To Kiss or To Kill

by Jean Lorrah

  “If you please,” the woman, whose name was Gabi, said to Jonmair and Tonyo, “we would like to get your stories separately. You were both present at the first attack, yes?”

  “My partner was the object,” said Zhag. “Obviously the attackers hoped he would panic and I would kill him.”

  Inspector Kerrk said, “If you please, Mr. Paget, we already have your statement, and right now we don’t want interpretations, just facts.”

  He turned to Jonmair. “Do you feel up to talking with us alone?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she replied. “The fear gas has worn off.”

  “Good. Is there someplace we can have privacy?”

  Jonmair took the two police officers into the small private bar that wouldn’t open until late afternoon, and told them everything she could remember about the attackers in the main salon. Gabi wrote everything down, while Kerrk zlinned Jonmair as he questioned her.

  “Excellent observation,” he said as Jonmair described the man and woman at the bar in the main salon last night. “Simes keep trying to describe the ambient, but Gens give us physical descriptions.” Jonmair heard respect in his voice, something he had not had for Gens only a few weeks before. “How old were these two people?”

  “At least ten years past changeover,” she said. “The woman may have been older—she was well-dressed, her hair carefully styled and possibly colored.”

  “What do you mean by well-dressed?” Kerrk asked.

  “Well, I think she meant to blend in. She probably picked the simplest evening dress in her closet, but it was still perfectly tailored, a design to flatter her figure,” Jonmair explained. “It was the finest material, too—it would have been very expensive.”

  “What you’re saying is that she didn’t fit in at all?”

  “Not exactly—everybody comes to The Post. But the man with her was wearing a nice but ordinary suit—not the same quality at all. I now know that they were part of a widespread plan to attack Gens with fear gas. But if that hadn’t happened, I would have thought from looking at them that—well, that the woman was cheating on her husband with a younger man. Except that she was post and he wasn’t.”

  “You noticed that?”

  “It seemed strange. They were obviously together, but couples generally try to come to Zhag and Tonyo’s performances both post.”

  “You were suspicious?”

  “You mean, did I think he was there to kill someone? No, of course not. I just thought it was odd, that’s all.”

  “What else can you tell us about them?”

  “The woman had dark brown hair, brown eyes, and olive skin. And she wore a beautiful ring on her right hand. I noticed it when I was at the bar waiting for a drink order. She kept pushing it back and forth with her dorsal tentacles. She wasn’t in Need, so I guess I thought she was nervous about being seen with her escort.”

  “What did the ring look like?” Gabi asked.

  “Gold, with a green stone, and kind of sculptured sides that held the stone up so the light could get into it. Large—she had large hands for a Sime, but graceful. Her nails were manicured, all perfectly even and buffed.”

  “And the man?”

  “Curly reddish brown hair, blue-green eyes, sallow complexion. Taller than I am. Oh—he had a mole beside his mouth, on the left side.”

  Kerrk smiled at her. It made the lines in his leathery cheeks even deeper. “That’s very helpful. Anything else you remember?”

  “He had a red money pouch that looked new. I saw it when he bought drinks. And...maybe it was because he was in Need...but the skin of his tentacles looked darker than the skin of his arms and hands.”

  Kerrk shook his head. “It’s so different working a case with Gen witnesses. Simes go hyperconscious and don’t see anything—I get sick of being told, ‘I’d know him if I could zlin him.’ But on this case we’ve got detailed descriptions of a dozen people, all from Gens.”

  “I hope you’re nearing the end of your investigation,” said Jonmair.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because you’re in hard Need, and I think you’re not taking your transfer so that you can be sensitive to every nuance you can zlin.”

  Gabi laughed. “She’s got you pegged, Kerrk.”

  “How?” he asked. “Gens can’t zlin.”

  “We’re attracted to Simes in Need,” she explained. “I couldn’t serve your Need, but that doesn’t keep me from being drawn to it. You really should have a Companion.”

  “I’ve been telling him that since I started working with him,” said the female officer. “I’m nonjunct,” she explained. “It’s Gabi ambrov Carre. I’ve been trying to match Kerrk up with a Companion since I found out he’s a channel.”

  “Gabi’s right,” said Jonmair. “Talk to Zhag about what Tonyo does for him.”

  “Runs his life,” muttered Kerrk, then visibly pulled himself under control. “I’m used to living without Gen help. My job is to uphold the law, which includes protecting Gens. Protecting them, not being protected by them. If you don’t have anything else to tell us, then we’ll get on to Tonyo.”

  Kerrk’s attitude reminded Jonmair very much of Treavor Axton’s, little wonder since they were friends. Still, he clearly respected Gens as witnesses… probably the way Baird’s father grudgingly respected the entertainment abilities of the Gens at The Post. It appeared that one way for Gens to gain respect from Simes was to prove their value to whatever work the Simes did.

  It was quite some time now since she had seen Kerrk playing poker with Mr. Axton and his cronies. Perhaps they didn’t want to hear that Gens made good witnesses.

  Jonmair left the little bar and sent Tonyo in, then started upstairs to face her daily pile of mending. On the way, she encountered Baird, who said, “Dad wants to talk to you.”

  “What about?” she asked.

  “He noticed your citizenship tags.”

  Jonmair’s hand went to her throat. She had forgotten that she had yet to inform Treavor Axton that she was no longer his ward.

  Well, no time like the present. Squaring her shoulders, she went to Mr. Axton’s office.

  He looked up when she entered, and said, “I hear congratulations are in order. That you are a Free Gen now.” But he didn’t sound happy for her.

  Still, “Thank you,” she replied politely. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, and discuss remaining as an employee.”

  “Oh, no necessity for that,” he told her. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to leave—and I will be happy to have my son free of your influence. Go on now—pack your things. It’s no longer my responsibility to provide for you.”

  His words hit her like an icy shower, but she controlled her field, too proud to let him know he had hurt her.

  “Very well,” she replied, calling on all her self-esteem to say stiffly, “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. If your kindness can extend to a letter of recommendation—”

  “Recommendation? For an ungrateful Gen who didn’t even tell me it was plotting to leave? Put those clothes back where you got them, and get out of here.”

  Although she was still in shock, Jonmair remembered that she had friends. Miz Delancy would hire her. Zhag and Tonyo would take her in for a few days, or Penta Coyt’s family, until she could find a place of her own.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she replied. “I will be gone as soon as I pack my things.”

  Treavor Axton rose from behind his desk. “Just one more thing,” he said, picking up a sheet of paper. “Here is what you’ve cost me, Gen. I expect repayment within the month, or I’ll have the law on you.”

  She took the paper, and felt her limbs go numb as she stared at the figures.

  It began with what Treavor Axton had paid for her as a Choice Kill, and continued with charges for her room, food, and clothing for all the time she had been at The Post.

  The final total was staggering.

  What little money she had saved from her tips was not a ten
th of what she owed. There was no job that would allow her to earn that much in a single month!

  What was she going to do? She understood that Baird’s father was angry at her because he hated his son’s dependence on her. He would invoke the law if she didn’t pay.

  What if it meant she wasn’t available for transfer with Baird next month?!

  As tears blurred the figures on the paper she held, she turned and fled from the room. The most she could manage at that moment was not to allow Treavor Axton the satisfaction of zlinning the feelings she could not control. He had not only succeeded in separating her from Baird, but he had destroyed any life she could have hoped to build—for how could she ever make her plans come true if her so-called freedom began with an arrest for unpaid debts?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  RESISTANCE

  JONMAIR RAN FROM TREAVOR AXTON’S OFFICE and up the stairs—but before she got past the second-floor landing Baird caught up with her. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I’ve never zlinned you this upset without fear gas.”

  She thrust the paper at him. “I’m ruined!” she said. “I can never pay this!”

  He read it, and put his arm around her shoulders. “You don’t have to pay all this,” he said. “My father just wanted to upset you.”

  As Baird led Jonmair back toward his father’s office, she pulled herself together. Baird was right—there were new laws governing Free Gens so that they could get a start in life. She had not taken the time to read through the thick packet of fine print she had been given with her citizenship papers—but she realized that she knew one way the bill he had presented her was grossly unfair.

  “Do you want me to take care of it?” Baird asked.

  “No, I can do it.”

  When they returned to the office, Jonmair stepped forward, saying, “I’m afraid you made an error in figuring what I owe you, Mr. Axton.”

  “I don’t think so,” he replied flatly.

  “Yes, sir, you did. You forgot to deduct what you were paid for my selyn for each month I was your ward.”

  Baird grinned. “She’s right, Dad.”

  “You can’t have it both ways,” Jonmair pointed out. “You were paid for my selyn, so I owe you nothing for room, board, or clothing.” She put the sheet of figures on the desk, picked up Treavor Axton’s pen, and deducted the selyn payments. That wiped out the costs for her care and a quarter of the Choice Kill sum.

  “I haven’t donated this month yet,” Jonmair added. “I can give you that payment as soon as I get it.”

  “Under the law,” said Baird, “the most you owe is half your selyn payment each month until the purchase price is paid off. And,” he added, “former warders are encouraged to reduce it to a quarter of the selyn payment in order to allow Free Gens to become productive taxpaying citizens.”

  “Taxpaying!” his father sputtered. “They get our tax money!”

  “Gens still have to pay income and property tax,” said Baird. “You don’t want to keep them so deep in debt that they never have income or property to pay taxes on, do you, Dad?”

  Both Baird and Jonmair knew that that was exactly what he wanted, but he wouldn’t say it. Instead, he said, “All right. But she leaves. Now.”

  “I’ll pack my things,” said Jonmair.

  “And I’ll take you over to the Jax,” said Baird. “Binni Dodson has been hunting for a Gen to do for her guests what you’ve been doing for ours.”

  Jonmair was about to protest that she planned to go to Delancy’s when Treavor Axton demanded, “You’d take her to our biggest rival?”

  Jonmair decided to play along with Baird. “You said you wanted me to leave. I’m free to take another job.”

  “Binni won’t expect her to clean rooms or mend linens, either,” said Baird. “Jonmair will be able to design costumes for Zhag and Tonyo in her free time, and take on other clients, too.”

  “I won’t have her going to our rival!” exclaimed Treavor Axton.

  Jonmair seized her opportunity. “Then what will you offer to keep me here?”

  “You dare bargain with me, Gen?”

  “For one thing,” she replied, “you will call me Jonmair if you want me to stay. I want room and board, and the same wages as the rest of the staff.”

  “Plus 15%,” said Baird, “for her special abilities as a Gen.”

  “No cleaning rooms or mending linens,” added Jonmair. “I will eat meals among our guests as usual. I will serve food and drinks. And I will accept clothing and costume design commissions on my own time.”

  Baird’s father stared from one to the other of the two young people facing him. “Are you through?” he asked warningly.

  “For now,” said Jonmair. “Anything else can be negotiated later.”

  “And her salary will be renegotiable in six months,” Baird put in.

  “No,” said Treavor Axton. “Room, board, and tips, no salary. And she does any job I tell her to, including cleaning the guest rooms.”

  Jonmair turned to Baird. “Shall we go over to the Jax?”

  “I’ll help you pack,” he replied.

  Treavor Axton scowled. “It’ll be worth it to get that Gen out of your bed, Baird,”

  “There will be a bed in my room at the Jax,” Jonmair said boldly.

  “And it’s less than five minutes away,” Baird pointed out.

  “All right, all right, shen you!” his father exploded. “You may think you’ve won, but no good can come of this. Back to work, both of you!”

  “Are we agreed on terms?” Jonmair asked.

  “We are. Now get out of here...Jonmair.”

  * * * *

  UNDER HER NEW TERMS OF EMPLOYMENT Jonmair was on her own time until her evening duties. As for Baird, he had no specific duties until that same time. So he took her hand, zlinning her triumph.

  “I’m proud of you,” he told her.

  She smiled back, especially beautiful now, confident, head held high. He led her to his room, where they could have privacy, quelling the nagging feeling that he was becoming too dependent on her field. “You’ve changed, Jonmair. It took courage to stand up to my father that way.”

  “You supported me,” she replied, letting her field caress him. He leaned into it, unable to resist the way it eased his Need anxiety. “Simes and Gens support each other now. If the fear gas attack had come right after the Last Kill instead of last night, how many Simes would have struggled to save Gen lives?”

  “Few,” he agreed, finding it hard to concentrate on the conversation with Jonmair’s field enticing him.

  They went over to the window seat. Jonmair knelt on the banquette, looking out over the tiny garden in the courtyard below. Baird leaned back against the cushions, not having to touch her to bathe in her nager. This close to hard Need he could not help zlinning, but Jonmair’s presence helped him maintain duoconsciousness. Thus he could also see Jonmair, the brilliant Gulf sunlight framing her silhouette, putting highlights of fire in her wine-dark hair, mirroring the way her nager sparkled with confidence, warmth, and life.

  She was not looking at him or touching him, and yet she maintained a comfort zone that allowed him to know Need without anxiety. It was almost...pleasure.

  Jonmair slid down onto the banquette, one leg tucked under her, facing him. She made no move to touch him, but her field grew ripe with selyur nager—the Need to Give. “Let me pull the drapes,” she said softly.

  It was the time they had been scheduled to attempt transfer, if the fear gas attack hadn’t happened.

  But they were supposed to do it under a channel’s supervision.

  Baird could not imagine anyone else sharing the moment.

  Jonmair moved, shutting out the bright sunlight, her replete field welcoming. She sat facing him again, brimming with life, yearning to pour it into the void of his aching nerves. Only with Jonmair had he ever felt like a real Sime—she had allowed him to take his single guiltless Kill, that time in Old Chance’s Pen—

  H
er fingers touched his, gently, a tingling caress as selyn sparkled along her nerves, dancing as if eager to escape her Genness and penetrate the depths of his Simeness. His laterals yearned toward the source of life.

  But before his laterals touched her skin, he realized what was so enticing in Jonmair’s field: courage.

  Less than twenty-four hours ago she had suffered pure panic. Behind her intense desire—unquestionably genuine desire—faintly echoed that same nervous anticipation he had zlinned when he had taken her virginity, and again a few moments ago when she had stood up to his father.

  Baird was so attuned to her at this moment that he felt even the feelings she hid from herself. The least fear during transfer, though, and she would resist.

  The least resistance, and he would kill.

  “No!” Baird gasped, retracting his laterals so hard they ached.

  “It’s all right,” Jonmair coaxed. “I’m not afraid.”

  “Yes, you are!” he told her, his mind’s eye clouded with images of that Pen Gen he had killed so thoughtlessly in her presence. He dared not give in while her anxiety hovered in the background.

  “Stop!” Baird begged. “Jonmair, I refuse to kill you!” With every scrap of willpower, Baird forced himself to stop zlinning. It hurt.

  Teeth clenched, he staggered to his feet and fled from the single point of light in the dark, quiet room.

  Downstairs, he almost ran into Tonyo, just emerging from his interview with the police. “Baird! What’s wrong?” Zhag’s Companion asked. Then, “Why aren’t you zlinning? What happened? Where’s Jonmair?”

  Zhag came running down the hallway, his channel’s sensitivity enabling him to sense Baird’s distress. “He’s broken out of trautholo, Tonyo. Help me with him.”

  At the Gen’s questioning look, Zhag explained as he and his Companion supported Baird out of the public corridor and into the room the police had just vacated. “Trautholo is...the commitment to transfer. It hurts like shen to break out of it.” Leaving Baird leaning on Tonyo’s neutral field, he brought him a glass of water, asking, “What happened?”