deeper than wide. On Cersi, the Om'ray had used such rooms within a Clan's Cloisters to house their Adepts.

And the Lost,
Aryl supplied.

Another difference between Om'ray and M'hiray. When one of our Chosen died, the other's mind was
pulled
into the M'hir, dissolving to nothing, the body a dead and empty husk.

That happens to some Om'ray,
she sent, following the thought.
And has to less powerful M'hiray.
She referred to Deni, whose death had left Cha living—if you called it that. The Om'ray had insisted on tending her walking corpse.

We hadn't known how to refuse, and the memory rankled.
I don't forget,
I snapped back
.
In Om'ray, less connected to the M'hir, a remnant of a Chosen's mind was left behind: enough to
keep the body alive, sometimes for years. They called such the Lost, for such individuals had no personality or will, and they became wards of the Adepts.

And useful servants.

Reminders of our vulnerability.
Aryl's sending was sharp.
Useful now, Sira, when you deal with two acting strangely, not just one.

Good advice. Unfortunately, I didn't know Luek di Kessa'at, other than her rumored fondness for pet birds. On second thought, they might not have been pets; after all, she'd answered my summons to the M'hiray wearing a coat of feathers. Though Luek hadn't been with Nyso when the Assemblers attacked, they'd been inseparable since coming to
Sona.

The same could be said for most of the M'hiray Chosen, the instinct for self-preservation overriding mutual dislike. In the Trade Pact, Clan Joinings had been dictated by Council, determined to breed for greater Power in the M'hir; while instinct drove the reproductive urge, very few such pairings involved affection. Some, like my parents, had actively loathed one another and met in person only when ordered to produce offspring.

We'd done it to ourselves. Before Morgan entered my life and heart, I'd thought my mother, Mirim sud Teerac, and her group of M'hir Denouncers foolish in their belief our ancestors had Joined for love. She hadn't lived to know she'd been right. For those who'd never left Cersi, the Om'ray, had Chosen who shared a deep, fond connection, often passionate. Their overt affection for one another was all the more startling to us for being so commonplace to them.

As Aryl reminded me, I wasn't dealing with Om'ray. I was dealing with M'hiray Chosen who hadn't behaved normally since leaving the Trade Pact and now hid in a dark room like something wild.

Or something afraid.

Wishing for Morgan's handlamp, I took a cautious step forward. The room shouldn't have furniture, but they could have 'ported in some of the few loose pieces on the ship. “Nyso. Luek. I'm here.” I kept my voice calm and steady. “Are you all right?”

Where were they?

I couldn't fumble around in the dark. Sona
,
I ordered
. Lights but only a—
I squinted in full simulated daylight. Stupid, annoying metal brain—

There.

Morgan's instincts had been right. The pair huddled side-by-side on the floor, their backs pressed into the far corner of their little room as if to face some threat, eyes closed. They were dressed as they'd been when they'd run for their lives from the Assemblers, Nyso in a laced shirt and embroidered pants, Luek in her evening wrap of brilliant bird feathers. His shirt was torn and her wrap was soiled, feathers broken or missing. Neither wore shoes.

Neither reacted to the light.

Drool glistened at the corners of their mouths. The ends of Luek's thick black hair twitched fitfully; otherwise, they might have been frozen in place.

Terrified, I wouldn't—couldn't—
reach
for their minds. The M'hir linked us, one to the rest; at its deepest level, beneath consciousness, below self, lay neither control nor defense. Not against what I suspected here.

Madness.

Even with my Power, even with shields stronger than any, I knew better than to touch either with my bare hands. Such a physical bridge brought Clan minds close: an ease for those weaker, a polite means of private exchange, an enhancement to intimacy.

Only a Healer trained to deal with ills of the mind, and with the Talent to do so, could dare help them.

We'd two on
Sona.
An Om'ray Adept, Ruis di Nemat, once of Rayna.

And Jason Morgan.

Who'd insist on helping—and whom I wouldn't risk, given another choice. I sent an urgent summons to Ruis. No point sending a locate; she was among the few Om'ray so far unable to 'port, which meant waiting while she ran here.

I looked down at the di Kessa'ats.
Ruis, is there anything I can do?

Let them hear your voice,
came the quick, confident reply.
Let them know they aren't alone.

I took a deep breath, then squatted near the pair, out of reach. “I'm here. You aren't alone.” As if that sounded convincing. I firmed my tone. “Nyso, it's Sira.” Did an eyelid flicker? “You're safe, both of you. Nothing can hurt us on the ship.”

Nyso's eyelids shot open, too wide, revealing pupils dilated despite the bright lights. “A ship? What ship? Where are you taking us?” The Clansman thrust himself to his knees, his lean face haggard, and I scrambled back. “You've no right!”

Luek covered her eyes and shuddered. “This isn't real. I'm at home. I'm at home.”

“No right!”

“I'm at home. Home. Home!”

Their voices overlapped, protest and denial a chorus of misery I couldn't help or stop, their emotions
stirring
the M'hir. I moved away, going to the door in a nonsensical instinct to block it, fearing where they'd try to go.

Not that they'd use the door.

I could stop their 'port, if I must. But should I? Did I have that right, if dissolving in the M'hir was their choice?

Sira!?
Morgan, feeling my agitation.
I'm coming!

The pounding of running feet made me sag against the doorframe.
It's all right,
I sent quickly.
Help's here.

I waved the urgent trio of Om'ray into the room, sharing with them my
relief
and
concern
.

Ruis went straight to her patients, gesturing back the rest.

I might have guessed Destin di Anel, Sona Clan's First Scout, would answer a call that could mean trouble. She'd been the first Om'ray we'd encountered on Cersi and steadfast through our adventures there. The formidable Clanswoman continued to wear the leather jerkin and gauze leg and arm wrappings of her former life. Paired knives hung from her belt: one long, with a wicked hooked tip, the other short; both incredibly sharp, by Morgan's account. How he'd convinced her to let him handle her prized weapons was beyond me.

Why Destin expected to need them, shipboard, was the greater mystery and disturbing to contemplate, but I wasn't about to argue. She'd helped save her people and mine.

By her quick dismissive glance at the di Kessa'ats, the First Scout rued making the effort for them, but I knew better. The athletic Om'ray of the jungle canopy might view the rest of us as soft and overfed, but above all they valued life.

“Sira.” Destin gestured a respectful greeting as she came to me, one I returned. She was taller, her black hair confined by a metal net, her pale skin dappled with rich brown markings; a di Licor trait reduced among the M'hiray to freckling. Her comely face also bore the scars of a stitler attack, a creature I'd no doubt she'd killed for its presumption; a face that lost expression as the third Om'ray joined us.

The former Speaker for Sona, Odon di Rihma'at had changed his garb for that found in the ship's stores: a soft, light brown, pocket-rich garment so like the spacer coveralls Morgan and I had worn on the
Fox
I'd been astonished. My Human had merely shrugged, saying when a design worked, it worked. He'd cut the sleeves from his, saying he found the ship's temperature, set for Om'ray, too warm. If he'd go without his vest, it wouldn't be, a thought I kept to myself.

No matter what he wore, Odon was handsome, even for a Clan Chosen, with elegant lines to the bones of cheek and jaw, and thick black hair above a high brow. A brow now creased, his lips thinned.
What is this?
he sent with a
snap
.

I chose not to be offended. Honesty was more useful than manners, especially in someone I trusted as part of the ship's governing Council. “I don't know,” I replied with matching bluntness but quietly. “I found them like this.”

“Some malady of your people, no doubt.” Odon had lowered his voice, but Ruis sent him a sharp look over her shoulder. He subsided, a six-fingered hand reaching to his breast, then dropping.

He hadn't lost the habit, to handle the pendant that hung there when he'd acted as Speaker for his Clan, the only one permitted to negotiate with their Tikitik neighbors. I'd worn one, too, briefly, a heavy bit of metal that had proved to be more than a simple badge of office. Not only could the Tikitik sense some material used in its construction and locate them—and thus their
wearers—but the pendant itself was a transmitter. Oud, Tikitik, or Om'ray: every Speaker had had a pendant. Meaning every conversation had been overheard.

Who'd eavesdropped on the doings of Cersi's three species? Among the possibilities, an installation on one or both of Cersi's moons; there were Tikitik who believed the Makers “watched” their world from that vantage, ready to pass judgment. Morgan and our scientists felt there was another, not mutually exclusive. They suspected the Cloisters within each Clan might have used the transmissions to share and record data on the Hoveny experiment.