Channel's Destiny s-5

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  Zeth watched Bron's nager with interest. His adjustment hardly seemed as radical as Zeth's when he'd first learned the dire secret. Bron began to ask searching, technical questions that Abel, the channels, and the Companions stretched their English to answer, for many of the words had just been invented in the last nine years, and they were all in Simelan.

  Bron ran out of strength and shook his head wearily. "One thing is clear. Mountain Chapel must have people who can prevent a child from killing at changeover."

  "I'm sure we'll find volunteers among our Gens," said Abel. "I wish we could send a channel, but a Sime on your side of the border—"

  "Would bring down on us the same sort of raids you have been suffering," Bron agreed. "I must learn—and teach all my people—to give transfer."

  "No!" It was a chorus from everyone else in the room.

  Astonishment rang in Bron's field. He appealed to the Companions, "Hank—Owen—do you think yourselves better men than I am?"

  "That's not it," said Uel. "It's not something you can do just because you want to!"

  "Don't be dumb, Uel," said Hank. "That's exactly why I was able to do it for you—or are you getting so old you can't remember your changeover?"

  "There's wanting, and then there's wanting," Uel muttered.

  Bron smiled. "I know the difference. Owen—when Zeth was in changeover, didn't you say that you would not let him kill you? I have much to learn before I can be so confident. So I must start now. Abel—" Bron's eager smile turned him into a different man from the dour minister Zeth had first met. "Abel, if you refuse to kill—surely you will allow me the right to refuse to die?"

  Fort Freedom also refused to die. Slina's emergency Gen shipment—technically top government priority after a raid– was delayed first by bureaucratic fumbling, and then by the weather, as the first snow filled the mountain passes. On the heels of the storm, however, the tax collector made her rounds—nothing ever seemed to stop her. Slina sneered, indicating the empty spot where the pens had stood—but managed to get Fort Freedom into a fine fix, as the inspector insisted on a house-by-house search. And Fort Freedom was full of out-Territory–untagged—Gens.

  There were still a few wounded Gens who could not make the long journey home, and that same break in the weather had brought a caravan from Mountain Chapel, headed by Sessly Bron. Swearing balefully in two languages, Slina hurriedly made out papers and tags for all their guests, Zeth and Owen running them around to the various houses as Uel and Abel delayed the inspector lest she find a "Wild Gen" to confiscate.

  The inspector became more and more nervous, until at last

  she skipped the last four houses and rode away at a full gallop.

  It would have been hilarious except for the tax bill she did not forget to present. "I know what spooked her," said Wik. "Gens doing real, useful work!"

  Zeth sobered. "As long as it doesn't add to the wer-Gen legends!"

  That evening, Maddok and Sessly Bron were sitting at the Veritt kitchen table along with Zeth, Owen, Abel, and Margid. Bron fingered the papers he had been given that afternoon, unable to read the Simelan. "Zeth tells me this paper says you own Sessly and me, Abel."

  "A technicality. For tax purposes, I am the owner of all the Gens who live in Fort Freedom. Which reminds me– Owen, give me your papers." In the "assigned to" box, under Slina's scrawl, he wrote Zeth's name, and signed it. "I should have done that as soon as you two got back. Now you're all set, wherever you might go together."

  Zeth looked at it and laughed. "Most of the time Owen acts more like he owns me!"

  Just as he said it, a strange feeling came over him—like stepping on a step that wasn't there. Only it went on and on. Owen, turning to retort to his joke, never got the words out. "Zeth—what's wrong?"

  When Zeth couldn't answer, Abel said, "It's just turnover. Support him, Owen. The first time can be rough."

  Turnover. Zeth had used up half the selyn in his system– the first step down again into the chasm of need. Owen put his arm around Zeth's shoulder, an unspoken promise.

  Zeth took two deep breaths, and summoned a brave smile as the room came back into focus. He could certainly manage as well as any other Sime. But then a new sensation spread from his chest into his arms in sharp cramps. One wave of pain followed another, each more severe than the last. Surely turnover isn't always like this!

  But Abel was on his feet. "Get Jord or Uel!" he directed, and Margid ran out as her husband knelt beside Zeth and Owen. "Jord has such cramps," he said. "Rimon's had them since his injury—but what could be causing them in you, Zeth? No, son, it's not normal turnover."

  "Maybe if you balance your fields—" Owen suggested. The two boys were facing one another when Jord arrived.

  Zlinning them, he said, "That's right, Owen—let him rest

  on your field, but don't let him draw. Zeth, healing mode. Then—oh, shen!" He looked around. "I have to have a Gen to demonstrate."

  "Can I do it?" Maddok Bron asked instantly.

  "Maddok!" gasped his sister, flaring fear.

  "You wanted to learn, Sessly. So do I. If you can't control yourself, you'd better leave. Jord, can I do it?"

  "Come on, then," said Jord. "I can't hurt you, doing this."

  Bron stood, his wound giving a twinge of pain, but in a moment he found a comfortable stance and faced Jord, fighting apprehension as the channel held out his hands. "I'll have to touch you in transfer position," said Jord. "No matter how frightened you are, there will be no selyn flow. Owen has to be perfectly steady for Zeth, but I'm not in pain or need. I'm just demonstrating."

  The Gen put his hands on Jord's arms, tensing as the handling tentacles lashed them together. When the hot, moist laterals touched him, Bron's field took on the same state Abel's did in prayer.

  "Zeth," said Jord, "move selyn from your primary system to your secondary, and back again. Keep it up until the pain stops. Like this." There was a start from Sessly Bron when Jord's lips touched her brother's, but Maddok Bron held as steady as Owen. Zeth saw immediately how it was done, and took Owen into their transfer position. Instant relief poured through Zeth's ravaged nerves. It felt good—like a massage to his nervous system—but he was too curious to know what had caused the cramping to do more than relieve the spasms, and then return his primary system to normal.

  "Thanks, Owen," he said, and turned to Jord, finding him and Bron side by side, watching him clinically. "Jord, Abel said you've had cramps, and Dad. What caused it?"

  Jord moved in to zlin Zeth carefully. "When I'm so sick I can't work," he said, "I get cramps. Now Rimon is so sick he can't work. We've assumed the cramps were part of the sickness, but you're perfectly healthy. ..."

  "He's never worked," said Owen, "not counting the fields."

  "True, but Zeth—when you took first transfer, did it seem to come in two distinct parts?"

  "Yes!" said Zeth and Owen in chorus.

  "I'll bet you started using your secondary system then," said Jord. "It's been exercised, then immobilized."

  "Like muscle spasms," Bron observed. "When a man works hard every day, and then cannot work—"

  "Exactly!" said Jord. Then, after a pause, "I think."

  So Zeth began daily exercise so his system would not go into spasms again, beginning with lessons in drawing selyn and transferring. That experience, though, he would not be allowed to tackle until after his second transfer.

  With Rimon still a patient rather than a colleague, the channels' schedule was hectic, but at least there were no other cases requiring constant attention. Slina was rebuilding her pens as fast as the weather would permit, but she could not get enough replacement Gens to allow kills in any but the most extreme emergency.

  The Simes from town understood—but most could not face channel's transfer. First the ones without family drifted away . . . and then one morning, six crying children were discovered in one of the houses assigned to the families from town. In the night, the adults had gone.

&nbs
p; Abel told the children, "Your parents had to go away, but they loved you so much that they left you here, where you can grow up without worrying whether you'll be Sime or Gen."

  Zeth, deep in the gloom of approaching need, thought cynically, The kids were too much bother to take along in hard times and bad weather. So they abandoned them. He thought of Jimmy Norton, hardly daring to hope his father wanted him back. Zeth had just begun to realize how lucky he was to be the first child born to a Sime and a Gen.

  But Fort Freedom loved all children. By nightfall, Margid Veritt had placed all six where they would truly be loved.

  That night Zeth fell into a fitful slumber, and dreamed he was a child again, abandoned by his parents. He knew they were out at the Old Homestead—only he couldn't find it.

  Then he saw them. His mother, her flaming hair a halo, her field a shining glory. His father, pale, in need, holding out his arms, tentacles extended, pleading. She moved toward him, graceful, unafraid—but as she touched him, flame leaped, devouring Rimon! Zeth screamed as his father's form blazed. Kadi dropped Rimon, and turned toward Zeth, beckoning—

  Heart pounding, he sat up to hug his knees and convince himself it was only a dream. In the other bed, Owen murmured in his sleep, and Zeth zlinned fading anxiety in his friend's field. The uncanny way the Companions responded

  to Sime emotions, when they had no sense organs to tell them, disturbed him. Even Bron was starting to do it—gleefully, it seemed. Owen and Hank and Trina and the others cared for the channels, but something in Bron's field seemed threatening.

  He lay back, hands clasped under his head, massaging his temples with ventral tentacles as. he puzzled over exactly what he saw in Bron's field. Pity. Bron didn't hate Simes or want to hurt them ... he pitied them. That emotion never entered the fields of the Companions—certainly never Owen's. The Gen was deeply asleep again. Zeth let himself be drawn into sleep once more—and drifted into another dream.

  This time it was pleasant. Zeth and Owen were riding in the beautiful hills near Owen's home, carefree children, racing their horses and laughing together. Then, in the way dreams have, without transition, they were walking instead of riding, and Zeth was in changeover. The tentacles grew swiftly along his arms, emerging without effort, plunging him into deep need. Owen's nager was sweet with welcome; his hands held Zeth, steadied him—he could feel warmth along his nerves as Owen held him with both hands ... both hands!

  The realization screeched up Zeth's spine in a jolt of terror. Dream merged with reality as ,he woke up screaming, the real Owen before him as the dream Owen had been—

  "No! No!" he cried, fighting Owen off as his friend woke up enough to stop trying to restrain Zeth physically and use his field to soothe and calm.

  As the terror abated, Zeth felt his Companion's arm—one arm—holding him steady. "It's only a dream, Zeth," Owen said. "It's not real. You're safe. Want to tell me about it?"

  Another shudder rippled through Zeth as he remembered his abject terror at the feel of Owen's hands on his arms.

  "To tell a dream makes it go away, remember?"

  "You were giving me transfer—but you had both arms. I could feel both your hands on me. I don't know why I was so scared, Owen."

  Lightly, Owen said, "Well, I always have both arms in my dreams, too." But Zeth didn't laugh, so he added, "You're not letting yourself be affected by superstition?"

  Slina, after managing to accept transfer from Jord, had headed off to collect on long-owed favors, in the form of Gens. She returned full of stories. The tax collector had spread new rumors all along her route. It was true that the Simes of Fort Freedom could turn Simes into Gens. Hadn't

  the Freehand Raiders killed off most of their pen Gens? But hadn't the tax assessor found the place full of Gens? Not pen Gens, but conscious people, helping to repair the destruction wrought by the Raiders. Who could such Gens be, but some of the Simes of Fort Freedom turned Gen so they not only would not need to kill, but could provide selyn for the other Simes?

  "Do you really think I'm a wer-Gen, Zeth? That I can change my shape, grow another arm at will?" But no matter how Owen tried, he could not coax a smile out of Zeth.

  As his second transfer approached, Zeth spent much time at Rimon's bedside, trying to get his father interested in teaching him channeling. But Rimon had no interest in anything, responding even to Zeth or Abel with empty politeness. His burns were not healing; his body had no strength. The channels let him get deep into hard need before they let him take transfer from Hank. Instinct drove him; he drew swiftly enough to give Hank a nerve-burn—but then he closed off before transfer was complete, rejecting Hank and all the other Companions.

  And Rimon was no better, the channels talking fearfully of his not feeling pain.

  Abel came every day, trying to get Rimon to show some interest. Then he'd pray—and Zeth would zlin once more that dark cloud in his nager. Uel blamed himself when his transfer with Abel did not go well.

  Hank said, "I think Abel's approaching crisis again—not next month, but maybe the month after." Zeth caught the implied warning: I’llbe there for you next time, but be prepared to do without me when Abel needs me.

  Zeth began to feel panic anytime Owen was distant enough that he had to zlin for him, and he shivered when he thought that eventually, he, too, would have to do without his Companion occasionally. As Abel went about his business, Zeth marveled at the old man's strength of will. Now Zeth could zlin how frail Abel was, his system precariously balanced– yet his will power gave him twice the energy of anyone else in Fort Freedom. Jord had once said his father lived as much on faith as on selyn; Zeth could now believe it.

  Abel's faith, though, was currently facing a test: Maddok Bron's latest revelation.

  "We've been partly right all along," he told Abel excitedly one evening. "There is a demon threatening each new

  Sime, but the Sime is not a demon. Over many generations the words of the Holy Book have been distorted. We say that the sins of the parents are visited upon the child. Misinterpretation. If a Gen parent were simply to give transfer to his Sime child at changeover, the demon would be driven away."

  "For a month," said Owen. "It's a natural cycle, not demonic possession."

  "Owen," said Bron, "were you not raised in the Church of the Purity?"

  "Abel's church here, yes. Not what you teach. I believe in God—probably more than a lot of out-Territory Gens."

  "God doesn't punish us for ignorance. You were in a state of grace when you brought Zeth through changeover."

  "I wasn't afraid."

  "Exactly," said Bron. "God was with you, Owen—but you're not going to claim that if you had not been there, Zeth could have kept himself from killing?''

  "Perhaps he could have," Abel put in. "Maddok, I witnessed Uel Whelan's changeover. We didn't know about channels, then. Uel thought his only choice was to kill or to die–and he was prepared to die, until Hank persuaded him that he could give him transfer. And did."

  "Yes," Bron agreed. "Your Companions. If every Gen were a Companion, the channels could devote themselves to healing."

  "There are too many," said Owen, "who can't learn to give transfer."

  Bron answered, "That is why God called me to Fort Freedom, made me stay to be healed, to see what you have done here—and what I must do for you."

  "Pride, Maddok," Abel said softly.

  "I am but a vessel for God's will," Bron replied. "All the time I've been here, all I've heard is 'since Rimon came,' but you have said yourself that it was Kadi Farris who kept him from killing. A Gen started you on the road away from the kill. Gens keep your channels from killing even now."

  "The situation is equitable," Abel replied. "The Companions care for the channels, and the channels for the rest of us."

  "True, but you are overlooking the one fact that will explain your failure to disjunct."

  Abel was pale, his nager tight against the guilt he refused

  to let cloud his judgment. "Tel
l us this truth you think you have discovered."

  "Abel, you are a good man, strong in faith. I can no longer believe that you are a demon because you're Sime. But every month you enter a state during which a demon may possess you—and will, if there is no one to prevent it. Once a Sime has been possessed, the weakness is there forever."

  "It can be overcome," said Abel. "Rimon disjuncted. Dozens of others have done it—Simes who no longer feel the desire to kill—to kill, as opposed to the need for selyn, Maddok. I don't know if it's possible to explain to a Gen—"

  "If he ever once gives transfer," said Owen, "he'll understand. Perhaps the compulsion is not so strong in a Gen, but the desire is."

  "You add to my evidence, Owen," said Bron. "If it were not natural for Gens to provide transfer for Simes, those who do so would not feel it to be the privilege your Companions speak of. I pray that God grant me that privilege."

  "Your prayers will be easily granted," said Abel. "I zlin the mark of the Companion in your field, Maddok. Zeth?"

  "Yes," said Zeth, "but don't encourage him yet. Maddok, most of your selyn production is going to heal your wound. You're not back to full capacity, because your field is still increasing– Oh!" Zeth suddenly realized that he was observing something he had only heard about before.

  But Maddok Bron had been studying. "My field is increasing through proximity to Simes who have need of my selyn. That is also God's will. Abel, Gens are not granted this capacity so they can selfishly refuse to use it. You cannot drive out the demon alone—but a Gen in a state of grace—"

  "Maddok, if you preach any such thing to your congregation, you will be as much a killer as any Freehand Raider," Abel said firmly. "Do you want to be responsible for a parent's being killed by his own child, trying to prove he is in a state of grace?"

  "It is the test," Bron answered with equal conviction. "No one should be required to attempt it. Doubt is a good reason not to. But I have no doubts. I shall prove the truth of my discovery when I free you of possession."