Ambrov Keon

by Jean Lorrah

  “I got no learnin’,” she said, “so my kids got none. They been grubbin’ in the dirt all their lives. Cain’t do much fer them no more, but I got six grandchilder, an’ ain’t one of ’em can read nor write. T’ain’t right, no schoolin’.”

  “I’ve been telling them about the school at Keon,” Verla explained. “Look at that,” she said with a proud gesture toward a plaque on the wall. It was brightly painted, and lettered in a child’s large but clear printing:

  HOUSE RULES

  1.NO KILLS ON THE PREMISES.

  2.YOU START A FIGHT, YOU TAKE IT OUTSIDE.

  3.ANYTHING YOU BREAK IN A FIGHT, YOU PAY FOR.

  4.NO SOLICITING.

  5.YOU DON’T LIKE THE COMPANY—LEAVE.

  6.GAMBLERS WELCOME. CHEATERS WILL BE THROWN OUT.

  7.NO CREDIT.

  “My Dinny wrote that,” Verla said proudly. “His teacher helped him with spelling, but he did the lettering himself.”

  The women were suitably impressed, but Miz Frader asked, “If we was to send our children to your school, how do we know you wouldn’t teach ’em...perversion?”

  Nedd began, “Well, we couldn’t change our—”

  Risa interrupted. “Ladies, you are asking us a favor.” Zlinning Nedd’s consternation, she extended her show field to blur his. “Keon would never force its ways on anyone. What your children observe there, however, will be the way we live. We will hide nothing—for we have nothing to hide.”

  Joi’s nager became a wall of revulsion. “You mean you would let little children see—?”

  “Transfer?” Risa supplied the forbidden word. “No, of course not. You don’t let your children watch Kills, do you?”

  The woman blushed furiously. “No. But would you teach them that the Kill is wrong?”

  “Nedd?” Risa asked. When he did not answer at once, she continued, “I don’t see why you could not enroll your children in classes in reading, writing, arithmetic, history, crafts...and not have them attend our changeover classes. But many of Keon’s teachers are Gen.”

  The three women looked at one another, two in horror, but the third—

  Melli Raft spoke up at last, her voice so soft and frightened it could hardly be heard above the music. “I have three children. Two of them are my husband’s, but I love them as my own. They took me in when I ran across the border, thinking my life was over. Except for having to—to kill, people aren’t that different here.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, and her field shook with agonized shyness, but she continued, “I didn’t know there was a place where I wouldn’t have to kill! I stayed on Hal’s farm for over a year, just learning the new language, afraid to be away from people who accepted me—and when I learned about Keon, it was too late.”

  Verla put a sympathetic arm about the sobbing woman. In her own Need, Risa throbbed to their regret. It was only chance that she had met Sergi when there was still time—barely—for her to disjunct. Two or three months later—

  Melli leaned against Verla, swallowed hard, and looked at Joi and Miz Frader with as much defiance as her painful shyness would allow. “I don’t want my children to kill. I want them in all the classes, not just reading and writing. If Hal objects—” She squared her thin shoulders. “I don’t care. I love them too much to let them go through what I do.”

  Joi looked at Miz Frader. “If my kids have Gens for teachers...how do I stop them from growing up to feel—like her?” she gestured at Melli.

  The older woman gave a sad smile. “When you’ve watched two sons buried, and a daughter and a granddaughter dead tryin’ to birth babies—mebbe you’ll start thinkin’ ’bout what kids you got left. I took Billijo to the border last summer, an’ I ain’t afraid t’say so. If I’d of took him to Keon—I’d know he was safe, an’ I could see him. Some six years back, my first grandchild, Sharla, turned Gen—an’ her own daddy kilt her, tryin’ t’help her get away when he was in hard Need hisself. That was my boy Larens, an’ I allus thought he grieved hisself to a early grave over killin’ his firstborn.” She sat back in her chair, the weight of years bowing her shoulders. “Nature’s kind to most Simes—they don’t live long enough t’see what I seen. Don’t make no sense t’kill what you love.” She shook her head. “Just don’t make no sense.”

  Joi licked her lips, outnumbered. “My husband’d whup me if he thought our kids—”

  “Your husband whups your kids,” said Miz Frader. “You oughta whup him a time or two—teach him what fer! He give you any argument, you give me a holler!”

  Risa sat in amazement, watching the three women persuade themselves that their children belonged in Keon’s classes. This was the best possible way to have Keon accepted by the community: educate the children. Train them to increase the produce on their farms, or give them a trade. That ironmongery Nedd had said was impossible.... With the cooperation of the community—

  When the women had gone, Verla ordered more porstan for herself and Nedd, and a fresh glass of tea for Risa. “This is...your investment?” Nedd asked. The clientele had changed, those who had left during the discussion replaced by others. The two channels were being zlinned curiously, but only a few people bore resentment in their nager.

  “You told him?” Verla asked.

  “Keon owns Kreg’s share,” Risa explained.

  “You seem busy for this time of day,” Nedd observed.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” Verla replied. “We’re ready for a grand opening. Risa, you’ll have transfer soon—”

  “In two days.”

  “Fine! Then we’ll have it that night. You come post for the best time. Nedd, please come, and bring your wife—and any of the other channels that can get away. And Gens. Risa, don’t you dare come without Sergi! You folks are gonna be a big attraction.”

  “Verla,” said Nedd, “what if people get drunk and mean?”

  “Rule Two. You start a fight, you take it outside. Those rules are gonna keep this a nice place where families can come. A place where people can cut loose and have a good time—and have nothing more than a headache in the morning!”

  Even in her approaching Need, Risa was excited about the official opening. “We’ll be there,” she promised.

  * * * * * * *

  SERGI, TOO, WAS PLEASED AT THE PROSPECT OF A PARTY—a double party, for Keon would have the pledge ceremony for Kreg and Triffin early that evening. Most of the householders would remain on the grounds, and probably celebrate well into the night, while Risa, Sergi, Nedd, Litith, and Gevron went to Verla’s grand opening.

  Kreg wanted to go, too, but he and Triffin were the guests of honor at Keon’s celebration, so Risa promised to tell him everything that happened, and to take him to the shiltpron parlor soon. Actually, she was glad to delay his first excursion off Keon’s grounds as a Gen; a shiltpron party was not the place for him to test his new abilities.

  In her brother’s honor, Risa wore one of Keon’s red capes, a floor-length ritual style in lighter material than the ones worn outdoors. When she walked, it floated impressively behind her—a fun garment until she walked through the swinging doors into the dining hall, and they closed on the cape, bringing her up sharp, to the giggles of the children eating an early supper.

  Risa laughed, too, as she untangled the cape and joined Sergi. They had just had transfer, all their differences forgotten in the joy of sharing life.

  As they got up to stack their dishes, Risa caught her cape under her chair leg, and sat ungracefully at the tug.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said as she extricated herself again. Sergi picked up her tray and deposited it on the counter, unhampered by his cape. “How come you don’t catch your cape on things?”

  “Oh, Gens are just a little smarter than Simes,” he replied with a grin, “but since you’re so useful to us, we try not to let you know it.”

  The schedule had been juggled to allow everyone a free evening. The dining tables were removed, the chairs set against the walls. A platform was set up and
draped in red—and the hall filled with Simes, Gens, and children in red capes as the hour of pledging approached.

  Sergi brought out a length of lightweight white-enameled chain. Risa watched in revulsion as he measured lengths of it to fit about the necks of all the channels and Companions—symbolic of the heavy white-painted chains raiders used for makeshift collars on the Gens they captured.

  She understood intellectually that the chain represented the choice of being bound to the householding—but when she saw it clasped tightly about her brother’s throat, she shuddered. Thank goodness the householders wore them only for ritual occasions.

  Risa’s heart caught in her throat as she watched her little brother pledge his life to the strange ideals of Keon. When Nedd placed the ring on Kreg’s finger, and embraced him, she blinked back tears.

  Then it was Triffin’s turn, and Keon’s two newest members turned to face their new family. A cheer went up, and music started. Fiddle and banjo broke into a lively reel, and dancers whirled onto the floor.

  Kreg fought his way to Risa’s side, and hugged her against him. She felt his tears on her cheeks as he murmured into her ear, “Oh, Risa, don’t turn away from us. Please!”

  She noted the “us.” “Kreg—I’m very happy for you,” she told him.

  “Give Risa time, Kreg,” Sergi said. “She’ll discover that her place is here, too.”

  Then Triffin came to hug Risa and Sergi, saying, “Now I’ve got a real home and family—oh, thank you for giving me the courage to come here!”

  Then she and Kreg were pulled into the circle of dancers, laughing as they fumbled through the unfamiliar steps. Soon they had the figures, though, and Risa was startled to find herself thinking that Kreg and Triffin looked good together. Were they interested in one another? Kreg was too young...she thought.

  Risa didn’t know when a Gen’s sexual interest began. For a Sime it was usually three months after changeover. She had had her first experience then, kind of sweet and fumbling, but nothing to make her want a permanent relationship. That all seemed so long ago now, in another lifetime!

  She hadn’t given sex a thought since then. She had suffered shortings and unsatisfactory Kills, then gone off with her father on their trading expedition. After that, disorientation, disjunction...she had been in no condition to feel the strange sweet yearnings that now ran through her as she tapped her foot in time to the music.

  Risa took off her cape as most of the other dancers did, and lost herself in the music. The changing figures brought Sergi to her side. When he swung her, he picked her right up off the floor, and she felt safe in his arms, just as she felt safe leaning on his field in her time of Need. To think of a Gen as strong was foreign to everything she had grown up with, yet Sergi’s strengths were undeniable.

  The patterns of the dance separated them again, and when the musicians took a break, parents began gathering children to put them to bed. The party would continue, but Risa and Sergi had other obligations. Nedd and Litith were ready, and Gevron was going with them, no other Gens. Everyone in the party but Risa wore heavy red wool capes. She put on her old brown cape against the light stinging snow.

  They arrived at Verla’s red-cheeked from the cold, to find her party in full swing. Here, too, people were dancing, but the music was Ambru’s shiltpron—ringing on the nageric level as well as the audial. When the Gens arrived, the ambient shifted markedly. The dancers halted, zlinning. Every eye in the place focused on the group from Keon as Verla hurried to greet them. “I’ve saved you a table,” she told them. “Gigh! Drinks for my friends!”

  The bartender set porstan before them, his nager a forced neutrality.

  Ambru kept playing. The stares continued, but the Gen fields echoed the nageric pulses of the shiltpron, soothing the ambient into pleasing harmony. Joi Sentell was there, with a man who must be her husband. He stared resentfully at the Keon party as they entered, but made no move.

  At a back table, Tannen Darley sat drinking porstan, his daughter Susi beside him. Her pink party dress was crisp, but the child herself was pale and withdrawn. Darley’s eyes followed Risa’s every move, but he, too, remained where he was. There were too many people between them for her to read his field clearly. Did he know that half this place belonged to Keon? How could he not know, since all the monetary transactions went through his bank? But he was here, lending his considerable authority to their venture.

  Eventually the novelty wore off. People went back to drinking and dancing. Verla, circulating as a good hostess, came by and asked, “Why don’t you folks dance?” and Nedd and Litith took the floor. No one objected. When they sat down, Verla approached again, urging, “Risa—Sergi—show us your style. Come on, Gevron—dance with me!”

  Poor Gevron’s embarrassment burst upon the ambient like a wash of cold water. Verla laughed. “Now you’ve done it—no one will be satisfied until you strut your stuff.”

  The Companion realized that all eyes were on him, and judged rightly that the quickest way to lose their attention was to dance. So he got up, bowed to Verla, and led her onto the dance floor. As everyone else backed off, Risa quickly grasped Sergi’s hand, and they joined the other Sime/Gen couple. Ambru struck up a waltz.

  The musician’s artistry turned the dance into magic. Risa melted into Sergi’s arms, moving to the sweeping rhythms as Ambru charged the ambient with nageric tones in rhythm with the two Gens’ heartbeats—until the rhythms blended into one. Counterpoint of iambic heartbeat—selyn production rhythm—and dactylic waltz cadence came together, reflecting the impossible blend of Sime and Gen.

  When the music ended, there was absolute stillness in the room. As the couples returned to the Keon table, only hushed whispers broke the silence.

  Then the ambient was shattered with brute force as a harsh voice demanded from the doorway, “Hey! Where’s yer killroom?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  RISA RECOGNIZED NIKKA, PROPRIETOR OF THE LOCAL PEN. She was dressed to kill—quite literally, for she tugged along a shivering Gen in a stained white smock. The loose garment hid sexual characteristics, and the Gen’s features were hidden under windblown hair. It was a Gen as Risa had known Gens all her life—until Sergi. It was frightened and miserably cold, its legs bruised where Nikka had kicked it along.

  Nikka wore a gaudy dress. In contrast, her field rang with hard Need. She wanted to kill that Gen—immediately.

  Verla stepped forward. “No Kills on these premises. After you have killed at home, come join the fun.”

  “I thought this was a shiltpron parlor,” Nikka said with heavy sarcasm.

  “It is,” Verla replied. “Porstan, shiltpron, dancing—everything for a good time. But no killing.”

  “Ain’t no fun without Kills! Hey—I got some extras. Lemme bring ’em up, we’ll dance ’em around, beat ’em up—”

  “Nikka, you will leave quietly or I will remove you.” Tannen Darley had moved up behind Verla.

  “Shen and shid, Tan—you goin’ over t’ the perverts?”

  Nikka gave an obscene giggle. She gestured toward Risa and Sergi, dripping ronaplin from her lateral orifices. “Them two’s post as post. What you folks been zlinnin’ ’fore I got here? An’ where you gettin’ yer selyn these days, Tan?”

  Unknowingly, the woman had hit a nerve. The banker stepped forward as Verla said, “Tan—no!”

  “Daddy—make her go away!” Susi Darley wailed.

  Darley stalked menacingly forward. “This is a family place. Everyone has acted with courtesy—until you arrived. Go take your Kill in private, as ladies and gentlemen do. We will not allow you to spoil our pleasant evening, Nikka.”

  The woman looked past him, toward some of the other local people. “Hey—you gonna let this spoilsport—”

  Tripp Sentell got up, and stood shoulder to shoulder with Tannen Darley. “You been asked nice to leave. Now git!” He raised a threatening hand. Other people joined the two men.

  “Shedoni-doomed fools, all of you! You�
�ll be sorry fer protectin’ them perverts—they’ll steal yer children, turn ’em into wer-Gens an’ use ’em fer dirty, disgusting—”

  “That’s enough!” said Verla. “No one insults my guests. Take your Gen, and don’t come back.”

  Nikka finally recognized that she had gone too far. She turned sullenly, with an ineffective, “You’ll be sorry!” and dragged her Gen off into the darkness.

  Embarrassed relief flooded the ambient. Darley told Verla, “Maybe it’s a good thing your rule was tested. Now everyone knows this is the family entertainment place Laveen’s been lacking.”

  A murmur of agreement rose, making Verla blush and smile. As the others who had gone to her defense returned to their tables, Verla moved toward the Keon party, Darley following.

  Nedd rose. “We’ll leave before any further incidents.”

  “You sit right back down!” said Verla. “Nobody’s got the right to drive you out of your own place.”

  “You will soon make enough profit to buy out Keon’s share,” Nedd told her. “Meanwhile, no one has to know—”

  “Everyone knows already, Mr. Varnst,” said Tannen Darley. “Verla has made no secret of it—nor has it harmed business. Zlin the ambient. If you should decide to sell, I will gladly purchase your share at any time.”

  “Well, I—” Nedd fumbled.

  Darley said, “I suggest that you consult Miz Tigue. I cannot help noticing that Keon has achieved solvency since she began handling your finances.” Then he turned to Risa, who was fighting the urge to kick Nedd under the table.

  “Risa,” said the banker with a slight bow, “would you join my daughter and me? I have something to say to you.”

  Ignoring the warning in Sergi’s nager, Risa joined Darley and his little girl at their table. When they were seated, he said, “I apologize, Risa—although my exposing your association with Keon has done you little harm.”