It had been a day very much like this one—sunny, mild, and almost too beautiful. They’d been hardly more than children then, sneaking off for a day alone, exploring some formidable ruins of the Ancients. It had been, Valleroy remembered, the last time they’d ever discussed Simes.
The ruins were nothing more than a huge brooding mound of rubble pierced by an occasional upright skeleton that refused to crumble. But to that air of the inviolate decay of senescent dignity, there was added the haunting terror of the Sime Berserker.
It was there, to that grotesque, treacherous, cave-riddled jungle that changeover victims came to escape being killed during their few vulnerable hours. Not many of them survived, but those who did had created legends of terror that clung to the twisted blocks of artificial stone like a visible pall.
Valleroy liked the place because people refused to go there. It was like his own private property...a unique sensation for him. He knew that he alone possessed the key to safe entry...the starred-cross. For several hours, he and Aisha poked though the outskirts of the forbidden area. Little by little they strayed deeper into the broken ground. On impulse, he invited her to come and see the secret temple he’d built to his own inner spirit...his secret hideaway.
They scrambled over crumbling stone mounded with scraggly vines, tufts of grass, and an occasional bush. It had rained recently, leaving fresh puddles and newly cut gullies to bar his usual paths. He chose his footing with ostentatious ease, acutely aware of the impression he was making on her.
She followed, darting furtive glances toward every tiny sound of scurrying rodent or fleeing bird. He picked a trail a few yards ahead of her, his head high. He moved with all the confident pride of an owner in his private garden. So it was she who found the body.
Her choked gasp brought him back to her in three bounding leaps. To one side of their path and beneath them, a large rain water lake filled a depression that had been quarried for building material. The water was mirror smooth under the blue sky. Near the center of the lake floated a body, face down, arms extended as if groping for something just out of reach.
Even from where they stood they could see the bulging ridges that had just been developing along the length of the forearms. They knew they saw the fluid-filled tentacle sheaths swollen to the painful tension that preceded the breakout of the tentacles. This almost Sime had died just before changeover was complete, just before the wrist openings were broken open to release the tentacles that would take selyn.
“Don’t worry, Aisha. She’s dead. She can’t hurt anyone now.”
Aisha had given one excruciating shudder, glancing at the surrounding ruins. She had known the danger before she agreed to come. She didn’t ask to go back now.
For a few minutes, Valleroy walked beside her, holding her hand. But then the climbing became difficult once more, and they broke into single file. She was a good climber, never wasting a motion nor seeming to tire. She was the only girl Valleroy had ever liked to go places with.
Finally, they arrived at Valleroy’s private retreat. It was more than a cave really, lit only by a few broken pieces of mirror set to reflect the outside light. On a sunny day like that one, it was bright and cheerful within.
He held aside the mat of vines he’d cultivated to hide the entrance and motioned her inside.
Her gasp of appreciation was payment enough. She circled the room once, moving from rough-hewn easel he’d built into one corner, past the sketches he’d liked enough to save, to his rock collection spread on a tattered but painfully clean blanket. Her amazed reverence told him she knew the value of what she saw...knew it and treasured it as much as he did.
She paused, transfixed by one of his drawings. It was himself fancied as an adult Sime, standing on a wind-blown hilltop, one tentacled arm raised as if straining to touch a passing cloud. Quietly, he slipped onto the bench before his easel and sketched her as she would look as a Sime.
It had been the first time he had ever committed to paper the form of her loveliness. He drew her as she stood there before him...grave, sensitive, open, undemanding, uncondemning.
When she turned to him, she said wonderingly, “You aren’t afraid...of changeover...are you?”
For answer, he handed her what he’d drawn. She looked at it quietly for several minutes, her eyes straying occasionally to the upflung Sime arm in the other drawing. “Maybe you’re right, Hugh. Maybe it wouldn’t make a difference...for those who survive.”
“We’re both over sixteen now. Changeover isn’t likely for either of us any more.”
She turned to the picture of the windswept hilltop. “Are you disappointed?”
Here, in this place, secure from prying ears and the censure of his fellows, Valleroy dared answer, “I don’t know.”
“You’ll probably never know.”
“Will you report me?”
“No.” She took his hand and ran her fingers along his muscular forearm, pausing at the raw-boned wrist, and then tracing a line down the too delicate, overly fine-boned fingers. For the first time in his life, Valleroy wasn’t embarrassed by those hands. “Hugh...maybe...you should have been Sime...maybe you will be...it’s happened to seventeen-year-olds, they say.”
“Not often.”
“But maybe it could...do you still hope?”
“I don’t think I ever hoped.”
“But you’ve never hoped not.”
“I’m not sure.”
“If you don’t...become...what are you going to do with the rest of your life? Paint?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
He couldn’t answer that. He tried, but his eye kept going to the windswept hill. It wasn’t a well-done painting...the proportions were off...he’d tried too hard to graft his peculiar hands onto a too large wrist...the tentacles weren’t right either. But he’d never felt any need to do the painting over with his more mature skill.
She nodded. “Because painting is too personal? Because you’re afraid they’d see this in everything you did?”
“Maybe. Or maybe because artists usually starve. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. I think I’ll go into something that pays high with an early retirement. The Army, maybe...or the Federal Police Field Teams. When I’ve earned my retirement pension, I can spend the rest of my life painting. I won’t have to show them to anyone...if I don’t want to.”
Now, Valleroy sat astride his horse, riding calmly beside a Sime through Sime territory. He was here to earn his retirement pension by rescuing Aisha...and all he’d done so far was earn a living by drawing. He thought he ought to feel guilty for enjoying himself so much while Aisha was in such danger. But there had been nothing he could do about finding her. Nothing.
Klyd had spent much of the four days at Imil screening their recently purchased Gens, gathering rumors, and discreetly probing for information. But he hadn’t come up with a single concrete lead.
Valleroy felt it was now up to him to take matters into his own hands, but he was helplessly trapped in a strange society. So he rode beside the channel alternately enjoying the day and suffocating with frustration.
At noon, when they settled down in a shady grove to eat lunch, Valleroy said, “To hear Nashmar talk, you’d think the road would be swarming with unlicensed raiders looking for stray Gens, but we haven’t seen a soul.”
Klyd laughed, swigging at his canteen. “Well, the day is only half gone. Most unlicensed raiders are harvesting the fields now. Later on, they’ll be heading home tired and looking for some fun.”
“They consider channels excellent sport, too, I hear.”
Klyd nodded. “This time of year they’d be looking for Gens, though.”
“Why particularly now?”
“There’s a brisk black-market trade. Large fields have to be harvested before the weather ruins them. It’s cheaper to do the work under augmentation than to hire other Simes. But augmentation consumes selyn at enormous rates...it can double the ordinary
Sime’s kill rate. There’s another factor. The ordinary Sime relishes augmentation. His pen ration doesn’t allow him to function at full efficiency very often. It’s not quite like entran...but perhaps it is similar. He’ll go to the black market if he can afford it. If not, he may go prospecting on his own. I’ve heard of captives taken in the spring being fed all summer, saved for the harvest.”
“Sadists!”
Klyd shook his head. “One of the roots of Zeor’s superiority is that I budget each of my Simes a regular schedule of graduated degrees of augmentation. It’s more than a pleasure, Hugh, it’s a necessity.”
“How can Zeor afford it?”
“We have the best channels. We get a higher selyn yield from each general class donor. Our Companions are the best.”
“Can raiders tell the difference between an ordinary Householding Gen and a Companion?”
“No, but Companions don’t generally travel alone.”
“With the licensed raiders working the area, pickings must be sparse.”
“Sometimes, if an unlicensed band gets frustrated enough, they’ll go after anyone...even a Householding itself. Several years ago, Zeor was almost wiped out in such an attack.”
“Isn’t there a law against that?”
“Certainly. If any attackers survived, they’d have been severely reprimanded and heavily fined. Of course, we wouldn’t have received any of the fines to cover damages.”
“Oh.” Valleroy frowned. “But you’ve recovered.”
“Not really. Grandfather never healed properly. I lost my first wife and two children. My brother was killed. My sister died in childbirth because of her wounds. No, Zeor never really recovered. That’s one reason we require Zinter.”
Valleroy absorbed that in silence. “I guess you were serious...about preparing the invitations so early. Yenava’s child will be the hope of Zeor’s future.”
“Actually, the invitations haven’t been done yet. Grandfather refused to approve the design Yenava chose. She got disgusted and decided to send them with blank fronts. But it will be quite a party.”
They ate their lunch in silence until Valleroy said, “I’m beginning to think Aisha must be dead.”
“Just when I’ve become convinced she’s still alive?”
“Why do you think so?”
“Andle’s up to something. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Sime’s intuition?”
“There is such a thing, you know. He’s planning something dirty this time. I’ve seen evidence showing he was behind that raid on Zeor. I don’t think he’ll try that again...but I don’t think he intends to fail this time. It’s my business to see he doesn’t get away with it!”
“How will you do that?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll think of something. Let’s get going. I’m close enough to need to be looking forward to Denrau’s company.”
Slinging his canteen over his saddle, Valleroy vaulted up onto his horse and set off at a canter. Denrau was a real Companion. Somehow, that thought was depressing. He drew up beside the channel and offered, “When we get home, I’ll design the invitations...if you want me to.”
Klyd reined in sharply. For a moment, he searched Valleroy’s eyes. When he spoke, his tone was softer. “Hugh, I did not mention Denrau to slight you. You have done your job well, but Denrau is specially trained to serve.”
“I know.” Valleroy squirmed under those arresting eyes, certain he wasn’t jealous of Denrau.
“If you decide to qualify, you’ll be welcome. But Grandfather is right. Even if you do serve, I’d require Denrau to be there too.”
“It’s nothing like that....”
Klyd set off again, slowly. “We’ll be honored if you’ll design the invitations.”
Valleroy rode through the afternoon concocting and discarding various possible designs in a desperate effort to keep his mind off Aisha. He still hadn’t chosen a design when, near sunset, Klyd pulled off the road into an orchard that appeared to have been abandoned by the Ancients even before the Sime Wars.
Dismounting, Klyd said, “Zeor is about a twelve-hour ride from here, and this is the last decent camp spot on the road.”
Valleroy looked around the clearing. A lazy stream meandered along one side while an Ancient stone cabin with a new roof occupied the other. A woodpile leaned against the cabin under a shed. A well-used ax hung near a scarred stump. “Looks inhabited,” said Valleroy dubiously.
“Not a soul within five miles of here. The station is maintained for travelers by the Department of Roads.” Klyd led his horse under the woodshed’s roof.
Valleroy followed to discover a row of stalls sheltered from wind and rain by a fragmentary stone wall flung out from the corner of the building like a flying buttress. Tracing the faint markings left in the ground around the old relic, Valleroy said, “This looks like pre-War remains rebuilt.”
“It is. We do a lot of reconstruction. Householding Frihill specializes in archeological research and makes quite a nice profit from it.”
Scooping grain into the horse’s trough, Valleroy grunted. “Are they the ones who rediscovered photography?”
“Yes. Simultaneously with several other researchers. It wasn’t so much rediscovered as reinvented...but we’ve still got a lot to learn about it. The ancients did miracles with chemistry.”
The modern Simes do miracles with chemistry too, thought Valleroy. But he said nothing. No use emphasizing the weaknesses of Gen technology. He worked on in silence.
With the horses thoroughly cared for, they paused a moment to watch the sunset over the valley. It was one of those fiery autumn blazes that turned every line of gray cloud into a symphony of bright color...the perfect end to a perfect day. They watched together until the rim of the sun dipped below the horizon, relinquishing the sky to the first stars. Only the swift drop in temperature reminded them that summer didn’t stretch ahead indefinitely.
After a while, they carried wood inside and laid their fire on the magnificent stone hearth. To Valleroy’s eyes, it seemed as if the tiny cabin had been constructed around a fireplace designed for a room bigger than Zeor’s cafeteria. Soon the fire made the room a snug haven against the night’s chill. A savory rice concoction that Imil’s kitchens had packed for them filled the air with mouth-watering aroma.
Klyd divided the one-dish meal while Valleroy brought the toasted nutbread to the table. “I’m tempted,” said Klyd, “to trade Zinter for Imil’s head cook.”
Valleroy glanced sharply at the wiry, dark-haired Sime. “You serious?”
“No, but I wish I were. This is delicious.”
Valleroy laughed and dug into the heaping portion with gusto. It was definitely one of the best meals he’d ever eaten. It tasted like creamed peas in orange sauce but with something crunchy like apples and tangy like cloves but salty-sweet. “Tell you what,” said Valleroy, “maybe we can buy the recipe with a portrait or something?”
“Now that sounds like a possibility. I’ll put a negotiating team on it the minute we get home.”
They ate with trail-honed appetites, not pausing to make conversation. Then, dumping the bowls into a pail of water, they moved outside to sit on the wooden porch and munch crisp apples. The huge, burnished moon was just rising to spill its soft brilliance into the night. Against the background of crickets and the softly murmuring brook, an occasional coyote howl rose to challenge the supremacy of the moon. Valleroy filled his lungs with the exquisite fragrance of freshly harvested fields and sighed deeply. It was an enchanted night standing outside of time.
“You know,” said Klyd, “I’ve never been so happy.”
“I was just about to say the same thing. Somehow, even though Aisha is still missing, and Stacy is probably circulating ‘Wanted for Desertion’ handbills with my picture on them...I feel happy.”
Flinging his apple core into the orchard, Klyd said, “I think I know why I’m happy. It’s a temporary condition. It won’t last and it shouldn’t...but”—
he paused, glancing dubiously at Valleroy—“you won’t tell on me?”
“My lips are sealed forever! What’s the secret of happiness?”
“Schedules. Or rather the lack of them. For the last eight days, I’ve slept without interruptions, eaten without emergency calls, and I haven’t been required to be anywhere to do anything by the clock.”
In English, Valleroy said. “We call that a vacation. Do it every year.”
“Vacation.” Klyd savored the word, copying the Gen intonation. Then he supplied the equivalent in Simelan. “Now I know why so many disputes break out over the assignments.”
“You mean you don’t take vacations?”
“Not since changeover. There haven’t been enough channels in Zeor to do all the work.”
“You ought to start a massive training program to get more people into the profession.”
“Channels are born, not merely trained. And they are very rare.”
“Well, then a vigorous recruitment program is what you need. One designed to attract more channels than nonchannels.”
“Most channels don’t even know they are channels unless they disjunct very shortly after maturation. Disjunction is much harder for a channel than for an ordinary Sime.”
“Are channels really all that different?”
“Oh, yes. Anatomically and psychologically. A separate mutation. Some say a more perfect one since if all Simes were channels, Zelerod’s Doom wouldn’t be descending upon us.”
“I’ve never understood that. Why the apocalyptic vision?”
“Think a moment...a junct takes between twelve and thirteen kills a year. Every year of his adult life. A hundred years ago, that averaged only twenty years. Most Simes died during changeover from pathological complications. Today, we have an eighty per cent survival rate and the Sime life expectancy has increased. The ordinary Sime may live to be sixty or seventy. Do you know how old Grandfather is?”
“No.”
“A hundred and five years. And all that time, he’s never killed. That’s more than one thousand Gens that he hasn’t killed.”
House of Zeor Page 14