by Jean Lorrah
“Yes,” he said. “I...just witnessed that.”
Sirya said, “You, too, are ahead of schedule—I would have expected you and Jonmair to have achieved transfer today. I want the two of you in my office day after tomorrow, first thing. I wish I could start counseling you today, but—”
“We understand,” said Jonmair. “We’ll be there. I have to learn how to keep Baird from running from me next month.”
Baird fought down annoyance at Jonmair’s responding for him, to focus on a more immediate problem: “Where do we find a Gen for Dad?”
“All of the am Keon or am Carre Gens either overmatch your father or are in committed relationships. We have a handful of new Gens in training at Carre, though. Can you persuade your father to come and meet some of them?”
“Am” Keon or Carre meant “under the protection” of the Householding—it had been Baird’s goal to become one of those Simes, who did not retreat within the walls of the Householding but lived in junct society without killing. Practically everyone in the city of Laveen, near Keon in the north end of Gulf Territory, was am Keon, and there had been a growing community of am Carre in Norlea before Unity.
The Gulf Householders believed that over time they could have disjuncted the Territory family by family. Their plan, though, was formed without the knowledge that Norwest Territory was on the brink of collapse, and Nivet not much better off. Now the Unity Treaty had thrown them into this make or break situation.
“What’s wrong with matching Mr. Axton with a Gen who overmatches him?” asked Jonmair.
“We’ll try that if it’s the only way to get a transfer into him,” Sirya said, “but it’s not a long-term solution.”
“But there is an alternative to channel’s transfer if we can’t find a match for Dad by next month?” Baird demanded.
“Yes,” Bevin said gently. “Baird, while some Simes are going to die, we will attempt to save everyone. The very best thing for your father is a matchmate. Don’t give up hope of finding him one—after all, nature didn’t stop the day the Unity Treaty went into effect.”
“All new Simes except channels are being started off on channel’s transfer,” said Sirya. “That leaves all new Gens as potential matches for the Simes who most need them. Your Dad is high on that list. We will find him a match.”
* * * *
THAT EVENING BUSINESS WAS SLOW AT THE POST. Customers who had had transfers from the newly-trained junct channels were post, as were most younger Simes. Baird actually felt good for once—but Jonmair was unsatisfied, and Tonyo unavailable to cheer up their customers, as he and Zhag were playing their final evening at Milily’s.
They’ll be here tomorrow night, Baird reminded himself. Conta and Robert were at the bar. Since Jonmair and Tonyo had begun balancing the ambient they were frequently the only soldiers on the premises.
Most customers in The Post tonight were regulars: people who could afford to frequent such an establishment had always been secure that they could buy a Choice Kill if Pen shipments were late. Those less well off now had security under the Tecton. Even if it meant pressing channels with two days’ training into service, the Tecton was keeping its promise that everyone would be supplied with selyn. People who had never had that security before were relaxing and experiencing postsyndrome…and not coming to The Post to celebrate it.
But Zhag and Tonyo would bring them in.
Low field and not post, Jonmair made a laudable effort to be soothing to the customers, but Baird could zlin that it was a duty rather than a pleasure. Many regular customers understood exactly how she felt, and sympathy flowed in both directions.
Baird had persuaded his father to remain upstairs. When he went up to report, he found him dozing in his chair, feet up on an ottoman. The difficult transfer he had endured showed in the drawn lines of his face.
The daily newspaper, which Treavor Axton normally read over his morning kafi, had fallen from his lap, open to the obituary page. That page was longer every day now—longer than any days Baird could remember other than ones on which war casualties had been reported.
Baird picked up the paper, noticing as he did so the lax hand it had fallen from. The knuckles were enlarged, age spots marred the skin, and veins stood out against the bone and tendon where the flesh had dwindled away. Tentacle sheaths stood out in relief on his forearm.
Baird’s throat tightened. I’ve lost my sister, and now I’m going to lose my father.
His father opened his eyes. “Baird.”
“Hi, Dad. Feeling better? Shall I send for tea?”
“No.” He pushed himself up in the chair, wincing. “Fosebine makes me do nothing but sleep! I’m not taking any more of it.”
Baird zlinned him before saying, “You don’t have to,” for although his father felt stiff and somewhat achy, his transfer burn had healed.
“Well?” Treavor Axton demanded after a moment. “How’s the house? Or do I have to come down and zlin for myself?”
“It’s just what we expected—fewer customers than usual, but with the main salon closed the saloon and gambling hall are full.”
“And the ambient?”
“Very few of our customers are post. Everyone who is went to Milily’s. Starting tomorrow, they’ll come here.”
“Any trouble?”
“No. There’s a sort of camaraderie—we’re all going through the same thing together, uncomfortable, but with good reason to endure it. Like soldiers in the field.”
“What would you know about that?” his father asked.
“I was thinking about something Elendra wrote to me. When the Sime and Gen armies had to join together against the Freebanders, she got to know some Gens.”
“That Robert who hangs around her friend Conta,” Treavor Axton agreed.
“Yes—but other Gens as well. Robert’s had training at Keon now. In the field, they were side by side with untrained Gens—and not killing them. Even under battle conditions.”
“I’ve heard the stories. It makes sense not to kill your allies against a common enemy.”
“Dad—they had to overcome primal instinct, just as we’re being asked to do. And...the Gens had to overcome it too. They had to stop being afraid. And the way they did it, both Simes and Gens, was to become friends.”
“So?” his father asked.
“So...you can’t be friends with some Gens and kill others. Dad...Elendra had already started disjunction when she died. She would have come home disjunct, just as Conta did.”
Baird could feel his father zlinning him, trying to comprehend. Then he said, “Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Why didn’t you take me to Carre when I went into changeover?” Baird countered.
“Because I’m not a shenned fortune-teller!” his father snapped. “Shen it, Baird, how was I to know the world would turn upside down? Yes, you’d be better off nonjunct as things turned out. But if the Tecton hadn’t made that insane promise to disjunct all Simes you’d have been better off junct, Son. You’ll never get the chance to know it, now—but junct is the natural Sime lifestyle. It never pays to go against nature.”
“How can you say that? You’ve zlinned Conta and Robert together. And Zhag—he almost died before Tonyo came, but zlin him now. How could anyone zlin Sime and Gen transfer mates and think them unnatural or unhealthy?”
Treavor Axton shifted his weight uneasily. “It’s what you have to live with, so I suppose it’s best that you think it’s normal.”
Shen. This was not going well. How could he get the subject around to having his father accept a transfer mate?
In the street below, a newspaper seller began to bellow, “Special edition! Riots in Lanta! Raid on the Lanta Genfarm! Martial Law in the capital!”
A chill went through Baird.
“Go down and get a paper,” his father ordered.
The news was even worse than it sounded in the terse headlines. As Baird skimmed the front page his heart sank.
Jonmair came to his si
de. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Customers gathered around those who had gone out to get papers.
“Lanta,” Baird said grimly.
It was the two-month anniversary of the Last Kill all over the Territory, of course—but in the capital there was wide-spread defiance of the anti-Kill laws. Not only were there more than twenty “accidental” Kills of Gens all over the city—several of them new and poorly-trained Companions like Mern—but a mob of Simes had turned Raider and attacked the Lanta Genfarm, source of selyn for the capital. More than a hundred Pen Gens had been killed, and three channel/Companion pairs working on the premises murdered. As the story went to press, it was not known whether the owner of the Genfarm and his family, who had not been hurt, were innocent victims or part of a conspiracy to break the Tecton hold on Gulf.
The Legislature immediately met in emergency session. Ambushes of legislators from Laveen and Norlea—those who most strongly supported Unity—were narrowly averted. Martial Law was declared in Lanta and its environs.
Waves of sick feeling traveled through The Post as copies of the paper were passed around. We should close, Baird thought, before—
Then he realized what he was zlinning: people were horrified, sick at the thought of what had happened in Lanta. But no one was applauding it!
Which made him realize who was not here tonight: Old Chance and his usual cronies, or any other influential proponents of the old ways.
Outside, though, there was shouting in the square. “Shen the Tecton!” “Back to the Kill!” “Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!”
A fire blazed up on the other side of the square.
Baird didn’t wait to see what had been set ablaze, but closed the front doors and locked them, shouting to the waiters to lock the side and back doors as well. Then he went into the gambling salon, Jonmair at his side.
Outside, the shouting escalated, punctuated by police whistles and the clang of a fire engine.
“Friends,” Baird announced, “we don’t know what will happen in Norlea. I think you’re safest right here—you’re welcome to stay the night if things don’t calm down.”
“My children!” exclaimed a woman. “I have to get home!”
Conta and Robert joined Baird. “Just wait a few minutes, please,” said Conta. “Norlea’s troops are on alert. Wait, and you will have an escort.”
Sure enough, even as people were tensely discussing what to do, there was a knock at the front door.
Conta and Robert flanked Baird as he opened it—to find uniformed soldiers under charge of a Norlea police officer. “Is everything all right in here, Sir?”
“Yes—but what about out there?”
Their customers poured into the foyer to hear.
“Norlea’s prepared. The army and the police are patrolling—it’s safe to return to your homes if you folks want to. If you suspect trouble, ask any officer for an escort.”
Many of their customers left, but almost half stayed behind, including Conta and Robert. “This is your station, isn’t it?” Baird asked them.
“Some nights it is,” Conta replied. “Tonight, yes, we’re on duty.”
“And tomorrow night?”
“The grand opening? The whole troop wants that duty! Milily’s is too small for Zhag and Tonyo now. You’d better be prepared for standing room only.”
“You don’t think we’ll be closed down?” Baird asked.
Conta chuckled. “Look out there.”
Looking out at the square was what Treavor Axton was doing when Baird went upstairs again. “You took long enough!” his father told him.
“You had a better view than I did,” said Baird.
“Yeah—just a few rowdies blowing off frustration. The whole shenned army was out there to round ‘em up!”
“Better than being unprepared, like Lanta,” Baird said, handing his father the newspaper.
Treavor Axton frowned as he read. “That’s gross negligence! They should have expected something like that!”
“Perhaps, but not now. All the predictions have been for serious trouble four to six months after the Last Kill.”
“Householding stupidity.” He shook his head. “Why would people wait to get really sick before fighting back? Shen it, they’re fighting for their lives!”
“Dad...you sound as if you agree with the Raiders.”
His father sat down in his armchair once again. “Baird...you’re sick, too, Son, young and strong as you are. You started making yourself sick when you first tried to disjunct, and you’re doing no better this time. Don’t try to deny it—you’re no more post than I am.”
“Actually,” Baird said bluntly, “it’s Jonmair who had a bad transfer. Mine was pretty good this month, but I’m reacting to her mood. Next month we’ll have transfer—”
“I’ll send her across the Mizipi first!” Treavor Axton threatened.
“No you won’t,” said Baird. “I need a matchmate, and so do you. You won’t endanger my health, and I’m going to find a match for you before your next transfer.”
“No. The channels are bad enough. I will not have a Gen pushing me around.”
“Dad—”
“No, I said! Look at them, running roughshod over Simes, getting anything they want with a flick of their nager. Look at you, telling me that your post reaction is controlled by that Gen! You’re not even resisting!” He held up the newspaper. “Those Simes who went killing today are right. Oh, they’re martyrs to a lost cause, because if they succeed, there’s no way to prevent Zelerod’s Doom. So we have to have the Martial Law and we have to have the channels, sick as that system is. But what we don’t have to have—what no Sime in his right mind should stand for—is dependence on Gens for anything other than the production of selyn!”
* * * *
BY THE NEXT DAY, JONMAIR HAD GOTTEN OVER the disappointment of her transfer and determined to woo Baird into sharing with her next month. After all, things were going well otherwise in her life, and in Norlea.
The news from Lanta was frightening, but there had been no Kills in Norlea. Several fires had been set, and a few gangs of frustrated Simes had been held overnight for disorderly conduct, but the morning revealed only a little property damage, and no loss of life or limb. Norlea congratulated itself on its sensible and law-abiding citizens.
The opening of Zhag Paget and Tonyo Logan at The Post was to go on as scheduled, despite the fact that they had been attacked on their way home from their final performance at Milily’s. The story preceded them, growing with every retelling, so when they turned up at The Post at noon, Jonmair was astonished to see that they appeared completely normal.
Tonyo and Jonmair were expected in the kafi lounge, where that beverage was dispensed along with varieties of tea and juices. Jonmair didn’t know why Gens were supposed to be so fond of kafi, which she found bitter and unpleasant, although many Simes apparently enjoyed the stuff.
It was her job to persuade the Sime customers to eat as well as drink. Small notes had been placed on the menus touting the health benefits to Simes of eating twice each day, and the pleasant atmosphere provided at The Post to encourage them to do so. The “atmosphere,” of course, was simply Gen hunger on the ambient.
Just past turnover, Zhag had no appetite. Although he made no attempt to feed his partner the crusty bread and cheese the Gens were eating, Tonyo peeled a mango and sliced it, offering pieces to Zhag as they talked. Jonmair noticed that, distracted with conversation, the Sime ate nearly a third of the fruit, sliver by sliver. It was no problem to get Baird to eat—he was still post.
“We heard some ruffians attacked you last night,” said Baird. “You don’t look as if you were in a fight.”
“I wasn’t,” said Zhag. “Tonyo did all the fighting.”
“Well, they were Simes,” said Tonyo, as if that explained it all.
“Someone said ten Simes attacked the two of you, and you left them bleeding in the road,” said Jonmair.
Both men burst into hearty laughter�
��the kind of laughter Zhag should not have been capable of after turnover. “First of all,” he said, “there were only four of them.”
“But only two of you,” said Baird.
“They probably could have taken us if we were both Sime,” said Zhag. “But they never even got near us.”
“They got too near,” Tonyo corrected. “I was concentrating on keeping Zhag from falling off the planet, so I was blocking them from Zhag’s attention, and didn’t notice them creeping up on us myself.”
“What do you mean, falling off the planet?” asked Jonmair.
“Turnover,” chorused all three men.
“That’s a good description,” said Baird. “It does feel as if all support is gone, even the ground under your feet.” He smiled at Jonmair. “When you’re with me, I don’t feel it.”
“But I don’t do anything,” said Jonmair. “Tonyo, why did you have to concentrate?”
“My fault,” Zhag said. “He had just experienced his own first turnover, and I was fool enough to tease him about it.”
“I still shouldn’t have let you fall,” said Tonyo contritely. “But shit, I was embarrassed!”
Zhag chuckled. “Next month you’ll know better.”
When Baird looked at her with a puzzled expression, Jonmair shook her head. She didn’t know any more than he did what the musicians were talking about. “Gen turnover?” she asked. “I’ve never felt anything.”
“You haven’t given a real transfer yet,” said Tonyo. “I had no idea it was going to happen. I felt it hit Zhag in the middle of the performance, but he never missed a note.”
“What did you feel?” Jonmair asked curiously. She had learned to “balance the ambient” by letting herself move to wherever she was most comfortable, but she couldn’t for the life of her distinguish that she actually felt anything.
Tonyo frowned, searching for words. “It’s...sort of the way it feels when a Sime is in Need. You know, how you want to give him your selyn?”