by Sharon Lee
Kishara, watching, leaned forward even as Pritti turned to board the bus. In that instant, her eyesight blurred, she stumbled – and felt her arm caught, steadying her.
"Here now!" a voice said sharply. "What's amiss?"
Kishara drew a shaky breath, and turned her head. It was grim-faced Bri And who was her rescuer.
"I came a bit dizzy," she said, trying to ignore the phantoms obscuring her vision. It was as if she trying to focus on his face from a distance, with a bright, busy crowd between them. She took another breath.
"Perhaps there's something in the air," she said.
Bri And sniffed.
"The more likely cause is too little food. Even entranced, we burn calories, and we burned more than were replenished by ration bars and that wretched drink. Haven't you noticed that we're all thin as needles?"
The line moved forward a few paces. Bri And stepped to her side, still holding her arm, keeping her steady. It was impertinence, perhaps, but she was grateful for his support.
Kishara took another breath and closed her eyes briefly, to no avail. The busy crowd still bustled behind her eyelids, sharper now that reality did not distract her.
"Mind your step," Bri And said from that distant reality. "We are going more quickly now."
She opened her eyes and moved at his urging, allowing him still to support her, while she kept her head bent and concentrated on seeing the ramp through the phantom crowds.
At last, they stood on hard crete behind Pritti, who had just reached the guard in her green tunic.
"Name," she stated, and Pritti murmured a reply, shoulders hunched.
Kishara's vision cleared, the scene in front of her taking on more weight. Surely, she had seen this – only very recently? Frowning, she inched closer, and Bri And came with her, firm hand under her elbow.
The woman in the green tunic had made her note on the clipboard, and held out a broad hand, palm up.
"Tablet," she said.
Pritti stiffened, and clutched the tablet closer.
"I am the guide for the remaining ten of us. The pilots entrusted me with the duty, to care for the group and impart such information as the tablet provides."
"Yes," the guard said, barely patient. "That duty has come to an end. All of you are equally under the care and protection of the Office of Colonization Services. The tablets are to be returned to the ship. The pilots have said it."
Yes, Kishara thought. This was precisely what she had seen from the top of the ramp, replaying now, in real time. She recalled the Healer who had tried so hard to argue her a Seer. Had he been right, after all? But what had increased her gift to the point where the future overwrote her present? Was this what it was like for Seers – no. She brought herself up. No, the Healer had said something, had shown her something, that she had scarcely been able to grasp at the time. She groped for the memory while Pritti bowed her head, and placed the tablet into the guard's waiting hand.
The guard jerked her head toward the bus, and Pritti, shoulders drooping, turned and climbed the stairs.
The guard turned aside to place the tablet into a box.
"You now," Bri And murmured, and supported Kishara as she stepped forward, concentrating on her surroundings – the carpeted stairs into the bus, the red exterior, the guard's green tunic, and the emblems on each shoulder. The ghosts of the future still crowded at the edge of her sight, but if she held her attention firm, they did not, much, disrupt reality.
The guard turned back, hefting her clipboard, a frown forming on her angular face.
"What's this, then?"
Kishara swallowed, but no words came, all of her resources concentrated on holding the ghosts at bay.
"She feels unwell," Bri And said after a moment. "Rations were short."
The guard's face softened somewhat.
"Understood," she said. "Name?"
Kishara found her tongue, "Kishara jit'Luso."
The guard made a tick-mark on her clipboard, and raised her eyes to Bri And.
"Name?"
"Bri And bel'Vester," he said.
The guard again had recourse to her clipboard, and jerked her head toward the bus.
"Please board. There will be food and a physician at the examination hall."
They passed on, Kishara more than glad of Bri And's support on the stairs. Inside, there were only a few seats left open. He saw her situated on the first they found, near the center of the bus.
"Sit and be easy," he murmured. "If you wish it, I will be your support when we debark."
"Thank you," she answered, and managed a polite inclination of her head. "I am steadier than I was."
That earned her a sharp look, but there was another passenger moving up the aisle, and perforce Bri And moved on, to a seat in the back of the bus.
Kishara sighed, leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes.
This was a mistake. The ghosts of might-be assaulted her. She saw, in an ever-increasing cascade the bus exploding, bodies falling to the street, blood bright against the stones, windows smashed, and ships lifting willy-nilly from port. She saw a body in an airlock, a catch-net floating against a backdrop of stars, a plate of bread and cheese, the sharp-faced individual she had seen in shipboard dreaming, and another explosion as glass flew and pierced her.
She cried out at that, but the visions flowed on. She saw Pritti lift her hand, and have her silver ring off; she saw the guard in the green tunic pulling a side arm from her belt, and offering it, butt-first, across her arm. She saw people, a busload of people, fall and lie still. She saw – she saw –
A stinging slap to her cheek shocked her eyes open. The guard, without her clipboard now, was bending over, her bulk shielding Kishara from the rest of the bus.
"What is it?" the woman demanded.
"I see – disaster, murder, and mayhem," Kishara heard herself say, well aware that it was babble and the guard would think her mad. "The bus explodes, there are bodies in the street. I am struck, and we are robbed – "
The guard placed a hand on Kishara's shoulder and pressed, not unkindly. Kishara's voice died, and she felt considerably calmer. The guard inclined her head, looking both wise and sad.
"I see," she said. "You will be going back to the ships, my dear. The world is too much for you."
Kishara blinked up at her.
"Is it the air?" she asked.
"In a manner of speaking. It takes some harder than others, and the lesson we have from the first wave is that those it takes hardest cannot survive. The ambient conditions will tear your mind apart, and you'll become a danger to yourself and your neighbors. Best for all and everyone, to go back where you came from."
"Never that," Kishara snapped, and the woman lifted a shoulder.
"Go someplace else, then, but the Office won't let you stay here. For this moment, I can offer you a drug that will put you to sleep – "
But Kishara had had enough of being put to sleep for her own good.
"I thank you," she said coldly, "but no. I seem calm enough now."
"That's because I'm shielding you," the guard told her. "Once I take my hand away, those sights will come back again. Unless you shield yourself."
Kishara took a breath.
"I have seen danger to this bus and passengers," she said as calmly as she could manage. "I know that this may not come to pass, but equally it may."
The guard sighed lightly, patted her shoulder and removed her hand. "I'll just fetch my kit," she said, and left.
Kishara squinted after her, ignoring the ghosts rioting at the edge of her vision. She thought she saw – no, she did see! – a shimmer as of bright metal or reinforced glass.
She looked across the aisle at her fellow refugees, startled to find many displaying a similar effect.
Was this, Kishara wondered, something natural that she lacked, or was it–
She almost closed her eyes, but managed to avoid that error. Instead, she concentrated on the Healer who had tried so hard to save her for the homeworl
d. He had hurriedly attempted to teach her something that she had not been able to grasp, or even imagine. Blind and ignorant, she had tried to follow his instructions, and had failed.
Now, however, with the ambient conditions assisting her, she understood. In memory, she could even hear the Healer's voice, patiently telling over the steps for building a shield around her core.
Concentrating, Kishara used her new understanding to follow those careful, remembered instructions.
She felt heat at the base of her spine, which the Healer had mentioned as a sign that she was engaged with her gifts. The ghosts at the edge of her vision went into a frenzy, but she forced herself to concentrate on the shadow that was building about her, which was becoming more solid, despite the shadow's attempts to distract and dismay –
There was a click, surely audible to the rest of the bus. The ghosts were gone. It was – quiet inside her head, though she had not been aware of any noise until it had stopped.
"You might have done that first," said a familiar voice, and Kishara looked up into the face of the guard, who had a small medkit in her hand.
The woman smiled slightly.
"That's what you want, though I'll tell you right now that, shielded or open, the Office still isn't likely to let you stay."
Kishara sighed, thinking of those possible futures that had come to her attention, and inclined her head.
"Perhaps I will be able to convince them otherwise," she said, and the guard gave her a thoughtful look.
"Perhaps you will," she said, and went away toward the front of the bus.
* * *
Kishara sat quietly inside her shields, and thought about those other things the Healer had tried to teach her in their short time together. Shields, she recalled, were vital, a protection and also a secure situation to rest behind. That said, the Healer had not recommended staying entirely behind shields. The information her gifts brought to her was valuable – uniquely valuable – and she should therefore allow her shields to be somewhat open, balancing the needs for protection and information.
Resting behind her shields, she sighed and considered what else the Healer might have told her.
"Stop the bus," a clear and absolutely certain voice stated. "Everyone else, be entirely still."
The bus slowed, and stopped.
Kishara opened her eyes.
At the driver's station stood – Mor Gan, from her group, now draped in necklaces, his fingers glittering with rings. His pockets visibly bulged.
"Good," he said to the bus driver. "Give me all of your money."
The driver reached beneath the seat and produced a pouch, which he handed to Mor Gan. No one else in her sight moved. Cautiously, she turned her head very slightly to the right, seeing more passengers frozen in place.
"Give me your weapon," Mor Gan directed the bus driver, and received what seemed to be a small firearm.
"Open the door," Mor Gan said, then, having disposed pouch and gun about his person.
The driver touched something on his board and the bus door sighed open.
"Keep absolutely still," Mor Gan said and stepped into the aisle, looking over the motionless passengers with such an expression on his face, that Kishara feared for their lives.
Whatever thought had passed through his mind, Kishara saw him reject it. When he spoke, that note she had marked before was in his voice, only much clearer, issuing not suggestions but commands.
"All of you," he said, "go to sleep for ten minutes. When you awake, you will have forgotten me entirely."
He turned and leapt down the stairs into the street.
Kishara jumped to her feet, rushed down the aisle, and leapt the stairs in his wake. Mor Gan was racing toward a small street just beyond the back of the bus. She gave chase, thinking only that he had robbed the driver, and many passengers – and that he must be stopped. She had reached the top of the street he had vanished into before she also recalled that he had taken a gun.
She leaned into a doorway, and tried to reason her way to the path she ought to take. Going to the Office of Colonization would be fruitless; she had to believe that Mor Gan, whose gift had been the ability to suggest things, had found that gift enhanced. She must believe, therefore, that his suggestion that he be forgotten had taken hold, and no one on the bus, or even from their group, would recall him, never mind be alarmed by a description of his alleged crimes. Especially, she thought wryly, when that description came from the weak-minded woman who was to be sent away before the planet broke her mind.
She recalled the visions she had experienced – the bus exploding, people dying – but none of that had happened. Recall, she told herself, the Healer had said that the future is not immutable. What she had seen on the bus had been possible futures. Mor Gan's actions had put them onto a path where bus and passengers survived; they were past that point; it could not be chosen again.
Every subsequent choice Mor Gan made limited the number of choices he could make, until he was locked into one line, all his future actions forced.
At the moment, she supposed him dazzled, perhaps slightly mad, with the sudden scope of his gift. Perhaps she should follow him, and bring him into hand before he did someone a grievous hurt. She thought she could trust her luck to keep her safe from ... too much harm. She – no.
She was a fool.
Mor Gan had come from Low Port. He was no innocent. He was a man who profited from the pain of others. Perhaps he had chosen to emigrate because he desired a wider field for his efforts. Perhaps Low Port had become ... inhospitable to him. Why did not matter.
What did matter was that Mor Gan meant to do mischief, and very possibly worse. He had intended this robbery, or something like it, from the first. It was only a bonus that his power of suggestion had increased under the ambient conditions.
The question for her, however – that remained the same: How was she to stop him? Surely, it fell to her to stop him, as the only person on-planet who remembered him.
Kishara bit her lip, thinking, taking stock of her gifts, both of them. Then she nodded once. Mor Gan sealed his future as he ran, decision by decision. She had the advantage, there. She could see ahead of him, and choose the path that would allow her to stop him. Her luck – she still trusted that her luck would keep her safe in the doing of it.
She smiled slightly. All that was required of her was to chose the correct path. Now that she had the way of it, that should not be so difficult a task.
Still smiling, she opened her shields, and let the ghosts of the future take her.
* * *
She came to herself standing at the side of a table in what appeared to be a tavern. It was a noisy room, but the table her gifts had chosen for her was occupied only by a dark-haired man wearing a pilot's jacket, wineglass in hand, gaze directed at some landscape only he could see. He wore a great, glittering gaud of a ring on his unencumbered hand, and Kishara, still in thrall to her gifts, thought that he looked familiar.
He looked up, as if he had suddenly become aware that he was not alone – black eyes under strong black brows, a hard face and a secretive mouth. Kishara realized that she had seen him, and more than once. In her dreams, and more recently, in her plans.
One of those strong brows lifted, and Kishara bent in a slight bow. Her lips parted, and she waited with interest to hear what she might say.
"Captain yos'Phelium." Her voice was not precisely steady, her tone too low for the loud room, but he heard her. His hard mouth softened slightly.
"No," he said, his voice not hard at all. "Merely Pilot yos'Phelium."
"But a yos'Phelium is never merely a pilot," she returned saucily.
His laugh put the lie to the grim face and stern eyes. She glanced down, lest he see the relief in her eyes – and discovered a plate of cheese, somewhat depleted, and half a small loaf of bread. It was then that she realized that she was very hungry, indeed.
"Sit," Pilot yos'Phelium said, his voice cordial. "If you have a taste for chancy
company. I was about to call for more wine. Will you join me?"
"Thank you," she said, and took the chair at his left, which put her back against the wall; the room, and especially the entry door, full in her gaze.
The server arrived in answer to the pilot's glance, received the order for two glasses of wine, and the coins that paid for all.
There was a stir behind her, and he glanced in that direction before looking to her again.
"If you were not here for the previous set, you may find the music of interest," he said courteously, as if they had been partnered at a public entertainment, on the homeworld.
There came a tootling sound, and some plucking of strings as the musicians bent to their task, and here was the server again, bearing wine and a new loaf of bread.
"Cook's gift," he said. "Crowd's thinner than her baking tonight."
"Our thanks to the cook," Kishara said with fervor, though it was scarcely her place to say it.
The server swept away, and Pilot yos'Phelium tipped his head toward the plates.
"The bread is very good," he said, "and the cheese better. I did not much care for the akashi fruit, but you may find otherwise. Please, make yourself free."
She smiled at him, then, with no restraint at all, and reached out to raise the glass the server had set by her hand.
"To the fullness of fortune," she proposed.
Both eyebrows quirked, but he lifted his glass willingly enough, and answered her.
"To the luck."
They drank. Kishara set her glass aside and reached to the plates. The cheese was excellent, and the bread delightful. The fruit – no, the fruit was not to her taste, either. She made another selection from among the cheeses.
Behind them, the musicians played, quietly. Kishara ate, conscious of the passage of time, as well as the warmth at the base of her spine. Mindful of the abbreviated teachings of the Healer, she had made shift to examine the futures her gift had spun from the ambient conditions, and she had – she was almost entirely certain that she had – chosen that future which provided the best chance of her continued survival with her mind intact, and provided the quickest end to Mor Gan's career.
Once she had chosen, it seemed her tendency to be fortunate had leapt into operation, moving her through the port on a mission of its own. There was some confusion at the beginning of this part of her adventure, until she realized that her part was to utterly surrender her own will and submit to being moved by the force of her gift. She had achieved the knack of it eventually, and so her feet had brought her here, to this place, to this man, and to the confrontation that would provide the solution she had chosen.
