To Kiss or To Kill

by Jean Lorrah

  “Because Zhag has to pay me for my selyn as well. If I get half of our performance money, he ought to get half of our transfer payment.”

  “I’m the one who can’t live without selyn,” Zhag said reasonably.

  “But this whole selyn-tax thing is a setup for failure,” said Tonyo. “Jonmair, you can see it, can’t you? Junct Simes already resent being deprived of the Kill, and Gens being set free. Look at our reception in the shops today. On top of that, Gens get paid for both their work and their selyn—how can Simes help resenting it when a Gen can do nothing but donate selyn, and still earn enough to live on?”

  “You think all Gens are like you, Tonyo,” Jonmair told him, forcefully reminded that she had little control over her own destiny. “We’re not. First of all, we’re not actually free. We’re the wards of whoever owned us the day the Unity Treaty went into effect. That’s why people expect Zhag to tell you what to do—they think you’re his ward. Treavor Axton is responsible for me. He has to feed and house and clothe me whether he wants to or not, so he collects the payments for my selyn to pay for all that.”

  Tonyo frowned. “But he makes you work, too. And what is he doing about your education?”

  “I finished school before I established. I have as much education as I require for what I planned to do: be a fashion designer.”

  “Planned?” asked Tonyo, making Jonmair face the reason she had used the past tense.

  “As a Gen, I can’t run a business,” she said as they entered The Post with their packages, and went up to the sewing room on the third story.

  “Today,” said Tonyo with a shrug. “But the legislature is working on giving Gens full citizenship—although I don’t know why they didn’t just do it when the Treaty went into effect. Then you could do whatever you pleased.”

  “And where would I get a start?” she asked. “I have no money—if they had just set me free, the payments for my selyn would barely feed and clothe me. You produce enough selyn for a channel, Tonyo—I make much less. Where would I live? How would I get a job? No one’s hiring Gens.”

  “Oh. You’re right,” he nodded. “This ward thing is a transition to force Simes to take care of Gens for now. By the time you’re granted citizenship, the Axtons will be depending on you for costume design. They’d be fools if they didn’t just hire you to keep on doing it.”

  “I wish that were true,” said Jonmair. “Actually, your costumes are my first. I do the laundry and mending, clean rooms, wait tables, and show up at mealtimes to make the customers hungry.”

  Zhag laughed. “Tonyo’s supposed to do that, too. Part of the deal we had to make with Treavor Axton. He drives a hard bargain.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Tonyo, “as long as you show up and eat something.” He grinned. “Actually, it’s about the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of, getting paid for eating! Just another example of why Gens will own all of Sime Territory in a couple of generations.”

  “Why do you say that?” Jonmair asked.

  “Because Simes pay us for things we do anyway: eat, and produce selyn. In that case, Simes ought to get paid for...how about selyn utilization?”

  “We’re paid for our work,” said Zhag.

  “But you have to pay selyn taxes. So Simes will remain perpetually behind Gens financially—Gens will find it easier to buy homes, run businesses, educate their kids—all because they happen to produce selyn. I can’t imagine why the Tecton set things up that way. Apparently it’s the same in all Sime Territories.”

  “It’s because of the Pen Gens, Tonyo,” Jonmair explained. “The Gens nobody would take care of otherwise.”

  Tonyo blinked. “Of course,” he said. Then, “Where are they? The only one I’ve seen was the one that got killed in the marketplace the day of our First Transfer. And he was able to wait on customers and use an abacus—he could have earned a living with something besides his selyn.”

  “He wasn’t a typical Pen Gen,” said Zhag. “Probably a breeder—for some reason he had some training. The masses of Pen Gens can hardly talk. They’ve been raised like animals—even the pre-Gens who change over into Simes have trouble learning how to be...people...after that upbringing. First Year helps, but it can’t really compensate for being raised all your life as an animal destined for the Kill.” First Year was the period of rapid intellectual growth a Sime experienced immediately after changeover.

  Tonyo was frowning now. “Where are all those thousands of Pen Gens? Who’s taking care of them, getting them ready to become citizens?”

  “The Genfarmers and Penkeepers,” Jonmair told him. “Those Simes would be without income right now if they weren’t being paid for the selyn of their wards.”

  “Is there an education program for them?” asked Tonyo.

  “For Genfarmers and Penkeepers?” Zhag asked.

  “No, Silly,” said Tonyo in exasperation. “They can switch to selling some other product. It’s the Pen Gens who require training. If they’ve really been raised like animals….” He shuddered at the thought.

  “The Householders will know,” said Jonmair, feeling ashamed that she had not given a thought to those masses of Gens who were far worse off than she was.

  * * * *

  THAT EVENING JONMAIR WORKED IN THE GAMBLING SALON as usual, waiting tables and using her newly learned skills to serve their Sime customers without irritating them. Baird came in soon after her shift started, smiled at her, but did not interrupt her. He went about his own rounds, making certain that all his customers enjoyed themselves.

  That was the entire purpose of The Post: to give people a place to have fun. In a few days Zhag and Tonyo would open with their unique blend of shiltpron and nageric performance. She hoped Tonyo would not get annoyed with any of the rowdy customers and play tricks like making that clerk sneeze this afternoon!

  How had he done that, she wondered. Did he imagine a tickle in his own nose?

  At the table Jonmair was serving, a woman erupted into a sneeze—and so did the man next to her! Startled, Jonmair quickly pulled her field in around her to zlin invisible, as the woman who had sneezed said to another woman across the table from her, “Do you have to smoke that nasty cigar, Shema? Thing stinks like burning rope!”

  But Jonmair knew it wasn’t the cigar. Was it?

  Attempting something less dramatic, she stopped shielding and imagined hair tickling the back of her neck.

  In unison, but never taking their eyes from the cards they were playing, all the Simes at the table scratched the backs of their necks.

  Again Jonmair pulled an imaginary curtain around her nager, this time to prevent nearby Simes from zlinning her efforts to hold back giggles. She could do what Tonyo did!

  But what good was it? She didn’t really want to be a nuisance. Most of the time when she was waiting tables she kept her field as neutral as she knew how.

  But...that didn’t help her customers have a good time, did it? Jonmair felt good this evening. She had enjoyed her afternoon with Zhag and Tonyo, and looked forward to putting the designs she had sketched on the shirt jackets she had cut out and fit to the two men. Her first commission! The beginning of her life-long dream.

  And one thing she now realized: the path to that dream would be far easier if she could ease Sime feelings than if she antagonized them. She let her good feelings flow, thinking of how lucky she was to be alive. When she passed by Baird again and he smiled at her, she let herself daydream about being with him, about more days like their ride out into the country, about what he would think when he saw Zhag and Tonyo dressed in her designs.

  Maybe Baird would help persuade his father to allow her to design costumes. If she became a free citizen, she was sure Zhag and Tonyo would continue to have her design costumes for them—and she was certain they were going to be a sensation. Her designs would be noticed.

  So her life wasn’t over. Soon it would be possible for her to make somebody of herself. Even somebody worthy of Baird Axton.

  It wa
sn’t impossible for a Sime and a Gen to marry—there were inter-larity marriages among the Householders, and, she had learned only recently, there were even families with Gen members living in Norlea since before Unity. They lived in the neighborhood near Carre where she had never been allowed to go as a child. Her parents had implied that terrible things happened there. Now she knew it was just that parents there did not sell their Gen children into the Pens, but sent them to Carre to learn how to live safely with their families.

  Could she and Baird become such a family? Her heart swelled with hope as for the first time she allowed herself to dream of the possibility.

  Letting her happy thoughts affect her nager, she delivered a round of porstan to another table of card players. One of the Simes dropped an extra coin on her tray. “That’s fer you, Girlie. Yer cute fer a Gen, y’know?”

  “Th- thank you,” she stammered, and pocketed the coin, not knowing if she would be allowed to keep it. The Sime waiters were allowed to keep their tips—but no one ever tipped a Gen, just as no one tipped dogs or horses for doing their jobs.

  Not wanting trouble, Jonmair again immersed herself in pleasant thoughts and daydreams—but not enough to miss or mix up any orders. When she took another round of drinks to the card players, everyone at the table tipped her! It spread—the people at the next table, and the next, tipped her just as if she were one of the Sime staff. Soon her pockets were heavy with coins. Her spirits rose even higher. If she could just get free of Treavor Axton’s wardship, she would be able to make her dream come true!

  * * * *

  BAIRD AXTON MADE HIS ROUTINE TOUR of The Post, noting that Jonmair seemed happy. He would meet her in the gold salon at the end of her shift, when she would be hungry and perhaps encourage him to eat something despite his state of Need. A week before transfer, he wanted her at his side every minute, but his father would not permit him to keep Jonmair from her work. She would be with him for the night, he reminded himself. He could sleep without Need nightmares.

  In the meantime, he stopped to talk with regulars in the bar, and watch the dancers in the main saloon for a while. They were really quite good, but he was glad that an excellent shiltpron player would soon take their place. Attendance was dropping off, as were profits. Zhag and Tonyo would bring in even bigger crowds here than at Milily’s, and have customers consuming porstan by the keg.

  He worked his way back to the one room that was functioning fully: the gambling salon. Soldiers still mingled with the crowd every night. Baird hoped they were not the only reason that The Post had not yet seen the kind of fights that broke out routinely in other establishments.

  In the month that Zhag and Tonyo had appeared at Milily’s Shiltpron Parlor, there had been no fights during their performances—in a dive where whip fights and even knife fights were considered normal. He had not included that fact in persuading his father to let him hire them—actually, the only hard part had been persuading Treavor Axton to audition them. One song, and his father put them on the payroll. Baird hoped that once his new act opened not only would business pick up, but they would be able to stop holding their breath for fear of junct Simes taking out their frustrations in a good old-fashioned free-for-all.

  As he looked out over the gambling hall, Baird’s eye was caught by two soldiers, male and female, sitting together at the bar. There were too many people between him and them to zlin, but he recognized Conta. The other...wore a different uniform. The male soldier was Gen, wearing the uniform of the Gen Army!

  Quelling his own surprise so as not to call attention to the pair, he worked his way over to them. Conta was brimming with happiness. The Gen with her was doing Jonmair’s trick of hiding his nager so that he was invisible to zlinning.

  “Baird!” said Conta. “I couldn’t get away, so Robert came to me!”

  The Gen soldier grinned and offered his hand, properly waiting for the Sime to choose whether or not to touch him. Baird was getting used to shaking hands with Gens. He had to assess the man visually because his nager was hidden. A healthy adult male Gen, shorter than Baird was, with the muscles Gens developed with hard work. He had straight coarse black hair and brown skin, brown eyes, and those perfect white teeth so common among Wild Gens.

  Either because he was hiding his field or because he had a thick out-Territory accent, he sounded far more alien than Tonyo as he said, “Pleased to meet you, Baird. You’re Elendra’s brother, right?”

  “Yes,” Baird managed, taken aback by the familiarity.

  “She was a good woman, and a hell of a fine soldier,” said Robert. It was obvious that he meant it as high praise.

  “You were with her when—?”

  “You got good reason to be proud of her,” said Robert. “She died fightin’ fer Unity—and we made sure it wasn’t in vain.”

  “I know,” said Baird. “I’d like you to tell my father and me everything...but not here and now.”

  “Oh, I know,” the Gen agreed. “Don’t dare let those feelings show in a crowd. I been trainin’ up at Keon fer the past month, though most of it I knew already—learnt it under battle conditions.” He reached over and took Conta’s hand. “I wasn’t gonna miss another transfer just ’cause they won’t demobilize Conta, so I talked my way into the company sent to Norlea.” He looked around. “You don’t seem to have much trouble here.”

  “We’ve been fortunate,” said Baird. “There was a riot and a Kill in the marketplace last week. But Norlea has been lucky compared to what we hear about Lanta.”

  “I’m glad I’m here,” said Conta. “Robert could never have gotten assigned to Lanta.”

  “Are there...other Gen soldiers assigned to the Gulf Army?” Baird asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Robert replied matter-of-factly. “Musta been two hunnerd of us trainin’ up north so’s we could join our transfer mates.” He winked and leaned forward. “Tell you a secret. Gens may not die for lack of a good transfer, but once we done it, we sure as hell feel as if we’d die without it!”

  Tonyo had said something similar—but then he and Zhag were, for all their unorthodox lifestyle, Companion and channel. Conta was a renSime, like Baird, but it was clear that she and her Robert had a similar relationship.

  Conta chuckled and stroked her Gen’s hand and forearm with her handling tentacles. “It’s all right,” she said. “When I’m in Need, you’ll be ripe and ready for me.”

  “I’m ripe and ready now,” Robert growled, but nothing showed in his field. Then he looked at Baird and blushed. “I’m sorry. I skipped donating ’cause I meant to get here for Conta’s transfer—but armies are all alike, Sime or Gen. Hurry up and wait. And wait. For some reason we got stuck for a whole week in Nashul. I was ’bout ready to go AWOL!”

  “Well,” said Conta, “we’re going to have a wonderful transfer at the end of the month.”

  Baird felt as if the world had turned inside out. Here was a Sime comforting a Gen who...needed...a transfer.

  “I’ll manage to hang on that long,” Robert assured her. “I hope I never even see another channel for the rest of my life! They don’t even try to satisfy Gens. How do they expect to get people to donate, except the ones who need the money?” Robert didn’t notice when both Baird and Conta winced at his misuse of the word “Need.”

  Just then Jonmair came up to the bar to pick up drinks and deliver another order. With that uncanny Gen reading of body language, Robert followed the direction Baird was looking. “That your transfer mate?” he asked.

  “Possibly,” Baird replied, admitting the hope out loud for the first time. “She’s training at Carre.” He had to control his own nager at the thought of Jonmair as eager to provide him transfer as Robert was for Conta.

  “Well, she’s handling this room as superbly as any Companion,” said Conta. “That young woman is the reason you don’t have any tension here tonight. You do realize that, don’t you Baird?”

  No, he didn’t realize it...until he zlinned what Jonmair was doing. As she moved a
bout the room, she left a wake of good feelings. What in the world was she so high on? What had she been doing with Zhag and Tonyo? And how dare she broadcast such feelings to everyone in the salon?

  She was supposed to save her feelings for him!

  “Baird!” Conta grabbed his shoulder as he was about to lunge in pursuit of Jonmair. “Baird—she’s not doing anything wrong.”

  He shook her off and stalked his wayward Gen.

  * * * *

  JONMAIR HAD SEEN BAIRD TALKING WITH THE TWO SOLDIERS—one Sime, one Gen, and obviously very much in love. He appeared to be friends with them. She wanted to meet them, find out their story, for she had never seen a Gen in uniform before. Out-Territory army, obviously, but why was he here?

  If she were not afraid of upsetting the nageric balance, she would have broadcast her almost painful curiosity at Baird when she came up to the bar. But there were too many Simes around as close to Need as he was—she would have to be more and more careful until Baird’s transfer day, which was still transfer day for half the Simes in Gulf. It would mark two months since the Last Kill.

  So she curbed her curiosity, and let hope buoy her up once again as she delivered wine and porstan to the table in the far corner where Treavor Axton and Old Chance, the ex-Penkeeper, were playing poker with several other Simes, including Police Inspector Kerrk. She set down the drinks, murmuring “Thank you,” and giving a caress of her field to each one who put a coin on her tray.

  “I see you still got that fancy Gen,” said Chance. “Thought it woulda got itself kilt long since. Accidentally, of course,” he added, and everyone at the table laughed except Kerrk. The Inspector carefully kept his expression neutral.

  Partly because she knew it would annoy him, and partly to see how much effect she could have on such a jaded Sime, Jonmair smiled at Old Chance and laved him with her happiness as she put down his porstan and said, “Good to see you, too, Tuib Chance. I trust you’re enjoying your retirement.”

  She got an equal amount of laughter, even from Kerrk and Treavor Axton—but Chance didn’t think it was funny. “What’s the matter with all of you?” he demanded. “You, Treav—you gonna let a Gen control yer feelings?”