by Jean Lorrah
Nager hard as diamond, Tonyo began, “My money’s as—”
“Your money?!” The furious Genfarmer pulled a whip from his belt. The worker Gen hid under the table, emanating fear—emotion every junct Sime craved.
“Tonyo—don’t!” Zhag warned as Simes gathered.
But the boy had had enough. His field drew in upon itself, as if drained from within. Zhag knew what was coming and forced himself to stop zlinning.
Three Simes dropped bonelessly to the market floor.
Verl flicked his whip, caught Tonyo around the upper arm, and sent him careening into Zhag. The musician did not have the mass to hold him, and they went down in a heap.
The Sime sat up, wincing at the pain of Tonyo’s whip cut. Tonyo immediately focused inside himself. His pain left the ambient, but blood trickled down his arm, pluming selyn, as he helped Zhag to his feet.
Without Tonyo’s brilliant field masking it, the worker Gen’s panic throbbed a siren song. A man with an eyepatch knocked the Genfarm table over—but a woman snatched up the cowering Gen. It squealed in terror as Sime tentacles grasped its arms—and then in pain as the one-eyed man tried to tear it from the woman’s grasp.
Zhag’s attention was torn between the kill about to happen and Tonyo’s reaction to it. The boy had grown up in Gen Territory—had he ever seen a kill?
Zhag had to zlin, every sense alert to get Tonyo out of the market alive.
Tonyo froze, nager damped almost into nonexistence. Keep it that way, Zhag willed.
Verl’s whip snaked about the Sime woman’s arm, lashing her lateral sheaths. Zhag shared her gasp of pain—but she hung onto the Gen’s other arm. The one-eyed man slashed the edge of his hand down on a sensitive nerve point.
As the woman bent over her injured arms, Verl flicked his whip back—
The man gripped the keening Gen from behind, tentacles lashing Sime and Gen arms together. Zhag felt Tonyo’s relief. He thinks a Sime can’t kill from that position!
The Gendealer raised his whip—
The one-eyed Sime pressed his lips to the back of the worker Gen’s neck. The keening became a screech—
The whip came down—
Killbliss split the ambient. Juncts screamed frustration.
Zhag howled in despair as pain/fear/ecstasy ripped through his nerves.
Tonyo’s skin crawled.
Verl’s whip slashed the killer, who dropped the corpse to turn and fight. Other Simes converged, some lashing out at one another, but more turning toward—
Dizzy with denial, Zhag lurched toward the luscious fear borne on the golden field he knew as his.
Another Sime cut between Zhag and his prey. A growl rose in his throat. He knocked the other aside, reaching for the promise of satisfaction denied so long, so long—
Something inside Zhag whimpered. But something else exulted.
His hand found the Gen’s arm, tentacles seeking killgrip. Mine!
Zhag’s laterals licked out toward perfect terror. Tonyo! He recognized sole satisfaction—as his soul rejected it.
His knees gave way.
The Gen went down with him. Zhag couldn’t let go—he needed the selyn, the fear, the pain.
But not the kill! Never again! On a wave of sheer shen, he fell into blackness.
Zhag fell unconscious, pulling Tony Logan down with him. Shaken out of his shock, the Gen realized: with any other Sime, he would be dead—and it would be his own damn fault!
If a Sime attempted to draw selyn from a frightened Gen, the resistance burned out the Gen’s nervous system. Zhag had torn himself out of the commitment caused by Tony’s fear.
But Zhag’s frail old systems could not take many such shocks. Shame replaced panic. My fault, my fault.
Abruptly turned from protected to protector, Tony looked up at converging Simes. I know how to handle Simes, he reminded himself. Their laterals licked out of their sheaths, zlinning him...and that made them vulnerable. Zhag was out cold—he couldn’t hurt him any more than he had already done.
Tony slammed the ambient again as he had learned to do at Keon. All around him, Simes fell unconscious.
But those still on their feet were angrier than ever. He had only moments before they were on him—
Tony slung his mentor over his shoulder, wincing at the pain from his whip cut, and sought an escape route.
“This way!” called a voice.
Tony slid through a tent flap that was raised, then closed behind him. As his eyes adjusted, he made out two Sime women, calm, dressed in neat shirts and trousers, no weapons visible.
He laid Zhag down on a grass mat. The older woman exclaimed, “He’s unconscious! Greet, run to the pharmacy for some fosebine.”
The younger woman dashed out the front of the tent as Tony knelt by Zhag. Their rescuer lowered the front canopy, but there was enough light for Tony to examine his friend.
The musician had the beginning of a black eye, scratches and whip cuts on his neck and hands, nothing that looked serious. But what about internal damage? “Zhag?”
“Stop that!” the woman scolded. “Wait for the medicine. What kind of Companion are you?”
“I’m not,” said Tony. “Zhag’s been sick, and I’m afraid he’s badly hurt.” He looked up. “It’s my fault. I know how powerful my field is, but I panicked when I saw the kill.”
“You’re a Wild Gen!” the woman said in astonishment.
“I’m Tony Logan, from Heartland Gen Territory. Can you tell why Zhag isn’t coming to?”
“You moved him while he was unconscious.”
“They were trying to kill us.”
“You they want to kill,” the woman corrected. “Him they just want to murder. He may want to murder you, though.”
The Simelan word “kill” was reserved for what Tony had just seen in the market—caused not merely by Sime need for selyn, but by the addiction to Gen death agony. Zhag had overcome that addiction, said to be harder to break than the worst drug dependency, long before he met Tony.
And Tony had triggered the craving for Gen fear today, when Zhag was in need. What a fool I am! “It was the first kill I ever saw,” he said. “I still shouldn’t have reacted. Zhag shouldn’t have had to—” he realized that he had the right to say the forbidden Simelan word, as it was what had literally happened, “—shen himself to protect me.”
“He’ll forgive you for that,” said the Sime woman. “It proves his disjunction is true. But then you moved him.”
Tony still did not understand, so he just sat back on his heels and radiated confusion.
Sure enough, the woman explained. “Unconsciousness disrupts a Sime’s sense of where he is—I can’t explain it in Gen terms. Worse than the worst hangover you’ve ever had. And your friend will have disorientation on top of shen.”
“Should I have left Zhag to the mercy of that crowd?”
The woman sighed. “Obviously you couldn’t. And you didn’t move him far. You’re lucky they’re fighting among themselves instead of hunting for you.”
Tony looked around. Although he could hear shouting, the booth must be selyn shielded. Most of the market booths had canopies, but this one was a complete tent. Again he didn’t have to ask. The woman told him, “My other daughter is Gen, as is Greet’s husband. But we had the sense to leave them home today.”
Zhag moaned. Tony focused his attention on his mentor, knowing his field soothed the fragile Sime. He pushed damp dark hair off the musician’s pale forehead.
The frail body shivered, then arched into a convulsion. Tony pulled Zhag’s belt off, doubled it, and wedged it into the Sime’s mouth so he would not bite or swallow his tongue. The only other thing he knew to do was to examine Zhag’s tentacles.
At full extension, the four handling tentacles on each wrist would reach the tips of the fingers. Normally they twined in graceful patterns about the hands, but Zhag’s now stuck out stiffly over and under his clenched fists.
The small, pinkish gray laterals
moved, though, retracting into their sheaths on either side of the Sime’s wrists, then thrusting out on a gush of ronaplin, the selyn-conducting fluid. Zhag dripped the stuff when he performed, for shiltpron music required nageric as well as physical manipulation.
But Zhag was not performing now. “He’s voiding selyn!” the Sime woman informed Tony.
Zhag had no selyn to spare. “Tell me what happens,” Tony said, and held his hands close to, but not touching, Zhag’s forearms. Rest on my field. You’re safe. No one will hurt you. You don’t have to fight anymore.
“That’s amazing,” said the Sime woman. “You say you’re not a Companion?”
“Has he stopped voiding?” Tony asked, although as Zhag’s laterals retracted and stayed in their sheaths, he was pretty sure he had achieved his goal.
“Yes. He’s coming out of it.”
The younger Sime woman returned with a vial of liquid. “The police are breaking up the fight.”
Zhag’s eyes opened a crack and immediately shut again as he groaned, putting both hands to his head. Tony followed Zhag’s hands with his own, thinking soothing thoughts. The Sime gagged as he pulled the belt from his mouth, but after a moment whispered, “You’re still here.”
“I’m so sorry!” Tony told him. “I never meant to hurt you. Here—this will make you feel better.”
After a moment Zhag allowed Tony to support his head and accepted the vial. “Fosebine?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.
“Yeah—that’s what they called it.”
Zhag upended the vial and swallowed the contents in one gulp. He made such a face, Tony was almost tempted to laugh.
But the medicine worked. Tension drained from Zhag’s face and body. His eyes finally opened beyond slits. “How did you manage not to get killed?”
“I was so worried about you, I forgot to be scared. Zhag, I’m sorry I lost control. I never meant to hurt you.”
“I meant to kill you,” said Zhag.
“No you didn’t. The others did, but you shenned yourself rather than harm me.” Seeing Zhag ponder that, he repeated what the woman had said, “It confirms your disjunction. I would trust you anywhere. I just hope that after this, you can trust me.”
“You got us both out alive,” Zhag replied. “You’d never seen a kill before, had you?”
“No.”
“I hope you never do again.” Then the Sime looked past Tony to their rescuers. “Where are we?” he asked.
“Halpern’s Ironmongery,” the older Sime woman replied, introducing herself as Eliza Halpern, her daughter as Greet. Then she demanded, “What were you thinking, to bring a Wild Gen to the market today? Any Gen, for that matter?”
“What’s special about today?” asked Tony.
“It’s turnover day for half of Norlea!” said Greet.
Turnover occurred when a Sime used up half a month’s supply of selyn, and began the descent into need. It made Simes edgy and irritable—and explained why once the temptation disappeared they had turned to fighting each other rather than hunting Tony for selyn they didn’t actually need. “Why would so many Simes be on the same transfer schedule?” he asked.
“The Last Kill,” Eliza replied.
“Of course,” said Zhag. “I’m sorry, Tonyo—I forgot about that. I’m on a different schedule.”
“What’s the Last Kill?”
Greet explained, “When the Unity Treaty was signed, the Tecton set a date after which no more kills would be allowed. That was two and a half months ago.”
Tony still didn’t understand. “Why would so many kill on that one day? They couldn’t all be in need at once.”
Greet said disapprovingly, “Every junct who could afford to pay for an extra kill wasted enough selyn to...enjoy it.”
Eliza took up the story. “Juncts hate channel’s transfer—’fake kill’ they call it—and put it off as long as possible. Most of them have stayed on the same schedule for the past two months—so today they all hit turnover.”
“It will happen every month,” added Greet, “until their cycles drift apart.”
“Or till they all disjunct,” said Tony. He had studied up before coming in-Territory: juncts would reach a physical and psychological crisis six months or so after their last kill. Then there would likely be worse scenes than what had happened in the market. If not for his fight with his father, Tony might have stayed home until that time was over.
Some Simes, he had been told, would die, forbidden to kill but unable to accept channel’s transfer. But most, he understood, would come through as Zhag had....
The two women stared at him...and then at Zhag. Eliza asked, “Tony, when do you plan to go home?”
He sensed something in the unexpected query, so he answered honestly. “When I can show my dad I’m making a living at music. Maybe I’ll visit for Year’s Turning.”
“Visit?” the Sime woman questioned.
“My work is here, with Zhag. He can’t go into Gen Territory—it’ll be years before people trust that Simes don’t kill anymore. Even my mom was scared when I came into Gulf, and she was born here! If she’d seen Zhag today, though—”
Eliza turned to Zhag. “How long do you think you can lie to this young man?” she asked. “If he finds out the truth from someone else, how can he continue to trust you?”
“What...truth?” Tony asked. “Zhag?”
His Sime friend swallowed hard, and then answered, “For most junct Simes...disjunction is not possible.”
“But...the Tecton promised—”
“It was the only way to get the Gen governments to sign the Unity Treaty,” Greet said.
“You can’t break the treaty in less than a year!” Tony protested.
Zhag shook his head, gasping at the pain the movement caused him. “We won’t break the treaty. Four or five months from now...junct Simes will start to die.”
“Why can’t they disjunct?” Tony asked. “You did.”
“So did my husband and I,” said Eliza, “but it’s only possible in First Year. Our youngest Simes will survive...but juncts who changed over more than a few months ago will die.”
Her daughter took up the story. “My sister and I never worried if we turned Sime or Gen—we wouldn’t kill, and we wouldn’t have to flee across the border like your mom did, Tony. We turned out one of each, and I married a Companion from Carre, so we have two Gens in the family.”
Eliza added, “Our whole Territory would have disjuncted in another generation or two. Then we could have made a sensible treaty with the Gens. But last year, before we were ready, we faced the extinction of the human race. It’s a bad choice, Tony...but it’s the only one.”
“Oh, my God,” Tony whispered. “No wonder the juncts want to kill me—and murder Zhag. We’re going to be alive in a few months, when they’re all—”
Milily was junct. Their customers—all his new friends, the women he had—
“You let me make friends with people who’re gonna be dead in six months!” Tony accused. “When were you planning to tell me, Zhag—when the shiltpron parlor was empty?”
“They won’t all die,” said Zhag. “Not that soon. I’m still alive after more than two years.”
Tony realized...Zhag was far too old to have been in his First Year as a Sime two years ago. “...what? You don’t kill. You certainly proved that today.”
“That’s right.” Zhag’s eyes fixed on Tony’s. “It’s almost a year since I killed, and I never will again.”
“You said two years.”
“I decided to disjunct two years ago. I didn’t know I was too old. A year ago, to save my life, the channels tricked me into killing. I made them swear never to do it again—I would rather die. Eventually...I will.”
Tony’s head was spinning. Not knowing what to ask, he settled for, “What happened six months after you killed?”
Zhag frowned. “I’m not proud of it, even though Thea says I should be.”
“Thea?”
“A chann
el in Carre. She ceded me her Companion. Janine. I burned her. I...couldn’t overcome the junct need for pain.”
“But you didn’t kill this Janine?”
“No. She says Companions expect a burn once in a while. I still hate what I did—I don’t want to crave pain, Tonyo!” Tony saw tortured truth in Zhag’s eyes as he continued. “I don’t know if a Gen can comprehend, or even a nonjunct Sime. I am disjunct. My mind. My heart. I will not kill. But my body demands it. My mind and heart are stronger than my body.”
Had Tony found his music in Zhag—the music just out of reach his whole life—only to lose it so soon? “How long do you have?” he asked, harshly controlling his sense of betrayal.
Zhag shrugged. “Months. Maybe another year. I don’t think about it. Your field helps immensely, as does my music. You...will be my legacy. The music will live on in you, Tonyo...if you are willing to stay with me.”
Tony wasn’t surprised at the time frame—Zhag had that pinched, tired look Tony’s grandmother had developed in the months before she died. If Zhag had a year, how much he could learn in that time! “Of course I’ll stay,” he replied. “Just—don’t hide anything else from me, all right?”
Zhag managed a weary smile. “All right.”
Someone raised the front tent flap—a Sime in the uniform of the local police. “Miz Halpern? You all right?”
“Yes, thank you, Officer,” Eliza told him, “but we’ve got injured customers who require transportation to Carre.”
“There are some channels here—” the policeman began.
“Zhag has all the help that can be given here. Waiting for a channel would just delay getting him to the infirmary.”
“Sure thing, Ma’am,” the officer agreed, and a few minutes later a buckboard pulled up before the tent. Tony squeezed himself between his friend and some barrels and boxes, and took Zhag’s hands. Warm, dry handling tentacles lashed around his fingers. When Zhag’s small moist laterals licked out of their sheaths, the Gen slid his hands up toward the Sime’s elbows to allow them to connect.
“Zhag? What else can I do?” His friend was growing steadily weaker, and Tony bent close to hear him.
“Sing...to me.” Zhag’s soft voice trailed into silence.