The Gate to Futures Past by Julie E. Czerneda

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
    F OOD 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, andwheel 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.
    â€œWell?” Gurutz di Ulse peered over his shoulder. “What do you think?”
    â€œWhat 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