Channel's Destiny s-5

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  His parents were installing Owen in their bed. Trying to be inconspicuous, Zeth hovered just inside the door until his mother came over to him and said, "Zeth, go downstairs and eat supper."

  "But Owen—"

  "He's alive, Zeth," said his father. He studied Zeth, his black eyes, deep-set with strain, almost unreadable. His mouth set in lines of grim determination as he added, "You're old enough to understand. Owen isn't going to bleed to death, but his body could just give up and die of shock. I can try to save him—but I mustn't be disturbed. Kadi, go with Zeth."

  "But, Rimon—you're in need."

  "That's all that let me stop the bleeding. Kadi, I had to have you for that, but now ... let me try something. With no Gen in the room, I think I can get Owen's fields to respond."

  "But—"

  "Let me try, Kadi!"

  At the ragged edge in his voice, she backed off. She tucked the blanket around Owen's still form, then took Zeth's hand and left the room, closing the door behind them.

  He let his mother lead him down to the kitchen, where Trina Morgan was making a huge pot of vegetable stew while Abel Veritt's wife poured trin tea. Mrs. Veritt came over to Kadi at once. "What's wrong? Why aren't you with Rimon?"

  "He's trying to bring Owen out of shock. Where's Uel?"

  "Making one more round. Hank will make him stop soon." Mrs. Veritt poured tea for all of them, and sat down across from Kadi, her hands wrapped about her tea glass. Zeth, seeing her tentacles move restlessly within their sheaths, knew she was gaining strength from his mother's field. Zeth could not interrupt their rapport to talk about his own guilt.

  He stared at Mrs. Veritt's arms, wondering what it would be like to have tentacles. He rubbed his forearms, raising gooseflesh as he thought, It could have been my arm cut off, not Owen's. A Sime died horribly if even one lateral tentacle were badly injured. The loss of an arm meant complete loss of two laterals—and death by attrition.

  Zeth had learned about the Sime~Gen symbiosis in school. Simes and Gens were both human, born of the Ancients who had ruled the world before they split into Simes and Gens. Now, though, everyone was either Sime or Gen—and no child knew for certain which he would be, for all that Zeth's father insisted Zeth would be Sime.

  At adolescence, a Gen began to produce selyn, the biologic energy of life. Mr. Veritt and others from Gen Territory said Gens never even knew it, although Kadi Farris, Hank Steers, and other Gens said there was a definite feeling of change.

  A Gen's establishment, however, was nothing to the dramatic changeover of a Sime. As the new Sime's metabolism shifted from the caloric base of a Gen or child to the selyn base, the external change that captured the imagination of Gens and children was the development of tentacles sheathed along the forearm to emerge at the wrists. The four handling tentacles, called dorsals and ventrals, served as extra fingers or hands. The smaller laterals, however, seldom emerged

  except to perform their primary function: the drawing of selyn.

  But the major change from child to Sime was not tentacles; it was the need for selyn, with the attendant ability to locate it, absorb it, and use it. Rimon Farris said the incredible developments in the nervous system were the true drama– and trauma—of changeover. A Sime could not produce selyn at all—yet had to have it to live. A Gen produced a huge amount beyond any imperceptible quantity he might consume. Clearly, Simes were meant to obtain selyn from Gens.

  Life ought to be that simple. Zeth had grown up in a community where Simes and Gens lived together in cooperation and harmony, yet his home was legally classed as a Genfarm—a breeding farm for Gens destined to be killed by Simes stripping them of selyn. To the Simes who had attacked today, they were doing evil by avoiding the kill.

  Fear is our real enemy, not the people whom it possesses.

  Zeth was the first child born of one Sime and one Gen parent. Only ten years old, all his life he had heard the story of how his father, only a year before he was born, had become the first Sime to take selyn from a Gen without killing. That Gen had become Rimon's wife, Zeth's mother.

  It wasn't simple. Teri Layton had been killed today—not died, been killed. Teri had established selyn production only two months ago, and had not yet given transfer. Zeth knew what had happened: the one flaw in the Sime~Gen mutation.

  Once each month a Sime had to receive selyn, or die of attrition. To locate selyn, he had the ability to sense—zlin—a Gen's field. The dirty trick nature had played on the human race was to make Gen pain and fear devastatingly attractive to a Sime in need.

  Thus when a Sime grasped a Gen and began to draw selyn, the feeling of selyn movement startled the Gen. Resisting the flow caused pain, feeding the Sime's need. The Sime reveled in the Gen's pain and fear, drawing against the resistance until he burned out the Gen's nervous system, killing the Gen and giving the Sime an emotional high known as killbliss.

  When Zeth had begun changeover training, he had been told all this–but until today he had not been able to imagine taking pleasure in pain. Those people—Trev and Kora—would he ever forget their eyes as they attacked helpless children? That must be killbliss, he thought with a shudder.

  It was addictive. Once a Sime killed, he sought the same

  sensation every time he took selyn. When Abel Veritt told the changeover class last winter, Zeth had found it impossible to believe that Mr. Veritt could have been addicted to the kill. Yet he would never lie about it.

  And every new Sime was vulnerable.

  Zeth remembered the lessons, drilled over and over. Never to be alone until either changeover or establishment. Never to remain

  alone with a friend in changeover, but to go for a channel as soon as the victim could be left. "And especially if you are Gen,"

  Rimon Farris reiterated, "no heroics! You may have no fear for yourself—but your fear for your friend in changeover may kill

  you, and at the same time addict your friend to the kill. Come for me, Uel Whelan, or lord Veritt."

  If Zeth inherited his father's capacity for selyn storage, he would also inherit his voracious need–beyond the capacity of any

  Companion except Kadi Farris. "That means you could kill even a Companion, Zeth," his father had warned him grimly.

  "Not burning out his system drawing against fear, but draining him totally. I will give you your first transfer, and you'll have

  transfer with Gens only after you've learned control."

  That was the role of the channel: to stand between the Sime and the kill. The channels, like Rimon Farris, had a dual

  selyn system—one like any other Sime's and a secondary storage system which they could control. Rimon Farris was the

  first channel to learn that control, to draw selyn slowly from even a frightened Gen, without hurting him, and then transfer

  that selyn to another Sime, so he could live without killing.

  Zeth was willing to do anything to learn to channel. To be like his father–the best channel–no, Owen won't die, not with Dad there!

  "Zeth. Zeth!"

  He looked up as his mother's voice penetrated. "Yes, Mama?"

  She put her hand to his forehead. "Are you all right?"

  "Yeah. It's just—Mama, Owen won't really die, will he?"

  She hugged him tightly, and Zeth realized she knew full well that he could have been the one lying upstairs, mutilated. "Not if

  your father has anything to say about it! Now go find Uel Whelan, all right? Ask him to zlin you to be sure you don't have some

  hidden injury, and then ask him ... to check on your father. He can do that without disturbing him."

  Glad to do anything that might contribute to Owen's recovery,

  Zeth went out into the yard. The setting sun cast a golden glow. A sour smell came from the smoking ruin of the hay bam. No one had yet begun to work on the trampled kitchen garden, but the fires in the other outbuildings had been doused, and the corral fence repaired.

  In the long rays of the setting su
n, the raiders' path sliced across the newly sprouted fields. People were shooing the dairy cows out of the field. Among them were Hank and Uel—along with Slina, who ran the pen in town. Slina wasn't "Mrs." like the women of Fort Freedom. She was Slina to everybody, and her little girl was simply Mona.

  Slina was another adult mystery to Zeth. A killer with no intention of trying to stop, she always came to help when there was trouble. Even Rimon Farris and Mr. Veritt respected her. She sent Mona to school in Fort Freedom, too.

  "Hi, Slina!" he called.

  "Well, hi there, Zeth. Come help us move this stubborn cow."

  Slina had, as usual, been in the thick of the fight. Her hair was coming loose, her boots were muddy, her shirt torn—no, slashed by a whip. He could see the cuts on her shoulder and neck. Her dagger, stuck through her belt to be cleaned before being sheathed, showed by the stains 'on its blade that she'd given as good as she got.

  "Come on, Slina," Uel was saying, "let the others chase the cows while I treat your injuries."

  She laughed. "What—these coupla cuts? I've had worse from the bite of a stubborn Gen."

  "You want to contend with this stubborn Gen?" Hank threatened cheerfully.

  "All right, all right—but there's nothing wrong with me that soap and water and a little sleep won't cure."

  They walked back to the house, where Slina let Mrs. Veritt clean her wounds as Uel turned to Zeth. "How about you? Feeling achy?"

  "Yeah. Mama wants you to zlin me." – "All right—let's do a thorough job. Hank—'' Zeth watched as Uel's Companion moved to the precise spot where his field would cancel the Sime fields around them, allowing Uel to read Zeth's childish nager.

  Slina shook her head and asked Hank, "How do you do that?"

  He chuckled, "Gen secret."

  Uel laid his hands gently on Zeth's forearms, wrapping his handling tentacles about the boy's arms. When his grip was secure, but not tight, the hot, moist laterals emerged to touch Zeth—a tinglingly pleasant feeling. Dismantling his grip, Uel said, "Nasty muscular strain, Zeth. Take a hot bath and get ready for bed. I'll give you some fosebine and help you heal in your sleep."

  Zeth's lip curled at the thought of fosebine, but he couldn't argue with a channel. "All right—but . . . Mama wants you to check on Dad."

  "I intend to," Uel assured him.

  "And Owen. Uel, I don't want to be asleep if he—if he—" Tears threatened to break through.

  Uel said, "I'll wake you, Zeth. I promise—whatever happens. And, Zeth—Owen is alive if your father is still in there. The longer he stays alive, the more likely his recovery."

  Zeth managed a watery smile. "Thanks," he said. When he returned, though, clean and wrapped in a borrowed robe, he explained, "I don't know where I'm sleeping. Jana's in my room."

  There were pallets already prepared in the upstairs hall, they found. Del Erick was sitting on a bench beside Kadi Farris, just staring at the door behind which Rimon Farris fought for his son's life.

  Kadi gave Uel a welcoming smile, but no one spoke. Zeth accepted the fosebine Uel gave him, trying to drink the vile stuff down so fast his taste buds wouldn't notice it.

  He didn't expect to fall asleep right away, but the next thing he knew he was in the strange state of knowing he was dreaming. Bright afternoon sun poured down as Trev and Kora tossed him aside, then grasped Owen and began to hack him to pieces. Zeth could rescue him, but his legs were a dead weight. Endlessly, Zeth tried to move, while the attackers cut off Owen's arms, his legs, his head—

  The dream shifted. Rimon Farris bent over Owen, miraculously putting his body back together. The parts all joined neatly, even his clothes—but Owen was still . . . dead.

  Del Erick was suddenly there, saying, "Save him, Rimon."

  Farris looked up. "He can't live as a Sime."

  "Then he has to be Gen!" said Erick desperately. "He's got to be Gen, Rimon!"

  Zeth chimed in the growing chorus, "He's got to be Gen!"

  "—to be Gen."

  "—be Gen."

  "—Gen!"

  Zeth woke, disoriented to find himself on the hall floor. Dawn was breaking—but what had wakened him was the sound of a door opening. His father stood in the doorway to the master bedroom, looking unutterably weary. Del Erick sprang to his feet, his whole bearing one fearful unasked question.

  "It's all right!" Farris said at once. "Owen's alive, Del, and out of shock. He's sleeping."

  As Erick started forward, Farris gripped him hard by both shoulders. "Del, I almost lost him. But then, a couple of hours ago, his field shifted and suddenly I could get a grip on him. He's started selyn production—he's established, Del. He's going to live. He's going to be all right."

  As his father kept talking while Del Erick slowly assimilated the news, Zeth felt a warm glow of security. My dad can do anything, even bring a person to be Gen if he has to.

  It was only hours later that he recalled the conversation of the afternoon, and realized that Owen probably wouldn't remember anything from the time he was grabbed by the attacker until he woke up in bed, one arm missing—to be told he was Gen.

  He wanted so much to be a channel. Now what?

  Chapter 2

  It was afternoon before Zeth was allowed to see Owen. His friend lay in the middle of the big bed, looking very pale. The blanket was pulled up over his left shoulder, hiding the stump of his missing arm. He didn't look at Zeth.

  Zeth approached, his mind a confusion of guilt, curiosity, and desire to do something–anything—to help. Suddenly they were strangers. His mind fixed on the pattern of the blanket, woven from Fort Freedom's wool in bright colors, an endlessly intertwining pattern he could follow until his eye muscles jumped, and he realized the silence was dragging out as endlessly as the pattern.

  Finally, Zeth blurted out the formula greeting to someone who had just become adult, Sime or Gen: "Congratulations, Owen."

  Owen's eyes flashed, and fixed on Zeth's. "For what?" he demanded. "For staying alive to be a useless cripple?"

  "I'm sorry!" Zeth cried, hit right upon his guilt. "It's my fault, Owen. I'm so sorry!"

  Owen rolled his head away, and said through gritted teeth, "It wasn't your fault."

  "I tried to stop them," said Zeth. "I couldn't move."

  Owen looked at him now. "You were hurt?"

  "I'm just stiff and sore, but you and Jana—"

  "Jana?" Suddenly Owen was interested. "They did the same thing—?" He tried to sit up, but pain dropped him on the pillow.

  "No! She'll be fine! They broke her arm. It'll heal—really! I saw her this morning."

  Owen's eyes closed. "Good. Pa will have someone to help him." He put his right hand over the stump of his left arm, and grimaced.

  "Owen, does it hurt? Should I get a channel?"

  "It hurts all the way down to my fingers, and I know they're not there. No," he added as Zeth moved, "don't get a channel. They'd put me to sleep again. I'm going to sleep enough of my life away . . . asa Gen."

  There was bitter self-loathing in the word "Gen." "You had to be Gen to live," Zeth pleaded. "Now you can be like Mama—like Hank Steers—"

  "Don't lie to me! How can a one-armed Gen be a Companion?"

  Zeth choked back his words. How could a one-armed Gen offer transfer with the crucial contact points gone?

  "That's enough!" Both boys jumped at Abel Veritt's stern tones. Veritt flinched at Owen's pain, and then came steadfastly to his side, zlinning him critically. "The fosebine is wearing off. I'll get Rimon to check you over and give you more."

  "What for?" Owen asked dully. "Maybe I should just die."

  Veritt said, "Zeth, you're tiring Owen. Find your father, and ask him to come up here."

  "He's with Mama," said Zeth. "They're having transfer."

  "By now he should be—oh. Well, find Uel or lord, then."

  "Yes, sir."

  "No—don't, Zeth," said Owen. "I don't want to sleep."

  "What do you want, son?" Veritt aske
d gently.

  "I want to die."

  "No," said the old man. "God made you Gen to preserve your life. Do not question His wisdom."

  "I don't think God cares," Owen said flatly.

  In the same reasonable tone he used to teach the older children, Veritt said, "You are not thinking, Owen. You have grown up in a community blessed with constant proof of God's caring. I, too, questioned His wisdom many times when I first became Sime. Yet I've lived to see His plan unfold. We are building a world where such brutality as you've suffered can never happen again."

  The grim set of Owen's features relaxed under Veritt's care, and tears began to slide down the boy's cheeks. "That's right," Veritt said, pushing Owen's bright blond hair back off his forehead. "Tears are good. Let them cleanse your grief away so you can find God's plan for you. Pray for guidance,

  son. There's a reason for what happened to you. I don't know what it is, but I have faith it is a part of God's plan."

  Owen drifted to sleep under the spell of Mr. Veritt's words. Then the old Sime guided Zeth from the room. "How did you put him to sleep?" Zeth asked, "You're not a channel."

  "Did you think I'd never noticed you boys nodding off during my sermons?"

  Not believing he had heard right, Zeth looked up to find the old man's eyes twinkling. Abel Veritt joking with him? He felt suddenly grown up, admitted to the adult world . . . but he didn't deserve it.

  "Zeth," Mr. Veritt said seriously, "Owen's injury is not your fault. You were hurt yourself, son."

  The aching guilt exploded. "We shouldn't have been there! Mr. Whelan told us to go up to Mr. Brick's place, but I couldn't. I made Owen and Jana come with me."

  "Let's talk about it," said Mr. Veritt, leading Zeth to the bench in the hall. "Tell me, how did you make them come with you?"

  "I told them their pa would be there."

  "But was your purpose wrong, Zeth? Did you intend to harm your friends, or profit at their expense?"

  "... No. I was just scared to come alone," Zeth admitted.