The Gate to Futures Past by Julie E. Czerneda Page B

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.”
    â€œBut I—”
    â€œPrepare 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.”
    â€œExcellent.” 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.
    They looked empty. Didn’t mean anything, he told himself. The cavity stretched beyond those moving racks, disappearing into the dark bowels of the ship. For all he knew, the racks weren’t filled until ready to drop down—
    â€”through the space presently occupied by his head and shoulders. The First Scout hastily pulled himself clear. “I imagine it will reset itself before breakfast, during shipnight.” He waved his hands to imply that complex but surely normal process.
    The youngsters smiled trustingly.
    Gurutz looked skeptical but didn’t argue. How could he? The Om’ray knew even less than he did about machines. What they needed down here was the Human.
    Failing that? Well, he’d one more trick, as Morgan would say,up his sleeve. “Gurutz. You and the lads report to Holl.” Barac gestured gratitude, finishing with a bow. “Well done.”
    They bowed back, Arla’s eyes glistening with pride. His brother patted him on the shoulder.
    â€œWill you make your own?” the Sona scout asked, no longer smiling.
    â€œOnly,” Barac said honestly, “if I’ve one to make.”
    Once they’d disappeared, the Clansman sat on the floor, choosing a spot in the middle, his back to the maw. Wrapping his arms around his calves, he dropped his forehead to a knee.
    Cleared his mind.
    Waited.
    Discipline, he had. It only felt as though the walls were as thin as issa-silk, the deadly twisted space outside as apt to consume him as the M’hir itself.
    It only felt he could, for all he really knew, be buried beneath dirt instead, running out of air.
    Barac waited. He’d the Talent to
taste
change. A flinch rather than insight, but a reliable warning nonetheless.
    Even if, half the time, such
tastes
arrived too late for him to do more than pull his blade and duck.
    CLANK!
    â€œSeventeen Hells!” Barac scrambled to his feet and whirled to face the dispenser, heart pounding in his ears. His hand reached for his force blade—
    â€”stopped short.
    The machine