Ambrov Keon

by Jean Lorrah

  Then it must be now.

  He had real fear to give her—fear for her life, for Keon’s survival without another channel, and most of all for his own life looming empty without her, if she died or if she failed. Either way, his future would be as half a person.

  Sergi reached out to pull the bell, alerting Nedd and Litith that the crisis was here. They would come to the door and wait—wait for Sergi to call for their help, or for him to emerge in triumph.

  Then he began to unfasten Risa’s restraints, carefully working one side, then the other, so that he could finally release both her arms at once, all the while bathing her in his Need to give—

  The moment both her arms were free, as she tried to thrust him away, he let his fears surface. She turned from rejection to desire. She lunged for him, her fingers crushing his forearms—he let the pain join the fear—

  Risa screamed.

  “No! No! Wer-Gen! Sime-killer!”

  With augmented strength, she threw him across the room.

  Sergi hit the wall, the breath knocked out of him.

  The door slammed open. Kreg barreled across the room, shouting, “Risa! Risa!”

  She turned to the boy, a feral gleam in her eyes. She grasped him, laterals streaking his arms with ronaplin as they settled against him.

  Kreg looked down in utter astonishment, then up at the face looming at him. Not his sister’s face. The ravaged, mindless face of a Sime about to kill.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  RISA FELT PAIN AND FEAR SURGE IN THE GEN SHE HELD—delicious promise of satisfaction at last. But there was something else—some other promise with the fear—

  Her oversensitized nerves made her aware of other fields—Sergi climbing to his feet, his nager numb with despair. Nedd and Litith at the open door, Triffin dimmed by being thrust behind the channel.

  Tension filled the small, insulated room.

  Something about the Gen she held was familiar. Not possible. Along with the fear was love—

  With incredible effort, she forced herself to duoconsciousness, looking at the Gen who promised her life.

  Father!

  The dark-lashed gray eyes blurred into the eyes of her nightmare father, then back to Morgan Tigue’s. Her father was Sime. She held a Gen. Yet she held her father—enticing her back to the life she had known with him. He wanted her to kill—yet if she killed, she killed him!

  The nightmare paradox resolved into recognition.

  Kreg! As brave as their father, who would have given his life for his children.

  Their eyes met. “Risa,” Kreg whispered, “do you want to take transfer from me? I can do it for you.”

  But he couldn’t. That small trickle of fear running up his spine was enough to kill him. Yet she couldn’t let go—she needed that fear. She couldn’t survive without it.

  Nor could she survive if she killed Kreg.

  Only Kreg? The nightmare father’s face blended into her brother’s, her father’s, Triffin’s—”I don’t want to kill!” she realized on a wave of agony. “Don’t let me kill!”

  Her hands and tentacles seemed paralyzed. Her efforts to release Kreg wasted even more selyn. “Sergi!” she whimpered, unashamed of her Need of him.

  He was there, his field flooded with relief and joy and promise. Her hands moved, laterals fixed themselves—then his familiar lips touched hers, and life poured through her devastated nerves, blissful renewal, and peace at last.

  Risa felt as if she had just come through changeover—only better. Kreg was standing by the door, rubbing the bruises on his arms. But it was no time for apologies. The fact that her brother had established as a Gen—was technically adult—truly penetrated for the first time.

  “Congratulations, Kreg,” she said.

  He flung himself into her arms. “Oh, Risa—congratulations! You made it, Sis! I knew you would!”

  Nedd, Litith, and Triffin all hugged her; then Litith cleared everyone out, brought soup and fruit which Risa had no trouble eating, and insisted that she go to sleep.

  She woke raring to go. Someone had placed her robe and slippers by the bed. She padded out, flicking a tentacle at the startled Sime at the desk.

  It was a cold, clear morning. She inhaled frost and woodsmoke and an eager desire to get on with her life. She ran to the guest house, showered, dressed in woolens and boots—and found Sergi waiting.

  He looked as good as she felt, clear-eyed and glowing, cheeks pink with frost.

  “You should have waited for one of the channels to check you out of the infirmary,” he said, but there was no real admonition in his voice or field.

  “I’m a channel,” Risa replied, “and I declare myself to be in perfect health.”

  Risa received congratulations from everyone she met—and a sense of welcome, as if they all now considered her part of their family.

  “I’m going into town,” she told Sergi. “Coming along?”

  “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

  “What?” she asked blankly.

  “The schedule board? You are now a working channel.”

  For a moment her elation dimmed. Tigues pay their debts, she reminded herself, and followed Sergi to check the board.

  Sure enough, she had a lesson with Nedd that afternoon, then donations—and transfers! Her heart leaped at the memory of the one time she had stood between a Sime and the Kill. I can do it now, she thought. I want to do it.

  Neither her name nor Sergi’s appeared on the morning list, but she saw why her brother was not around: he was having a lesson with Rikki.

  “We’ve got the morning free,” Risa observed.

  “You’re supposed to be resting.”

  “I don’t require any more rest, and neither do you. Come on—let’s tell Verla the good news!”

  Verla had wasted no time purchasing Laster’s saloon. They had written up a contract, Verla trusting Risa that it said what she claimed, before Risa had been confined to Keon. She had withdrawn money, Verla had deposited it in the shiltpron parlor account, “And Tannen Darley can just go spit if he dislikes my backer,” Verla said spiritedly.

  When she and Sergi rode into town, Risa was amazed at the work already accomplished on the saloon. The front was freshly painted, the windows gleamed, and a sign proclaimed VERLA’S in lettering a bit too fancy for Risa’s taste.

  The bar was already open, although all the tables had been removed, and a man and a woman were sanding the floor.

  Verla was behind the bar, chatting with a Sime who leaned on one elbow while he watched the workers. Verla had softened the red of her hair to a much more attractive auburn. She wore a dress of turquoise material, a little bright in color, but covering her from throat to ankles, with sleeves to her elbows. There were no feathers or sequins, but the dress outlined every curve of her figure—and Verla somehow gave the impression of having more curves than the average Sime woman.

  Risa was delighted at her partner’s business sense. They did not want their establishment taken for a brothel, as they hoped to attract respectable customers. “My kids will be here lots of times,” said Verla. And so she had changed her image.

  “Risa!” Verla squealed, and ran to hug her. “Oh, you look wonderful! I’m just so happy for you! And Sergi—”

  The ambient surged with malice as the proprietor of Verla’s Shiltpron Parlor hugged a Gen. Verla turned to her audience. “These’re my friends. You don’t like it, there’re other saloons. And you two—” she called to the workers sanding the floor, “I’m payin’ you to work, not to gawk!”

  Two of the three Simes at the bar walked out. The man and woman sanding the floor shrugged and went back to work. The man who had been talking with Verla zlinned Risa and Sergi with lazy insolence, and went on drinking.

  “Verla,” said Risa, “if we’re going to chase your customers away—”

  “Those two’ll go over to Zabrina’s and tell what they saw here, and pretty soon a dozen people’ll come over to zlin the, um, householders
. And they’ll all have to buy drinks! So before I get really busy, come see how I’m fixing things up. Ambru! Ambru—get up here and take over the bar!”

  From one of the back rooms came a Sime, hobbling on a crutch. Not only was he lacking one leg, but his back was bent so that he did not come quite up to Risa’s height. His face was as crooked as his body, jaw undershot, mouth toothless, nose hooked, eyes squinting. A woolen cap was pulled down almost to his eyes.

  Verla said, “This here’s Ambru. When he plays the shiltpron, you’d swear you could float on the ambient! Ambru, I’ve told you about Risa and Sergi ambrov Keon.”

  “How do, folks!” Ambru said cheerfully. “Any friend of Verla’s is a friend of mine!”

  Verla showed Sergi and Risa through a hallway, where storerooms on either side had been partitioned into small rooms. “Each one of these’ll be a guest room,” she explained. “I’ve built on more storage out back.”

  “Guest rooms?” Risa asked.

  “Absolutely not killrooms,” she said firmly. “But Risa, you mix porstan and shiltpron, and some people just gotta sleep it off—or maybe a man and a woman—”

  “I thought you said—” Risa cut off her words; she had not told anyone at Keon that she was partners with Verla. Was the woman using that fact to turn the establishment into what they had agreed it was not to be?

  “No, no—I’m not gonna have any girls. But people are people. Men and women are gonna come in together. Even married folk, away from the kids for a night. And some of the hands from the farms come into town, get drunk—they’d like a nice clean bed to sleep it off, and can’t afford the hotel. I’ll keep things respectable—just you wait and see.”

  As she led them on she added, “This last room’s Ambru’s, then some storage space. I’ve got glasses on order—Sergi, you better get to work on about a gross of glass holders.”

  “I’ll tell Kreg,” he replied. When Risa looked at him sharply, he explained, “Your brother took over production while I was too busy to work in the metal shop.”

  “And what other news have I missed?” she asked.

  “Tannen Darley’s little girl’s sick,” said Verla. “She got hysterical when Tan brought a couple new Gens from the choice auction last week. On his killday, I took Susi with my kids to Hanging Rock so she wouldn’t be there when—Well, she’s worked herself into a fever because one of the Gens is gone. Tan’s looking for someplace else to keep them now.”

  “Why did he come up short?” Risa asked.

  “Oh, he augmented like crazy. After what happened...I think he was trying to get rid of your selyn.”

  It sounded likely. But what about the poor little girl? Most children changed over between twelve and fourteen natal years; she should still have time to harden herself to the fact that Simes killed Gens to live.

  But what if the banker’s daughter should try to run for Keon at her changeover?

  There has to be a way to make this community more tolerant of Keon.

  Verla showed them her living quarters, similar to the apartment behind Tigue’s that Risa had grown up in. The kitchen/parlor had a table and chairs from the saloon, a stove, and a sink. “Look,” Verla said proudly, “a pump right in the sink—no more running outside in all weather.”

  “You’ll have to get a boiler,” said Risa. “Sergi, can you make one, instead of ordering one from Nashul or Lanta?”

  “If I can find enough tin for the tank,” he replied.

  “Good. We’ll make you one, Verla—and then you let everybody know how reliable it is and where you got it.”

  “Risa,” said Sergi, “I might be able to find tin for one boiler, but if we were to get orders for half a dozen—”

  “We’ll worry about that later,” she replied.

  Metal was always the problem. Keon craftsmen could hollow and filigree bits of metal into glass holders, bake enamel over thin sheets of metal at the core—but even those small quantities were scarce and expensive in Gulf Territory.

  In Gen Territory, though, were ruins of Ancient cities waiting to be mined. Sime senses combined with augmentation had long ago stripped the Ancient city near Lanta of every scrap that could be reached without the Ancient ability to move mountains. But Gens couldn’t zlin or augment.

  Furthermore, the Ancient ruins in Gen Territory were often hiding places for berserkers, who fled to the labyrinth of fallen buildings at changeover, and might survive for months, preying on foolhardy prospectors.

  Everyone at Keon must know these facts, yet no one seemed to have thought of a mining expedition to Gen Territory.

  “Not to a big city,” Risa told Nedd later that day. “Last summer Dad and I zlinned places overgrown with kudzu that must have been Ancient communities. You can’t see anything now but lumps under vines.”

  “But what do you want to do about it?” Nedd asked suspiciously. “Risa, Keon cannot go raiding into—”

  “Not raiding! We don’t go near out-Territory Gens. I’m talking about salvage, which belongs to whoever finds it. That’s the law, and it’s part of the border treaties, too.”

  “The border treaties also say it is illegal for a Sime to enter Gen Territory, and any who do may be executed on sight.”

  “We can’t let them see us, then. You don’t let them see you when you cross Gen Territory for the Arensti competition.”

  Nedd sighed. “All right, forget legalities. How much do you think it would cost to equip such an expedition?”

  She figured. “We’ve got horses, mules, wagons, and people. We’d require picks and shovels, block and tackle—”

  “And what are the most important and therefore expensive components of those items?” Nedd prompted.

  “Metal,” Risa groaned. “But Nedd, that’s just why—”

  He flicked two handling tentacles in a “let’s be reasonable” gesture. “I concede your point. Let’s survive the winter, and discuss your idea next year.”

  “Next year! The time to do it is now.”

  “Yes, right now, between harvest and winter. But we cannot go in the next few weeks—and with the Year’s Turning comes the worst weather of the winter. You must learn, Risa, that there is a time for everything—and now is the time for you to learn to channel, not go prospecting in Gen Territory.”

  * * * * * * *

  WORKING ON CHANNEL’S FUNCTIONS, Risa forgot her frustrated plans—and when she was scheduled for a free hour, she found Kreg waiting for her. “I’m supposed to be your Companion for your rest period,” he said with a grin. “Shall I make you some tea? Rub your back? Sing you a lullaby?”

  Her brother knew perfectly well that Risa required no rest. She was eager to get on to her first assigned transfers. “Why don’t I just take your donation while we’re resting?” she teased, for Kreg’s field was still high and growing. To her relief and satisfaction, there was not even a startle response, let alone fear at her words.

  “Nedd thinks I can go right to transfer, the way Sergi did—but he has me working with Rikki. I’d love it to be with you, though, Sis. I can wait a month, if Nedd approves—and if Sergi doesn’t object! I understand how he feels—Risa, I would have given you transfer yesterday, really I would.”

  “I know,” she said. “I could feel that you wanted to—but you were nervous, too, and I could not have controlled if anything had gone wrong. I love you, little brother. I’m so glad I brought you here. I hope you’ll be happy.”

  “I was mad at first. It’d be...convenient to be Sime. But when you touched me, and this morning with Rikki—there’s the most wonderful feeling of being able to give—”

  “I know, Kreg. You’re projecting it right now.”

  “Yeah—but you should feel it from the inside.”

  She felt something of what Kreg and Sergi did when she began giving transfers that afternoon. All Risa’s assignees today were nonjunct Simes with no physiological or emotional problems. Yet each one brought a new delight.

  Risa imitated Sergi’s Need to
give as each Sime entered nervously. The nervousness was Need, not worry about her competence—if Nedd said she was ready, they trusted the Sectuib. She watched Need tension drain away beneath her touch. It felt like magic—and when she actually gave selyn, projecting the sweet, bright fulfillment Sergi provided her, it was a blissful sharing, less powerful than what she knew with Sergi, but just as beautiful.

  It was almost a disappointment when she came to Carlos, the last Sime on her schedule. When he entered and she let her field support him, he sighed and said, “Min’s right. We really got lucky this month!”

  Risa zlinned a delighted affirmation in Sergi’s field. Min had been on her schedule about two hours ago—and she had felt in the woman an astonishment similar to her own in her first transfer with Sergi. Apparently she was giving more than they expected of a disjunct channel. She felt pleased.

  When Carlos had left, Risa was scheduled to rest again. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “I’ve worked four hours today, but it’s been spaced out over six—there shouldn’t be five or ten minutes between transfers, either. As soon as one of the Simes is ready to leave, the next one could come in. Nedd’s got me scheduled like some kind of invalid.”

  Sergi laughed. “No, he’s got you scheduled like one of Keon’s normal channels. We’re on again at midnight for infirmary duty, although there’s not much going on there. I intend to get a good night’s sleep. That’s one advantage to being a Companion; I can perform half my duties sound asleep.”

  But Risa was annoyed at breaking her days up into little chunks—a couple of hours of work, and then time off, but not enough time to do anything. For four days straight she had no stretch of daylight time long enough to ride into town.

  She complained to Rikki, who told her he could not change her scheduling without Nedd’s permission. So she accosted the Sectuib in one of his own rest periods, and told him, “I have these short rest periods when I sit around playing with my tentacles and waiting to do something.”

  Nedd opened one weary eye. “Didn’t you just come off duty?”

  “Yes. That’s what I’m talking about. I’m back on again in thirty-three minutes. What am I supposed to do with thirty-three shidoni-be-flayed minutes?!”