To Kiss or To Kill

by Jean Lorrah

  A day out with Baird was a great treat. She had found in the rag bin some light blue cotton sheets that had been badly wine stained. After cutting away the stained portions, she had pieced together enough for a dress that fit her properly. It felt good to get out of the livery she had worn all week, washing the shirt and ironing it dry every day. She put on her new dress, and combed out her hair to lie in loose waves on her shoulders. Shoes were a problem: she had a pair of ill-fitting black pumps, the only thing Cord had been able to find that even came close to her size. She kept them shined, but took them off the moment she left her duties, for they rubbed blisters on her toes.

  “My you look pretty!” Baird said when she met him in the foyer. “Your class starts at noon, so we have time to stop by the market on the way to Carre.”

  “I still don’t have any money,” she pointed out.

  “I’ll keep working on Dad. I keep the books, so I will figure out exactly what it costs to keep you compared to what Dad gets for your donations. You should have the difference as an allowance.” He smiled, and Jonmair thought he looked even more handsome than he had a week ago. He certainly looked healthier and happier—and she hoped that it was because he slept well with her in his bed. From Treavor Axton’s words, she gathered that he did not know that all his son did with her was sleep—but then, Baird had had a very difficult transfer the day of the Last Kill. Perhaps, if she studied very hard, she would be able to give him his transfer at the end of the month...and then he would want to make love again.

  At the market, Baird encouraged her to choose some sprigged dimity for another dress—and then he found some wine-colored ribbons. “Look!” he said, holding them up. “These match your hair and eyes.”

  People were staring, for Jonmair was the only Gen in the crowded marketplace. Following close after Baird as he moved to pay for her purchases, she drew her imaginary curtain of privacy about her as they squeezed between other Sime customers.

  Baird turned, gasping, laterals out.

  Then his eyes fixed on her. “How do you do that?” he demanded. “You disappeared from the ambient!”

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she replied, releasing the image of the protective curtain from her mind.

  He zlinned her from head to toe—and winced. “Your feet hurt,” he said.

  “These shoes don’t fit me very well,” she explained.

  “You can’t walk around in pain,” he said. “It’s a safety hazard. You’ve been hiding it, haven’t you—the way you just hid your whole self?”

  “Simes are provoked by Gen pain,” she explained.

  “Which is why you should have told me before. Or Cord. He should have taken care of it.”

  “Oh, he tried,” she explained, for indeed, the butler had been uniformly polite to her, if as cold and distant as all the other staff. “These were the best fit he could find.”

  “We’ll have proper shoes made for you,” said Baird. “In the meantime, let’s find something for you to wear today.”

  They found soft felt slippers in a shade that nearly matched her dress, and also in black to go with her uniform. Then Baird took her to a shoemaker’s shop and had her feet measured. “Are you sure?” Jonmair asked. “I’m still growing in other ways. My feet could grow as well.”

  “Then we’ll have more shoes made!” he replied, and instructed the shoemaker to make her two pairs of sandals, a pair of oxfords, and some riding boots.

  “Special boots just for riding?” she asked. She had rarely ever ridden a horse at all, and couldn’t imagine her duties at The Post calling for her to do so.

  “I’ll teach you to ride properly,” Baird told her.

  She watched the shoemaker watching and zlinning them, obviously curious about their relationship.

  What was their relationship? Most of the time Jonmair tried to put it out of her mind, for every time she was tempted to think about the future she was forced to face facts: there was no place for her in Sime society. Not the society Baird Axton lived in. She could sleep with him. She could make love with him. But unless they both pledged to a Householding—which she could not imagine Treavor Axton allowing his son to do—she could not marry him.

  Perhaps eventually things would change. And in the meantime, she would live from day to day and simply be glad that, thanks to Baird’s refusal to take her as his Last Kill, she had those days. She was alive. She had a future. Now all she had to do was figure out how to spend it with Baird.

  * * * *

  THERE WERE MANY SIMES IN NORLEA WHO CLAIMED to have been in Milily’s Shiltpron Parlor on the historic night when Zhag Paget met Tonyo Logan. Baird Axton was one of the few who told the truth when he said it.

  Despite the shift in emphasis to gambling, patronage at The Post fell off drastically as the first month after the Last Kill approached its end. Emlu gave her girls a week off.

  Jonmair was a blessing, making it possible for Baird to sleep without Need nightmares, even at this time of month. He was thus more stable than most people were now—but oddly glad that the channels at Carre had warned him not to attempt transfer with the lovely Gen this month. She felt frustrated, he knew—but every time he thought of the possibility, he saw her dead beneath his tentacles. And the more he got to know her, the more he wanted her alive.

  Business didn’t improve much after Norlea’s juncts had their first enforced transfers from the channels. Baird’s went as well as could be expected—the channel he had this time might not be as skilled as Thea, but because he was a junct pressed into service to handle the sudden huge load, he was able to produce something closer to the satisfaction of the Kill than the Householding channels could. Talk began to circulate about the hastily-trained new channels. Everyone agreed that the junct ones were better than the Householders—a new twist on old prejudices.

  Some people got good post reactions, but Emlu’s girls still had few customers. Baird found Jonmair’s presence pleasant, comforting, but not sexually enticing—and he was certainly not attracted to anyone else.

  He had still not succeeded in hiring a shiltpron player for The Post. A really good player could affect Simes as much as the trained Companions in the Householdings—and music did not produce the resentment juncts felt at a Gen’s “manipulation.”

  The ideal solution would be to hire Baird’s friend Zhag, who was indisputably the best shiltpron player in Norlea—which meant he was the best in the entire territory. But Zhag was dying, each transfer worse than the last. He never complained, but it was obvious to anyone who saw or zlinned him. He could play for perhaps an hour at most, and then he had to rest. Baird doubted he would live through his next attempt at transfer.

  However, Baird had heard good things about another young shiltpron player Milily had found. So, one evening soon after his transfer, when The Post was almost empty, he decided to go and listen.

  Milily’s was the kind of place you didn’t want to see in daylight if you planned to go there at night. When Baird arrived, the new player had already begun a set. He was good: excellent fingering technique, fine nageric control, hammers in his handling tentacles producing tones of the proper resonance and intensity. He was a consummate technician.

  But he didn’t have heart.

  Zhag had everything that this young man did, plus the ability to make his audience weep, to make them laugh, to lift their spirits even on the brink of attrition. Zhag was what The Post needed—yes, needed—but Zhag was not able to take the job.

  So this young man would have to do.

  Baird had just decided to talk to him between sets when he zlinned something—a Gen—approach the swinging doors. Not even a Householding Companion would dare this neighborhood alone, and this Gen’s nager was not the calm, reassuring presence of a Companion.

  It was a male Gen, walking through the doors as if drawn by some irresistible force. He moved with the adolescent awkwardness of someone in the midst of a growth spurt—and indeed, his well-worn denim trousers bared his bon
y ankles. His clothes were faded and wrinkled and—Baird realized with a shock—of out-Territory design.

  A Wild Gen? Here? Was he insane?

  The Gen zlinned wary, but not frightened. His field was high—Companion high, Baird realized, carrying far more selyn than an average Gen did—but not replete. At a guess, not knowing how this Gen zlinned at high field, he felt somewhere in mid-cycle. A donor, then.

  Baird wondered if this could possibly be Conta’s Robert come looking for her, for the troops had not yet been demobilized. But no, this boy was too young to have served in the war, and he certainly had no military bearing.

  He came in as if it were perfectly normal for an unescorted Gen to enter a Sime saloon, went to an empty table near the door, set down a small satchel and a battered guitar case, then eased himself into a chair. His nager was intriguing—instead of pulling that odd disappearing trick that Jonmair could do, he sent out a soothing reassurance that it was all right for him to be there.

  Then...his field began to do something Baird had never witnessed before. It resonated with the shiltpron music, first picking up the nageric tones and amplifying them, then harmonizing, and finally playing variations around them.

  Laterals slipped from their sheaths all over the room, as Simes drank in the amazing performance. Baird shook himself out of it long enough to signal Milily’s son. Still a child, he was the only person unaffected. Baird pressed a coin into the child’s hand, and whispered, “Go get Zhag. Wake him if he’s asleep—tell him to get over here right now. It’s really important. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Tuib Baird,” the boy replied, and ran out the door.

  The shiltpron player came to the end of his set. The young Gen took a deep breath—this was what he was nervous about, not being in a roomful of junct Simes—and went up to the small platform that served as a stage.

  “Excuse me,” the Gen said to the shiltpron player. “I wonder if you would allow me to sing with you?”

  He spoke Simelan fluently, but with an accent. Baird realized that while some of it was in his pronunciation, the Gen’s speech reminded him of the way Jonmair spoke—everything in words and voice, without the nageric inflections of Sime speech.

  The musician stared at the Gen. “Of course you can’t sing with me!” he said. “What do you think this is—a Householding?”

  The Gen’s shoulders sagged for a moment. Then he squared them and went over to the bar to ask Milily, “Ma’am, is this your establishment?”

  “What’s it to you, Gen?”

  He held out some coins. “This is all the money I have left, and I’m hungry. I’ll perform for a meal.”

  Milily gave a snort. “You think this is a charity? Go on over to Carre. And mind yerself walkin’ the streets, or you’ll get kilt fore you ever git there.” She let her laterals display menacingly.

  The Gen only smiled at that. “I’m not afraid, Ma’am. You could use a Gen to make you and your customers feel better.”

  “Listen, you,” said Milily, “buy a drink or get out!”

  The Gen sighed and walked back toward his table.

  Baird went to the bar, bought a porstan, and carried it to the Gen’s table along with a bowl of nuts—all that passed for food in this place. “Here,” he said. “I’ve sent for a friend who plays shiltpron. He’ll let you sing with him.”

  The young Gen’s incredible nager washed him in gratitude as he said, “Thank you! You don’t know what it means to me! I came to Norlea for the music—it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  Then he stuck his hand out, and Baird realized he was offering to shake hands, Gen fashion. At least he waited for Baird to decide whether to touch him. He took the large Gen hand—a calloused hand, he noticed, realizing that the boy had been working his way toward his extremely odd dream.

  “I’m Tony Logan,” the Gen said.

  “Baird Axton. How did you get here?”

  “Mostly I walked, but sometimes people gave me rides.” He shrugged. “Simes are just like Gens. Be nice to people, and they’ll be nice to you.”

  Baird laughed. “You are the strangest Gen I’ve ever met!”

  “How many do you know?” the boy responded.

  “More than most Simes, especially the ones that come to a place like this.”

  “Ah, but this is where the music is,” the boy said, as if that were the only consideration.

  Just then two young women entered the shiltpron parlor. They were high-field, Baird zlinned, apparently having had transfer within the past few hours and fared well on what the channels had to offer. Both were nicely post, feeling well and whole. Now they sought shiltpron and porstan to celebrate.

  They zlinned the out-Territory Gen curiously as they passed, but at that moment the Gen was more focused on his empty stomach than on pretty girls.

  “You’re a very good performer,” said Baird.

  The Gen had just put a handful of nuts into his mouth, so he had to chew and swallow before he could reply, his field for once inflecting his speech with surprise, “But you haven’t heard me yet!”

  “I’ve zlinned you. What you were doing was astonishing.”

  “...what?”

  “With your nager.”

  The Gen stared from huge blue eyes that dominated his still-immature face. Then he said thoughtfully, “Yeah...of course. My field reflected the music in my head.”

  Baird procured a second bowl of nuts, which the young Gen devoured before Zhag finally arrived. Baird’s friend looked and zlinned as if he might fall over at any moment. He came up short practically every month, and by now was a good two weeks off from Baird’s schedule. It was depressing to see his old friend so very ill, especially knowing that the cause was his determination to disjunct.

  But Zhag was a channel, Baird reminded himself. He had to have direct Gen transfer—no other channel could support a channel—but the channels at Carre had not been able to find a proper match for Zhag. There were lots of matches for renSimes like Baird. Matches like Jonmair.

  When Baird introduced them, Zhag zlinned the young Gen and said, “You want to sing?”

  “Yes, Sir,” the boy replied politely.

  Zhag managed a wry laugh. “Call me Zhag.”

  “I’m Tony,” the Gen said.

  “Tone-nee?” Zhag stumbled over the Gen name.

  “It’s short for Antoine,” the Gen explained.

  “Oh,” said Zhag. “Tonyo.”

  “No,” the boy corrected, “Tony.”

  “Well, Tonyo,” Zhag continued as if he hadn’t heard him, “let’s find out what you can do.”

  Tonyo drank the rest of his porstan while Zhag set up his shiltpron. His was simpler than the other musician’s instrument—just the most basic components—but he didn’t require all the extras to create his signature blend of sound and nageric performance.

  Then the young Gen joined him on the stage, and Zhag began an old tune everybody knew. Tonyo launched enthusiastically into song—in Simelan, with slightly different lyrics from the ones Baird knew.

  The words didn’t matter. Tonyo’s nager enthralled, twining about the notes like golden vines. Baird zlinned Zhag’s amazement. It lasted only a few moments, though, and then the shiltpron player began to test this incredible find.

  Tonyo was equal to the test, following Zhag’s variations with both voice and field. Everyone in Milily’s was riveted. By the second song people were coming in off the street—for besides being pure, sweet, and enticing, Tonyo’s voice and nager were also the loudest Baird had ever experienced.

  Porstan flowed, Simes let themselves flow with the music, and Baird zlinned post-reaction on every side. He wished that he had brought Jonmair with him.

  The two young Sime women moved up near the platform, flirting shamelessly with Tonyo—who flirted shamelessly back. Young the boy might be, but from the evidence tightening his already too-tight denims, he was definitely sexually mature.

  Customers bought porstan for both Zhag an
d Tonyo, and when Zhag had to take a break after nearly two hours, Tonyo took out his guitar and continued alone. He did little more than chord to accompany his singing, but his voice and nager were so dazzling that it didn’t matter.

  Baird thought about hiring Tonyo on the spot, until after resting only through two songs, Zhag rejoined him on the platform. He said something softly to the boy, Tonyo asked a question in return, and soon they began another number. This time it was something known as the Freeband Raiders Song, although Baird doubted that Raiders ever sang.

  “Through the moonless night we ride,

  Speed and death our only pride.

  Gens can run, but they can’t hide.

  Life is short and life is hard.

  Burn it up and play the cards.

  Death is swift—live on guard.”

  At first Tonyo’s nager merely echoed the music, which was a quasi-military marching rhythm. Then he tried to get into the feeling of the words—and failed abysmally.

  This young Gen had no idea what it would feel like to burn oneself out, augmenting constantly, raiding for Gens, stealing, killing—and dying in a few weeks or months of system failure or a bullet from the Gen Border Patrol. Tonyo was too innocent for that song.

  So Zhag began a song about frustrated desire—and suddenly Tonyo was a virtuoso performer again. Baird listened and zlinned, amused, as Tonyo turned a song about Need into a song of unrequited love—or perhaps just adolescent lust. Zhag let the Gen take it in the direction he understood, and soon everyone in Milily’s was feeling post again.

  Including Baird. Happy to see his friend inspired by the young Gen, he decided not to try to hire Tonyo away from him. The boy clearly had a great deal to learn—who better to teach him than Zhag Paget? They would be good for one another...and when Zhag’s decline reached its inevitable end, Baird could hire Tonyo with a clear conscience.

  Zhag launched into a raunchy song about post-syndrome. Tonyo didn’t know the words, but he obviously understood what it was about—and in a moment he was singing snatches of words from other songs, half of them in English, again flirting with the two women who were so fascinated by him. The music and the entwining fields lifted Baird’s spirits...and, he realized, something else as well. For the first time since that night he had spent with Jonmair in Old Chance’s Pleasure Suite, he felt arousal!