The Gate to Futures Past

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Oh, yes, he does, I ordered, before Sona could cut Morgan from the Dream. There’d been a distinct shift in the ship’s inner voice, one my Human would have noticed, too. An Om’ray Keeper wouldn’t communicate with it in such terms. Was it drawing them from Morgan—or using what it knew he understood?

  Another reason to keep Morgan in the Dream.

  >As you wish, Keeper. Do you request use of the access portal interface?<

  Jason?

  He answered not in words, but with a rush of emotion. Hope. Confidence.

  Yes, I told the ship. Finally, some progress.

  >Your request is denied, Keeper.<

  Well, that hadn’t lasted. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Why? I asked it, with what I felt was commendable restraint. Learning, I was.

  >The access portal interface is in use.<

  It couldn’t mean—

  Sira.

  If the ship was meddling with our minds again, I was more than happy to set Morgan against it. Fix this, I sent, uncaring if Sona could detect my rising fury.

  Or the fear that came with it. Was it about to install more false memories, so we’d arrive believing ourselves in the past—or some other manipulation, to change who and what we were—

  Or had we been altered already, and only the machine knew how?

  >I do not require repair, Keeper.< Wary.

  We require clarification, Sona, Morgan informed it. To what current use is the access portal interface being put?

  >It seeks a readiness confirmation from the Source access portal interface. Once confirmation has been received, I will transmit my records and receive final instruction.<

  Reveal nothing, I told myself, burying my emotions as deeply as possible, keeping silent. Was this a clue how to affect the ship’s systems—how to perhaps take over control? It sounded promising.

  Only Morgan knew if it was. What is the procedure if you do not receive confirmation?

  Sona rarely delayed. Now, a pause long enough to make me wonder if I’d fallen truly asleep and wish I’d a way to pinch myself without being noticed. Then—

  >I will receive confirmation.<

  Unforeseen contingencies arise, Morgan pressed. You will arrive later than anticipated. What is the procedure?

  >The not-Right Kind is in error. Keeper, I will receive confirmation.<

  Seeking reassurance or making a promise? Answer the question, Sona. The ship was hardly less alien than any species we’d faced over a trade. Toss its own words back. This is a present, critical concern.

  >Failing confirmation, I am—I am—I am—< Each “I am” was followed by a sharp pause, as if the ship were prevented from completing what it wanted to say. >I am—I am—<

  I withdraw the question. Morgan, with a grim undertone.

  >I will receive confirmation. All will proceed as expected, Keeper. At your request, I will end this Dream.<

  Relief?

  It wasn’t what I felt, nor satisfaction. Jason?

  Sona. You have provided three more meals. Please confirm.<

  >Confirmed. Adequate nutrition has been supplied.<

  >Will you provide a fourth?<

  >It will not be necessary. Upon arrival at our destination, further nutrition will be supplied by other means.<

  “Arrival.” The question it hadn’t acknowledged in any way until now. I’d have hugged Morgan if we’d been flesh and not Dream.

  Glad to hear it. What is the precise time of arrival?

  Hesitation. Then, >Once confirmation has been received, I will transmit my records and receive final instruction, which will include the precise time of arrival.<

  A straight, comprehensible answer. I waited, knowing Morgan, having pried one loose, wouldn’t leave it at that.

  Understood. What can you tell us about our destination?

  >The Keeper requested to be taken home.<

  We knew that.

  But Sona wasn’t done. >Home is the Source, not-Right Kind. It is from the Source I will receive confirmation.<

  And if not?

  End the Dream.

  We curled together in the dark, under our blanket, outwardly peaceful.

  Appearances were deceiving. Self-destruct?!

  Morgan’s arm tightened around me. I’m guessing.

  Guesses that were right, I thought glumly, more often than not. So if Sona doesn’t hear from “home,” you think it’s going to blow itself up. And us. Even a rational being could start believing in a cosmic conspiracy. From a stutter?

  The shipmind tried to answer and was unable to do so. To me that suggests an internal setting to prevent alarming its Keeper and so its passengers.

  I’m alarmed, I assured him. What can we do?

  Not worry, Witchling. The Hoveny built this ship to last. The Source will be just as well-maintained. Sona will receive its confirmation, and all will go as planned.

  Things never went according to plan. I started to roll over, to try and see his face. Morgan held me still and I felt him chuckle. His beard tickled my ear, followed by a barely audible whisper in Comspeak: “Time to stay off the record, chit.” Louder, in the language of Cersi, “Time to sleep. It’s been a very long day.”

  My resourceful Human had a plan. Something the ship—which did, I admit, seem to pay too much attention to whatever I said aloud or, chilling notion, sent by what should have been most private of means—shouldn’t know about.

  Liking the sound of that, I yawned and snuggled close.

  Tomorrow was going to be, as Morgan would put it, “interesting.”

  Then I remembered what else tomorrow would bring: having to tell everyone about our food supply, as in lack of, ideally before anyone tried to go to the nonexistent food storage to collect the day’s ration and started a panic.

  On the bright side?

  After ten shipdays hurtling through subspace—

  I could tell them to pack.

  “Sira.”

  I cracked open an eye. Dark. With a firm, if incomprehensible, “Mummphf,” I pulled the blanket over my head. There should be rules about facing the next day before it arrived.

  The blanket disappeared. I squinted at Morgan, who was a looming more-dark standing over me, handlight aimed down. “Not morning,” I pointed out.

  A corner of the little beam illuminated the noteplas he pushed under my nose as I rose to an elbow.

  A noteplas with a message written in Comspeak. I came fully awake as I read.

  Can’t trust the ship didn’t pick up my sleepteach. Will brief Barac same way.

  I put my hand in the light, gave the signal for agreement. He flipped the page, revealing more lines in his tidy script.

  Today prep to disembark. As is, ship’s not secured for landing, so warn them to watch for more modifications. No one to be alone. Everyone ready to ’port here. Be confident and keep telling them you trust the ship.

  So Sona would believe it.

  Next page. Ship refuses to land, we destroy the interface. Take a chance there’s an emergency landing protocol. If we land and the ship refuses let us out, we blow the exit.

  Forget trying to reason with it. Stop hunting for nonexistent controls. Prepare to act. To die on our own terms, if necessary. This was the Morgan who’d grown up in a war—and survived it.

  I wished for half his courage. Nik said seven days on rations.

  The noteplas and light moved away. I counted five heavy heartbeats before they came back for me to read:

  We land or die in one.

  He put away the noteplas, then Morgan’s hand entered the light, found mine. I’ll be back to hear your breakfast speech. I could use company.

  He wore his coat; was dressed, I realized, to roam the still-cold halls before anyone else woke to notice.

  I hated getting up in the
cold even more than the dark, but so be it. I started to move.

  I’ve someone else in mind, Witchling.

  Gratefully snuggling back down, I reached, finding a mind I knew well, even asleep, and gave my cousin a sharp nudge. Dress and meet Morgan at the door. Quietly.

  Barac came awake with a speed I envied. Problem?

  Our hope to survive one.

  Keep him safe.

  As my Chosen’s hand left mine, the light vanished. He stepped away like a ghost.

  I tucked my nose under the blanket, warm. Cozy.

  Then flung myself on my back.

  As if I’d sleep now.

  Interlude

  THEIR BREATH left clouds in the air and Barac, coatless, shivered violently, but the lift continued to work and that hadn’t been guaranteed. Morgan watched walls, floor, and ceiling for any sign of softening, knowing his companion did the same. All looked solid.

  Nonetheless, when he saw the number marking their destination, he wasted no time getting through the doors as their sections split apart. “We’re here.”

  The Clansman was right behind him. Lights were on in the narrow corridor, already or provided in timely fashion. “Wh-where-ss—her-re?”

  Sona wouldn’t heat outside the Core for another hour. “Hang on.” Morgan swung off his pack and produced a blanket. “Put this around your shoulders. Don’t,” when Barac made a face, “argue.”

  The other wrapped himself without a word. Morgan led the way to the workshop door, knocking twice. It opened and he waited for Barac to go through before doing the same. The door closed behind them.

  Barac gave a low whistle. “What’s all this?” He wandered around the arms of the bench, examining but not offering to touch the objects along it.

  “Some are tools, the same age as the ship.” Morgan picked up a flattened disk with an inlay of crystal. “The rest, and the cylinder I showed you, date much older.”

  “Older as in Hoveny Concentrix?” At the Human’s nod, Barac peered curiously at the disk, then straightened with a shrug, holding the blanket tighter. “I assume you’ve a reason for dragging us down here.”

  “We’ll grab what we can.” Morgan put his pack on a stool. “There are bags over there.” Originally intended for waste, at a guess, but they’d nothing else.

  And no time to hunt for more.

  The Clansman looked incredulous. “Take these things with us? You don’t even know what they are.”

  “Someone thought them worth bringing to Cersi. They’ve value, whether in what they are or what they represent. We may need that.”

  “Once a trader—” Barac shook his head, but went to the shelf, pulling out the green-colored bags. “At least we’re landing soon.” At Morgan’s expression, he gave a wan smile. “We’re down here before anyone’s awake—Sira orders me to come along, no doubt to ’port us back without wasting time. Am I right?”

  “After breakfast tomorrow, according to Sona.”

  “It’s true, then.” The Clansman let out a long slow breath. “I wasn’t sure I believed there’d ever be an end to this.”

  A feeling, Morgan thought, he shared. He walked over to Barac, right hand smoothly taking a share of the bags, while his left, held low, slipped the noteplas into the other’s free hand.

  He returned to the bench, standing by the stool with his pack, and deftly began to fill one of the bags. “Learned something else interesting,” the Human said conversationally, his tone light. “The ship refers to the M’hir as the ‘null-grid.’” Finally, a name that offered something to work with. The M’hir. The Scented Way. Only the Rugherans knew what they called it. “Could be a clue.” He glanced at Barac.

  The First Scout’s face was set and pale, jaw working. He used the blanket to shield his arm and hand as he wrote a reply, the precaution perhaps unnecessary.

  Considering what he planned, and the demonstrated nature of Sona? Morgan preferred unnecessary to any mistakes now.

  “You’ll need this.” Barac joined him at the bench, handing him the noteplas with another bag.

  “Thanks. I’ve sorted the artifacts from the tools here. Leave anything too big to fit. I’ll just check this.” Morgan bent over as if to examine the disk, instead reading what Barac had written.

  Must you always blow things up?

  He almost smiled.

  On your signal, I’ll open the door. Hope you don’t give it.

  Raising his head, he met Barac’s steady gaze and nodded, once. Morgan tied off the top of the bag in front of him on the bench, having surreptitiously switched its contents for a pair of small objects neither Hoveny nor Clan. He gave it to Barac. “These could be special. I’ll let you take care of them.”

  Barac’s eyes widened and if he took the bag with extra care, just as well. It contained two blastglobes: sufficient to obliterate the former main entrance—as well as crack the hull. He’d written instructions in their use. Twist top and bottom firmly in opposite directions, put on the floor near the target, then get back to the Core. Until twisted, they were harmless. Undetectable.

  Expensive, though he hadn’t paid in credits. Omacron III’s telepaths had a useful curiosity about the Human variety. Playing along had been—instructive.

  Another life. Morgan intended to preserve this one. “Two bags each, no more,” he advised, not without regret. They were leaving ten times as much and he picked by instinct alone.

  He felt the material of a bag: resilient, but tough. “Might be watertight,” he mused and collecting the unused remainder to add to his pack. If so, they could prove of more value than any of these trinkets.

  Barac shrugged off the blanket and folded it, offering it to Morgan. “Heat’s back on.”

  So it was. Meaning lights would come on in the Core, with breakfast to soon follow. Sira would tell her people the truth. Morgan wondered what the Clan would make of it.

  “Time’s up.”

  Chapter 11

  I GRABBED THE CLOTHES I hadn’t put away yesterday and ’ported to the accommodation, seizing the chance to shower—and think. We’d till tomorrow, if Morgan interpreted Sona correctly; a shipday and night to prepare for the best possibility, arriving on our Homeworld.

  No point preparing for anything else.

  As my hair vibrated and squeezed itself dry, I dressed, pondering how to break the news. I could wake Council first, I suggested to Aryl, pleased with myself. Let them make the announcement.

  I’ve briefed them. They voted to have you to do it.

  That wasn’t fair— I may have forgotten, temporarily, who rode inside my body: the Clanswoman who’d once led all M’hiray.

  This isn’t about fair, Keeper, with a tiny snap. Then, with characteristic bluntness, They’ll look first to you, Sira, whatever else. Trust yourself. You know what to say.

  And what to keep to myself, I thought grimly. Morgan’s plan to sabotage the ship was pure desperation, more likely to buy us a quick end than freedom. He hadn’t said it.

  He hadn’t had to. We’ve run long enough, I sent, oddly at peace.

  Ready, I stepped outside, pleased to see the lights were up and people rousing.

  I opened my mind to the ship. Sona, are you there?

  >Keeper, what is your will?<

  Let’s get this day started.

  “Good morning.” Sona carried my voice to the far corners of the Core; I stood on the nearest empty table to be seen—and see.

  As I’d seen Morgan and Barac appear near our sleeping area, depositing unfamiliar green bags on our bed. I appreciated their timing; the sooner I did this, the sooner—well, it’d be done.

  “This has been a journey none of us expected to make. Full of hardships we couldn’t have predicted, as well as joy.” I gestured to Gricel, standing with Yanti in her arms.

  Nods, one or two hesitant smiles, but those who
allowed me to sense their feelings were sharing an understandable doubt, this being how I’d started their day—

  Was it only yesterday?

  I’d be embarrassed some remote time in the future, when we could look back and laugh. “Our journey began when I asked our great starship, Sona—” a little flattery couldn’t hurt, “—to take us home. I’m glad to tell you it’s about to end. We arrive tomorrow.” And if I put a flare of hope under the words, with the Power to reach each and every one?

  It was no more than they deserved—and needed.

  With a collective gasp, smiles blossomed and people turned to one another. Some hugged, others brushed fingers. There were no few tears. Sendings sizzled and voices rose, full of excited anticipation.

  Well done. I let myself look at Morgan. He sat at seeming ease on our bed, hands locked around a knee. He wasn’t smiling.

  Waiting for the rest, I thought, steeling myself for the same reason. “We have a great deal to do.” The Core fell silent; all eyes fixed on me. “Breakfast’s waiting for us, as are packets for our final two meals before landing. The ship’s begun to prepare for that, starting with what was the food storage room.” A fine job of justification, if I did say so myself. “More changes could happen at any moment, in any area, so please stay with someone who can ’port you to safety.”

  They settled, growing serious. Change and peril was a connection we’d learned to make. Now what did I say?

  Council’s turn, Aryl said. I’ve conversed with each. They’re ready to support you, Sira. We all are.

  I made the gesture of respect between equals. “Council will detail what’s needed and apportion tasks. We’re almost home.”

  Jumping down, I headed straight for Morgan.

  People absorbed the news, unsure what it meant—for none knew where Sona took us—but with relief. We’d existed since leaving the Trade Pact and Cersi, nothing more. All would be glad to see this journey’s end.

  Council kept us busy. Belongings were packed into rolls made from extra blankets, secured with the last of the gauze brought on board by the Sona and Tuana, including that from the party bows. Groups scoured the ship—on foot and ready to ’port away if spots appeared in the walls—looking for anything useful.