by Jean Lorrah
The moment he had come out of it, post-syndrome manifesting as burning shame, he had done everything he could to make amends. He had given the woman three times what her Pen Gen was worth, and then he had bundled Zhag Paget into the buggy and out to Carre—where he had handed him over at the gates of the Householding and left as fast as he could, never going near the place again.
Baird’s father was delighted to have his son and heir abandon Householding notions, but Baird was guilt-ridden at killing, no matter how right it felt at the moment it happened. The Gens he had met at the Householding were people.
It had not helped his frame of mind, either, when a week after that fateful day his conscience had sent him to see whether Zhag had survived...and he had found the musician in greatly improved health, playing an entire evening’s set at Milily’s Shiltpron Parlor. Zhag had not killed, he informed Baird proudly, and was certain that he never would again. He tried to talk Baird into going back to Carre—but Baird, satisfied that he was not responsible for a Sime’s death as well, had walked away from his friend and never gone back.
And so he had lived for the past three months, a proper killer Sime once again, trying to bask in his father’s approval...when he completely lacked any joy in life.
It’s all the fault of the Householders, he told himself. Their perversion has tainted me. He wanted to tell his father, It’s your fault, too! If you hadn’t taken me to the channels when I was a child—
—I would almost certainly be dead, he had to admit.
His father had made a calculated decision then, just as he had today. This one was intended to preserve the family. The one when Baird was ten years old had been meant to save the boy’s life. The channels had cured him of pneumonia, but a week at Carre had trapped him between two worlds, neither content to be junct, nor capable of disjunction.
His father didn’t understand. Baird had broken the most sacred vow he had ever made in his life. It didn’t matter that his father was pleased, nor that Norlea’s most influential citizens believed that he had returned to the right and proper way of life.
I betrayed myself, Baird recognized. If I cannot trust myself, how can anyone else ever trust me?
* * * *
DRESSED IN A WHITE SILK GARMENT THAT CLUNG to her form like running water, Jonmair entered the killroom. This one was much fancier than the ones in people’s homes. Here, too, the green-and-white color scheme prevailed, green stencils on the white plaster, the doors painted green, even green and white ribbons braided into Jonmair’s long, thick hair.
Baird Axton’s Kill waited, a male Gen with the vacant look of one raised in the Pens. Not a Choice Kill. But then, given the man’s flirtation with perversion, he probably preferred a Gen that was more like an animal.
I don’t feel like an animal, Jonmair thought—an idea that had come to her over and over since the day she had been taken from her home, no longer considered human. Why do I feel so much like myself?
Because I didn’t turn Sime, she reminded herself. I never became fully human. I only think I feel like a person because I don’t know what it feels like to really be one. To be a Sime. To zlin. I still feel like myself, all right—like a child who can never grow up.
Nevertheless, she was better off than the Gen that waited, unsuspecting, to be killed. It was a healthy male, dull-eyed only with witlessness, for any drugs would have been allowed to wear off. It must experience its death fully for the Sime who killed it to obtain satisfaction.
The Gen looked up as Jonmair entered. It was dressed in the white cotton yawal of the killroom, a poncho-like garment that left its arms and legs bare. Like Jonmair, it wore a collar, but unlike hers, its was attached to a chain hooked to the wall high enough that it could not reach to loosen it. Not that it was trying.
But Jonmair was grateful for the chain when the Gen gave her a loose-lipped smile and tried to move toward her. Its eyes showed some interest now—in the form of lust. She realized it was a breeder that had outlived its purpose—male breeders were seldom used for more than a few months.
The chain brought the Gen up short. It tugged futilely with clumsy hands, then beckoned her, “C’mon, c’mon.” Probably one of the commands it was used to obeying on the Genfarm where it was raised.
Sickened, Jonmair backed against the door where she had come in, just as the other door opened and Baird Axton entered.
His face was even more ravaged with Need, and he was hyperconscious—his unfocused eyes and extended laterals indicated that he was sensing the world only as shifting selyn fields. Once again Jonmair’s heart went out to him—he so desperately needed to be warmed and filled with life.
“Stop that, Girl!” Baird said sharply. “You’re not my Kill.”
Jonmair was surprised, for she was not afraid.
Maybe she just didn’t know she was.
But she had also learned in the three months she had waited to be sold into death, that if she imagined a selyn-shielded curtain surrounding her, not allowing her feelings to get out, her field did not impinge on nearby Simes and she dared to think and feel in the privacy of her own mind.
When she drew that imaginary curtain around her today, though, Baird Axton was the one surprised—so much so that his eyes focused on her as if to verify that she was still there. “Are you a Companion?” he asked.
Companions were Gens who lived with Simes in the Householdings, giving them their selyn without being killed.
“No, Tuib,” Jonmair told him. “I’ve never been inside a Householding. But I do know how to keep from interfering with your Kill.”
He was too strung out with Need to question her further. With her field no longer distracting him, he turned toward the Pen Gen. The creature stared dumbly from Baird to Jonmair, only puzzlement to be seen on its face.
For the first time today, Jonmair saw Baird’s handling tentacles—Simes normally used them nearly all the time. There were four on each hand, graceful tendrils that emerged from wrist openings over the back and the palm. Sime tentacles were beautiful. Not limited like fingers, they could move and twine in any direction, making Simes the most dexterous creatures in the world.
Jonmair had been touched with handling tentacles all her life—her parents’ had caressed her, held her, braided her hair. Those tentacles were warm, dry, strong, often comforting. And, most important to Jonmair since she had learned she would never have them, they were the outward mark of Simeness.
She wanted to be touched by gentle tentacles again, not efficiently and impersonally, as the pen workers did, but tenderly, as her parents had once touched her...before she had proved less than human.
The Pen Gen made no protest when Baird Axton grasped its arms, then wrapped his handling tentacles so that the two were aligned forearm to forearm in an unbreakable grip. Only when that grip was secure did Baird touch the Gen with his delicate lateral tentacles, wet with selyn conducting fluid. When they were securely seated on the nerve points in the Gen’s forearms, Baird pulled the Gen toward him.
For the first time, the Gen resisted, turning its face away as Baird sought to press his lips to the Gen’s. It was not a kiss—it was simply the most convenient fifth contact point, a grounding to allow the flow of life energy through the nerve-rich lateral tentacles.
With incredible patience for a Sime deep into Need, Baird allowed the Gen to turn its head away. Jonmair marveled, drawn to him even more, wanting to see him satisfied and healed, made whole and happy as a Sime ought to be.
Baird made the connection when the Gen automatically turned back again. It struggled, trying to step back, but Baird easily maintained contact. Jonmair hoped the struggle indicated it was feeling the fear Baird needed to make the Kill work for him.
The creature stiffened, and, that fast, it was over!
The Gen crumpled to the floor as Baird retracted his tentacles and let go. His eyes were closed, and he drew a deep breath as a peaceful expression replaced the pinched look of Need on his face. Now he was even more ha
ndsome.
And Jonmair realized that sometime during the process she had let go of the shield about her emotions, so that if he cared to, he could zlin her every feeling.
Baird opened his eyes, looked straight at Jonmair, and smiled. Ignoring the body at his feet, he held out his hands to her. She took them, her heart surging when warm handling tentacles caressed her fingers.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Baird, and led her through the door by which he had entered. They had to step over the corpse of the Pen Gen. Its empty eyes stared at the ceiling, face frozen in a rictus of fear. It had served its purpose.
And now Jonmair’s purpose was to give Baird a satisfactory post-syndrome. She wanted to wipe away the last vestiges of his pain. She smiled into his eyes and followed him to the nearby pleasure chamber.
Here, too, they found the green and white color scheme, but Jonmair would not have cared if the place were decorated in orange, purple, and chartreuse. Her eyes were only for Baird Axton.
There was food elegantly laid out on a table covered with a fine white linen cloth. There was the same fresh fruit Gens were fed each day, but instead of the plain gruel and bread that Jonmair was thoroughly tired of, there were light biscuits, cheese, nut butter, and honey cakes. Jonmair would have liked to eat something, talk—get to know this man.
Baird, though, was only interested in Jonmair. When she would have moved toward the table, he picked her up and laid her in the nest of soft green and white pillows spread on the clean white sheets of a wide, comfortable bed. Having her there when he killed seemed to have worked: he began stripping off his clothes without taking his eyes off her.
But Jonmair had never done this before. She felt drawn to him, but not ready to plunge directly into sex.
As Baird fumbled with shirt buttons, Jonmair realized, He’s never done this before, either! I’m his first...and he is mine.
“Tuib Baird,” she ventured. “Zlin me—please.” He would have to make a special effort to do so this soon after his Kill.
He gasped when she called him by name, but she saw his laterals lick tentatively out of their sheaths. It was safe enough to let him zlin her apprehension now, at least as far as her life was concerned. As to the success of their encounter, though...had she spoiled it?
Baird smiled, baring strong white teeth, and drew a long, deep breath. He dropped his shirt onto a chair, but did not shed his trousers despite the evidence of arousal that Jonmair could see outlined there. He held out a hand to her. “We don’t have to rush,” he said.
“Thank you,” she told him, letting her genuine gratitude well up as he pulled her to her feet. She could see him relax a little, and her own breathing became more normal.
Baird ran fingers and handling tentacles through her hair—the tender touch she had so yearned for—and in response she put her hands on his broad shoulders, taking strength from him as she laid her face against his chest.
He was warm, and hard in a way that made her feel protected. She slid a hand down his chest, between his dark copper nipples. His arms came automatically around her, and she put her face up, expecting to be kissed.
But Baird’s lips did not seek hers. He cupped her face with one hand, while its dorsal tentacles untied the bow holding her garment at the shoulder. In a moment he had untied the other bow, and the dress slithered to the floor. Baird stood back and looked at her—just looked. “Beautiful,” he said.
Jonmair had been raised without body consciousness—what use was it in a world of people who could zlin?—but nonetheless she felt exposed and once again apprehensive. When Baird moved to pick her up, she twisted and pushed him down onto the bed instead.
He let her, amusement in his beautiful gray eyes. As long as she was doing something, perhaps he would allow her to set the pace.
If she didn’t try to delay too long.
She pulled off his low-cut boots, and then his socks, revealing high-arched well-formed feet. Finally, she unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his fly. He rested on his elbows, watching her, but she saw the tiny laterals peeking out of their sheaths and knew he zlinned her every feeling.
This may be my only chance to make love, she reminded herself. At least it’s with someone attractive and gentle. “Lift your hips,” she told him, and stripped his trousers off as if he were her little brother. It left him in nothing but expensive silk underdrawers, tented still with the desire he seemed satisfied to delay assuaging.
For the moment.
Jonmair knew she could not delay long—she was awash in gratitude that he had allowed her this much. But much as she wanted this man, what she wanted was to be held in his arms, to feel even a temporary illusion of safety, for the first time since she had been taken from her home.
She knew, in theory, what the sex act was—but she felt no desire to perform what sounded merely...uncomfortable.
Baird sat up and took Jonmair’s hand. “Lie down,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I know,” she replied, letting him guide her to stretch out next to him. Then his arms were about her again, and he gave her her desire, as if he could read her mind and not merely her selyn field.
She reveled in the comfort of his warm, strong Sime body. But after a moment he rolled her on top of him, hands and tentacles stroking down her back, over her buttocks, caressing her thighs. It felt good, his laterals leaving little tingly trails wherever they grazed. Without thinking, she sought his lips with hers, but again he turned his head away, this time saying, “Don’t.”
Wanting to please him, but not knowing how, she kissed his cheek. That he did not seem to mind, so she trailed kisses down his neck until her face met his hand, which had just stroked up her arm.
Again Baird cupped her face, sliding dorsal tentacles into her hair. But then he pushed her over onto her back again, stripped off his drawers, and drew their naked bodies together. His warm skin the full length of her body made Jonmair more bold. She put her arms about him again, writhing upward, feeling his hot manhood between them. It felt huge, demanding!
He inserted a hand between them. Handling tentacles slithered into places she could not remember anyone ever touching her before. Jonmair gasped in a combination of pleasure and fear. Her heart pounded and her skin prickled.
She wanted to be kissed, but Baird remained stubbornly uncooperative, although the fingers and tentacles of his other hand continued to caress her cheek and hair. Yearning for some more intimate connection, she turned her face and licked at one of his laterals.
He gasped audibly, but did not withdraw the vulnerable appendage. She sucked it into her mouth, lolling it gently, feeling little tingly sparks resonate through her tongue and down into her nerves. Baird trembled. Jonmair marveled in her power at that moment...and his utter trust.
Both of them were covered with a sheen of perspiration, their bodies sliding slickly—and finally, uniting.
Jonmair let Baird’s lateral slip from her lips as discomfort interrupted her pleasure. Why did he have to—? Owww—he was too big!
Then something inside her yielded, her pain faded to a tolerable level, and she rode out his thrusting until he stiffened in her arms and cried out. When he began to breathe again, panting, he fell heavily on her.
But, zlinning that she could not breathe, Baird quickly moved off her, and cradled her gently. “It will be better next time,” he promised.
“It was your first time, too,” she said, stroking his shoulder soothingly.
His eyes flew open. “How did you—?”
“You and your dad were talking about it, remember? When you chose me.” She let all her sincerity flow to him on her field, unable to find words to tell him how happy she was that she had been able to free him from what the Householders had done to him.
He looked into her eyes. “You’re different from other Gens,” he said.
“I’m not a Pen Gen.”
“I...know other Gens who are not,” he admitted.
Perverts, Jonmair thought, but
did not say it. Could Gens be perverts? She had assumed they could only be used by the Simes at the Householdings, doing whatever the Simes wanted out of fear for their lives.
Is that what I’m doing? Am I fooling myself into thinking I feel something for this man? Chance had threatened her. Did her Gen nature twist cowardice into false desire?
* * * *
SILENCE HUNG HEAVILY between Baird and the Gen woman as he realized he had said too much. She was sweet, lovely to look at and to zlin...and now very confused.
“We should eat something,” he said to change the subject. As soon as he said it, though, he realized that he was actually hungry. He could zlin the girl’s hunger, too, as they approached the table. Chance kept his Gens healthy, but it was clear from the way she dug in that she had not had such tasty dishes for some time.
When he reached for a honey cake, the Gen put out a hand to stop him. “Fruit and cheese first,” she said authoritatively. Immediately, she blushed and dropped her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “My mom and dad would always remind each other: you have to get those vitamins and proteins first, not waste your appetite on sweets.”
“You’re right,” said Baird, selecting some melon slices and a piece of cheese. He didn’t want to hurt this girl, or even spoil her mood. He wanted her again. Pleasant as it had been, their first encounter had lacked something.
At the end, she had stopped feeling pleasure. He had felt her desire to please him, but her own satisfaction in the encounter had disappeared.
He wanted to bring it back. They had all night. He could try again to zlin what felt good to her—and not get carried away with his own desires this time. Without her participation, he had gotten little more from the final moments of their encounter than he did from his own hand.
No wonder she had known it was his first time.
Replete with selyn, he was able to look at the girl as well as zlin her. She was a lovely creature with a porcelain complexion and a youthful blush across her cheeks. She was not tall, coming only to his shoulder, but she filled his arms nicely.