I suspected then, as now, that my captain hoped to convey a broader lesson than my regrettable lack of compassion for the odorous. Admittedly, I wasn’t the best student.
Right now, I was in no mood for nonsense. I shared my displeasure with Nyso, pleased to see him gesturing an apology so frantically he tangled himself again.
Chit!
None too pleased, my Chosen.
Not a problem.
Neither was I. The tension between him and Ruis grated along my nerves.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
Morgan hesitated, so briefly I doubted anyone else would have noticed. Then, smoothly, “We need you to summon the ship’s Council—”
Like that, was it? I concentrated . . .
. . . reappearing, with Morgan, under the stars.
What we’d come to call the Star Chamber was the only place left on Sona to permit a look outside, courtesy of its partly transparent ceiling. Granted, in subspace, all we could see were the distorted smears that marked, Morgan assured us, stars, but it was worth it. Long trails of every imaginable color flowed overhead, punctuated at seeming random by sparks or pools of dazzling white, as if music could be seen.
Rows of elongated white benches curved along one side, facing an open space presumably for briefings or presentations. Add pillows and the benches would have been fine for sleeping, had Sona not sent the chamber below freezing each shipnight.
Hence its more euphemistic name: “Happy Place.” Dim the ship lighting to free the ever-changing display, watch it flicker and dance around the chamber, and the Star Chamber became the most romantic spot on the ship.
No Chosen were immune; even those M’hiray who’d come together only at Council order eagerly sought this space and each other. Our kind, it turned out, was hard-wired to reproduce, an instinct avoidable when Chosen lived on different planets but not now, confined within the ship. Age was irrelevant: two thirds of our Chosen were beyond childbearing.
Why not seek comfort? As for the rest, we desperately needed to increase our number, no matter what the future held.
By unspoken protocol, Chosen weren’t to sneak up here more than once a shipday and whomever ’ported first won sole right to the chamber, for a reasonable length of time. Rumor had it some of the Sona weren’t overly concerned with privacy.
Though we’d the “Happy Place” to ourselves at the moment, there was nothing romantic about Morgan standing apart from me, arms crossed and a frown tight between his eyes. “What are we doing here, chit?” he snapped, in full “captain” mode. “Council must convene. We’ll need someone to step in for Ruis with our patients, so she can attend as well. There’s no time to waste—”
I arched an eyebrow. “I’ve time.”
Silence. The sort that might imply I’d cycled the air lock backward—again—except I hadn’t. This time, my Human, my esteemed captain, was in the wrong.
I watched the realization slowly dawn. “Sira, I—”
“Wait. I almost forgot.” I concentrated . . .
. . . reappearing with his pack in both arms, it being heavier than I remembered.
Morgan took it without a word. He pretended to check a fastening, then swung the pack, one-handed, onto the nearest bench. Gathering thoughts, at a guess, behind shields I wouldn’t challenge.
He looked up at last. The sober intensity of his gaze told me he wouldn’t be tricked or cajoled.
Honesty, then. “Jason, you keep two kinds of secrets from me. Where you’ve hidden a present—which is fine, by the way.” I couldn’t smile. “The other? The ‘thing you suspect is so terrible you must prove it first’ kind? That’s not fine. Not here.”
“You’ve—” my Chosen stopped, running fingers through his hair. “That obvious?”
“It’s hardly the first time,” I reminded him, glad as something eased between us. “I can guess some of it. You showed Ruis your past.” The darkest part, a forge that had, in many ways, created the Morgan I loved with all my being. It could have destroyed him. “You think Eloe—Nyso and Luek—suffered as you did. That more Clan will unless—” of course, “—you fix it.”
“Yes.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Fix it how, exactly?”
Morgan sat, hands locked around a knee. “That is the question, isn’t it?”
He’d a plan, or the start of one. A plan he knew I wouldn’t like—or was it worse? Was it something “Forbidden,” putting it squarely under the authority of— “Is that why you want a Council meeting?” I accused. “To trick them into letting you do what you want?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
I would. Watching Morgan manipulate others, especially those Clan who underestimated the master trader’s skills, was my favorite sport: warmer than hockey and often profitable. Not this time. Not when I suspected what he wanted to do was Forbidden because it should be.
I sat beside him, turned so our knees brushed. “Tell me,” I said gently. “I could help.” Or stop this first.
His hand cupped my cheek, eyes searching mine. “I’m counting on it.”
Not good. That meant it wasn’t only the ship’s Council he intended to trick into whatever this was, but me as well. A ploy we’d used before: my ignorance of a move he planned made my reaction admittedly more convincing than any I could rehearse, but—
I pulled from his touch. “We’re not bargaining for engine parts. This is—it’s not a game.”
Beneath the beard, muscle worked along his jaw. “That’s where you’re wrong, Sira. The stakes are higher, that’s all.” Our eyes locked for a moment, then he tipped his hand, palm-up. “You decide. I tell you what I have so far, which isn’t much. Or you let me do this my way and we’ll see where the sparks fly.”
He asked me to trust him—trust Human instincts, which weren’t mine and had, on notable occasions in the past, conflicted. To let him use me along with those leading the Clan.
To swallow my pride, I thought, all at once feeling the rightness of it. To be his partner and help those who trusted us.
“Your way, then. But watch those sparks,” I advised primly. “We’ve a closed atmosphere.”
“‘Closed—’” The start of a relieved smile transformed to a grin. “Good one. Remind me to tell—”
The grin vanished. A flicker, no more, of pain; then, in the next instant, Morgan’s face showed nothing at all.
He’d no one to tell I’d made my first spacer joke. No other spacers. Not Huido Maarmatoo’kk, the giant Carasian who was his closest friend. Not Russell Terk, the gruff enforcer, nor his boss, the redoubtable Lydis Bowman, who’d been part of Morgan’s life—and the Clan’s, I now knew, from the start. Everyone who’d have cared was gone from his life.
Left behind, for me. “Jason—”
“A good trade.” No regrets here, Witchling. Shields fell away, and it was true and beyond wonderful that what coursed between us held only love.
A finger lifted in invitation. A lock of hair accepted, slipped around his hand and wrist, wove distractingly up his bare arm. I watched the blue of his eyes deepen, resisted the urge to lose myself in them. “What about the Council meeting?” I said, attempting to be responsible. “We—”
The rest was lost beneath his lips. Later . . . the kiss exquisitely tender and slow, as if he discovered the shape of my mouth for the first time.
Or wanted never to forget it.
Later, I agreed, with all my heart.
How long it was before we lay still, bathed in starlight and sweat, cloaked in my now-sated hair, I didn’t know and couldn’t care. Our hearts slowed in harmony; our breaths matched, then didn’t, then did again, like dancers; and the meaning of life itself could be found in the scent of him and the warmth of us and now.
Yet there was more. With us, between Chosen, always, there was more. Our thoughts mingled,
heavy and comfortable, wrapped together like our legs and arms. The rush of heat and ecstasy that had exploded—or had it sung—between our minds eased into bliss.
Wife. Morgan stroked my hip.
I smiled. Husband. In the Trade Pact, lifemate was more common, or contract partner, but my Human had his own heritage and it wasn’t only war.
As he had his own needs. We weren’t the same. What gave me pleasure lay within my mind, cued by touch, but felt inside. Among Clan, only Chosen could satisfy one another. What fulfilled Morgan lay outside, conveniently accessible to any partner.
He’d not dared just any partner, nor let down his guard. The risk to a telepath—of exposure, of fatal vulnerability—was too great.
Until now. I found I could squeeze closer, and did.
I felt his smile. Didn’t know what I was missing. Witchling.
No other partner would do for him either, I thought rather smugly. Not now. As a telepath, Morgan had discovered he also felt.
Making what we did together, for one another, work very well indeed.
Fingertips tenderly traced where scars had once crossed my abdomen, then his hand pressed warm over where Aryl slept—or didn’t. Either way, she kept a discreet distance, allowing us this.
Odd. The memory of my scars had been a reminder of survival and pain. Now, Morgan’s hand reminded me I held within me a treasure.
Family. With a certain smugness of his own.
I could, I thought, grow to like that word, too.
Interlude
FOOD 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 i
f 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.
The Gate to Futures Past Page 8