To Kiss or To Kill

by Jean Lorrah

  Prebolt laughed too, and put his arm around her. “Why not?” he asked of the world at large. The young woman, now replete with selyn, was pretty enough, and both of them were seriously post.

  “Be sure you make her pay you, Grennij!” someone taunted as Prebolt escorted her off the stage.

  Baird took the opportunity to make his escape, his emotions a jumble. His was no longer the last or most public Genjacking in Norlea—people would be talking about what had happened tonight for years.

  But on the other hand the taunting, the laughter, the pleasure in pain that he had witnessed—that was the nature of junct society—and juncts had little desire to change. What would happen four weeks from now, as all these people who had forced themselves into Need today came into Need again...and were not allowed to kill? Would there be riots then? Would juncts attack any Gens they could reach—including the Householding Companions, the so-called wer-Gens who had the capability of killing Simes?

  And what of those who were not Companions? There were thousands of Pen Gens—supplies intended for the months to come—all somewhere in the selyn distribution system. There was a Genfarm not many miles from Norlea. What would happen to those Gens, raised as animals? Who was going to take care of them now, keep them from being targets of juncts who saw them as their rightful prey?

  As he reached the top of the stairs, though, Baird knew even before he saw her that there was only one Gen he cared about. What would happen to this frighteningly enticing Gen woman who was now a member of their household?

  Jonmair had finished her sewing, and dressed herself as an employee of The Post. It gave Baird an oddly pleasurable twinge to see her in his clothes. She was lovely...but he felt no such sexual stirring as he had that night two months ago. Still, he wanted to be with her—he couldn’t have said exactly why.

  She looked up at him expectantly, waiting for a cue as to what he wanted of her. She might be his father’s ward, but she acted as if she belonged to Baird. And that was how he felt, too—fated, somehow. She had given him his manhood. He realized as he took her hand and she stepped willingly into the circle of his arms, he now hoped she would give him freedom from the Kill.

  Jonmair’s narrow bed would not be very comfortable for two, so he took her down one flight of stairs to family and guest quarters. “You don’t have anything,” he said, stopping at the linen closet. He found a comb and hairbrush for her, a toothbrush, and some shampoo. “These will see you until you can buy the kind you prefer.”

  “Yes, Tuib Baird,” she replied. “Thank you.”

  “Just call me Baird,” he told her. “After midnight you’re no one’s property anymore, even though my father will still have rights over you. No one knows what will happen to the Gens who survived the Last Kill. We still need your selyn—the legislature has already declared that you can’t leave Gulf Territory.”

  “I wouldn’t want to leave,” she said as he sat down on the bed and indicated she should sit beside him. “I don’t know anything about Gen Territory. At least here I speak the language.”

  “Can you read?” he asked, piling cushions against the headboard and settling the two of them with his arm around her. He could zlin her body producing selyn, pulse by pulse, just as his body was using it. It felt good, reassuring. He imagined what it would be like to have that steady pulse-pulse-pulse beside him when he descended into Need.

  Then he realized, it didn’t have to be imagination. He could have Jonmair at his side when the bleak cold of Need threatened, her field a promise that there would be warmth and fulfillment again. The very thought was bliss—and he had to pull himself deliberately back to reality.

  “Oh, yes. I went to school,” Jonmair answered his question, oblivious to the effect she had on him.

  That would be the basic schooling most children in Norlea got: reading, writing, figuring, some history, some geography. By the natal age of twelve, they were equipped with enough skills to help out their families until they either changed over into Simes or established selyn production as Gens.

  During the First Year after changeover, new Simes were able to learn very, very quickly. So it was only after changeover that Simes received the specific education or training to prepare them for their future. Baird himself was still technically in First Year, although it was almost over—in that time, despite his problems, he had learned the business side of running The Post: accounting, purchasing, marketing, personnel management. What had seemed impossible—and boring—adult mysteries only months before became not only easy, but fun in First Year.

  At Carre, until he failed his disjunction and stopped going there, Baird had added lessons in the Gen language—or at least the Gen language spoken in the neighboring Gen territories—to his list of accomplishments. Now he asked Jonmair, “Would you like to learn the Gen language?”

  She looked up at him, those mysterious wine-colored eyes puzzled. “How can I do that?”

  “You’ll be going to Carre for lessons in how to live around Simes without provoking a Kill. They can teach you English.”

  “Ing-leash?”

  “That’s what the Gens call their language—the ones nearby anyway. My sister met some Gens in the army who had different languages. Espanyol, Fronsay. They were all learning each other’s languages so they could fight together.”

  “What...are you talking about?” Jonmair asked, her eyes wide with astonishment. “Fight together? Our soldiers and Wild Gens in the same units, actually fighting side by side?”

  “Yes, against the Freebanders,” he explained. “You must have heard.”

  “No—we weren’t allowed any news in the Pen. Only a few days ago did a new Gen dare to tell us we would be the Last Kills. The guards broke it up before we found out very much. Your sister was in the army?”

  “Yes. She wrote to me about getting to know Gens as people. She had stopped killing—but then she died in battle, before Faith Day.”

  “What happened on Faith Day?” Jonmair asked, and curled against him like a child as he told her about the Sime army running out of Gens, the Gen army running out of food, and the Gens donating their selyn to the Simes in exchange for food so that they could all fight that one last battle.

  She frowned, eyelids growing heavy. “I was told they traded selyn for food—like business.”

  “Does it matter?” Baird asked, and quoted one of his father’s sayings, “Good business makes good friendships.” He continued with what he had heard about that final battle—and its aftermath with all the Simes and Gens around the campfires, together, singing. He didn’t quite believe that one himself, but two different soldiers he had met had sworn that they were there...and he could not help picturing Elendra with them. She just had to know that it had all been worth the sacrifice!

  By the time he finished his story, Jonmair was asleep. It didn’t matter; her sweet field still laved him with promise despite how little selyn she carried. It was just exactly enough, he realized, to equal the amount he had used up in the brief time since his transfer.

  Was this what had happened to the Sime soldiers when they became allies with Gens? This feeling of...security...so foreign to the junct state? Having Jonmair close to him made it possible to believe the impossible stories he had just told her...and to believe that the insane scheme to disjunct the Sime Territories might, by some miracle, actually work.

  He eased some of the cushions out of the way so that they could both lie down, and Jonmair half awoke as he moved her. “What?” she whispered.

  “It’s midnight,” he told her. “The Kill is over. You are completely safe now.”

  She accepted the news with a sleepy smile, then once again snuggled against him. Although it was long since dark, it was too warm for any kind of covering. She was not seeking warmth. What did she seek? He knew perfectly well what he got from having her there—but what did this lovely Gen feel? Gens couldn’t zlin. They couldn’t feel anything other than fear and pain, he had always been taught.

 
But he knew that wasn’t true. Brushing his lips against her soft hair, he let his own mind surrender to sleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  RIOT

  JONMAIR WOKE ALONE IN A STRANGE BED in a strange room.

  She wasn’t in the Pen!

  The moment she realized that, it all came back. She had a life to live! Her nightmare of the past four months was over—she was no longer an animal to be bought and sold and finally killed. She might be Treavor Axton’s ward, but she was nobody’s property.

  She left Baird Axton’s bed and his room, picked up the toiletries he had given her, and scurried upstairs. No one was about, and she remembered that the rooms were selyn-shielded. She wouldn’t attract notice if the other servants were asleep. Simes required less sleep than Gens, but everyone else at The Post had surely been on duty until dawn.

  She quickly showered, braided her hair, and dressed in the clothes she had altered last night. Then she ventured downstairs, hoping to find Baird—and some breakfast, for she was once again “as hungry as a Gen.”

  The only food smell was kafi, so she followed that to the kitchen. It was huge, with the soap smell and damp, humid feel of recently completed cleanup. Obviously no one had been allowed to rest until it was finished. Everything was spotless, not a dish out of place.

  A huge kafi urn kept warm over a small flame. It was not what Jonmair wanted, but there was no food to be seen, and she feared to incur the wrath of Treavor Axton or his chef if she did not obtain permission before rummaging in the cabinets and storage bins.

  There was another door on the other side of the kitchen. Jonmair pushed it open and found a dining hall with a table that would seat more than a dozen people. However, there was only one person at the table right now: Treavor Axton, drinking kafi and reading the morning newspaper.

  He looked up the moment she entered. “Good morning, Mr. Axton,” she said.

  “That’s Tuib Axton to you, Gen,” he told her.

  “No offense, Sir, but I am no longer your property. I heard the other staff members address you as Mr. Axton, so I believe that is the proper term of respect.”

  “So you’re going to start making trouble already,” he said, folding the paper.

  “No, Sir,” she replied. “I am greatly in your debt for rescuing me. I’m willing to work—but you will have to tell me what I should do.”

  “What can you do?” he countered.

  “I’m a fine seamstress,” she replied. “I can design costumes for your performers.”

  He gave a sharp burst of laughter. “You are some uppity Gen! Cord will give you the linens to mend—after last night, there’s plenty.” He eyed her, and added, “At least you’re willing to work.”

  “Of course I am,” she replied. “I’ve worked since I was old enough to thread a needle. One of the terrible things about being in the Pen, waiting to die, was having absolutely nothing to do.”

  He stared at her in annoyance. “I wanted my son to kill you,” he said flatly. “Now I’m stuck with you until the shenned legislature figures out how people can trade the Gens they got stuck with. I’d ship you up to Laveen today if I knew how to do that legally.” Laveen was in the far north end of Gulf Territory, several days’ journey away.

  Just as his father was saying that, Baird Axton entered the dining room. “There you are,” he said to Jonmair with a smile. Then, “Dad, you won’t want to send her away when you realize what a boon she will be to this place. Zlin her!”

  “So?”

  “What do you want most right now?”

  “Nothing from her,” the older man replied. “I think I’ll see if there are any cheese rolls left.”

  “Exactly!” said Baird.

  “Exactly what?” asked his father.

  “Her hunger makes you hungry. I’ve been thinking—what are most Simes going to be concentrating on for the next few months?”

  “Not post-syndrome, that’s for sure!”

  “Fewer each month,” Baird agreed. “Everyone will be focused on disjunction. Soon they’ll feel sick—and when Simes feel sick, they stop eating. Which really only makes them sicker.”

  “So?” his father repeated.

  “So,” said Baird triumphantly, “we make Simes better. We keep offering good food—but we have hungry Gens, like Jonmair, circulate among the guests. I saw it last night: when she ate, all the Simes in the Gold Room ate too. So did I—when I had no appetite at all.”

  “You can’t seriously think we’re going to recoup the losses we’ll have because of no one being post—” Treavor Axton began.

  “No—for the time being we’ll shift our primary emphasis to gambling, like we talked about. But if we get Simes to eat while they’re gambling or listening to music here, they are going to feel better. And if they feel better at The Post than anywhere else, then they’re going to come back to The Post.”

  “And if we starve this Gen to death making our customers hungry?” suggested Baird’s father.

  “Very funny, Dad. Jonmair, he’s teasing now—you’ll learn to understand that. It means he agrees with me.”

  “Her name is Jenni,” said Treavor Axton.

  “No it isn’t. You’ll be registering her today—and if you don’t want her confused with a hundred other Jenni’s, you’d better register her under a more original name.”

  “Shen!” muttered the older man. “All right, Jonni, then. Girl—go get us all something to eat!”

  It was the beginning of Jonmair’s new life—and not too bad a beginning, considering the alternative.

  Treavor Axton, she knew, had a bite—but if she followed Baird’s lead, she was able to figure out when his bark was worse. It was, in fact, harder to interact with the rest of the staff, who resented a Gen on apparently equal footing with them, than the owners of The Post. She tried to be friendly, but no one would talk to her except to order her around. She tried not to feel lonely, reminding herself how much better off she was than in the Pen, but although she now had work, her mind was still free to wander as she carefully mended torn sheets and reattached lace to pillow cases.

  At the end of the first week, Axton’s employees were paid. His ward was not. Jonmair was once again reminded of her uncertain status as she watched the others put on civilian clothes, collect their pay, and go off to spend the morning elsewhere.

  Baird, though, said, “Dad, Jonmair should have an allowance.”

  “I’m already clothing that Gen and giving it a place to live,” replied his father. “And what it eats—it’s worse than a plague of rats in the pantry!”

  “You’ll get that back and more for her selyn at the end of the month,” said Baird. “And look—” he pointed to the ledger, “my scheme is working. We’re selling more food than we did before Jonmair came to work here.”

  Treavor Axton frowned, but could not argue with the figures. “We’ve still had a drop in revenue,” he said.

  “Compared to last week, sure,” said Baird. “That was a windfall. But compared to a year ago we’re holding our own in spite of the drop-off after everyone’s postsyndrome wore off. Until cycles drift apart again, we can continue to expect one good week each month.”

  Then Baird added, “The mending is all done—Cord says Jonmair has done a good job. Why don’t you give her an allowance and let her buy something for herself at the market? I’ve scheduled her to start lessons at Carre.”

  “You’ve scheduled her? What do you have to do with the Gen? Other than sleeping with it?” Treavor Axton demanded. “I don’t want it learning wer-Gen tricks. Neither would you, if you weren’t thinking with your laterals!”

  “Dad, until she learns some Companion’s techniques it won’t be safe for her to leave the premises alone. Shen, a week from now it won’t be safe for her to be on the premises when more than half the Simes in Norlea hit turnover!”

  “Well, we can expect a certain number of accidental Kills, can’t we? The shenned Tecton should know better than to make a promise to the Wild G
ens that we can’t keep.”

  “We can keep it and we will,” said Baird firmly. “The Gens are donating selyn so we won’t have to kill. You saw it in the paper, Dad—they don’t really trust us, but they’re willing to try. Are we going to prove less honorable than out-Territory Gens?” Jonmair admired the way Baird pinned his father with his own beliefs. “Besides,” he added, “if you let someone kill Jonmair before the end of the month, even if it’s ruled an accident, you won’t get paid for her selyn.”

  It was one of the protections in the new law for Gen wards of Simes: a guardian received no compensation if his ward was killed—but the killer would have to prove it was an accidental death or forfeit his own life. That new law had been as much of a shock to Jonmair as to the Simes. Gen life was now as valuable as Sime life, and the penalty for killing a Gen was the same as for murdering a Sime: death by attrition.

  Of course. The law was not intended for unusual cases like Jonmair’s. Pen owners and Genfarmers were now guardians to huge numbers of Gens—without that threat to anyone who tried to purchase a Gen for the Kill, business would simply go on as usual. Still, the law protected her too.

  Treavor Axton stared from his son to Jonmair. Then, “All right—take her to the shenned channels. But no more than one day a week.”

  “After this week,” Baird countered. “She has to be ready not to provoke anyone on their turnover day.”

  Eager to learn other things, Jonmair did not tell either Sime that she already knew how to shield so that Simes did not notice her if she didn’t want them to. She had done it with both of them and the other Simes any number of times, and none of them had ever commented. She was quickly learning that despite their special senses, Simes almost never noticed when a Gen did what they didn’t think a Gen could do.

  So preventing her field from provoking Simes was not a problem. What Jonmair wanted to learn was how to give transfer.