Perhaps Zhag sensed the music in his field...Tonyo took heart when a small smile touched the corners of Zhag’s mouth.
He slid his hands forward, aligning their arms in transfer position. Zhag’s tentacles lay under the skin along his forearms, sheaths visible because he had almost no flesh to hide them. But they did not emerge from the wrist openings, nor did his hands grip Tonyo’s forearms.
Tonyo felt for the tentacle roots. Where was the reflex point—?
He pressed gently around the root of each tentacle. The handling tentacles emerged and wrapped around his arms, but the laterals remained stubbornly sheathed. It seemed cruel to heighten Zhag’s need—worse, he’d been told, than any Gen hunger—but he was there to assuage it. Zhag should feel something like the pleasure of hunger just before a good meal.
Tonyo conjured up his hunger of an hour ago, along with the music that always drew Zhag’s laterals forth. In his mind he played the sad and difficult songs that demanded all of Zhag’s virtuosity...the songs of need.
The small, sensitive laterals licked out of their sheaths and settled on Tonyo’s arms. He smiled. Now—let’s do this!
Zhag’s eyes opened, at first unfocused, then fixed on Tonyo. All his effort could not take his voice above a whisper. “Tonyo—no!” Weakly, he tried to pull his arms away—but his tentacles remained seated.
“Shut up, Zhag,” Tonyo told him. “Just feel it!”
He ignored the protest in Zhag’s eyes, his feeble attempts to escape, keeping the Sime under control by sheer power of will. Something inside him erupted with anticipation. This is even better than our music! it told him, and he leaned forward to touch his lips to Zhag’s.
It was not a kiss. Twice Tonyo had performed this act with Tecton channels, an impersonal touch that completed the circuit for the transfer of selyn. In those transactions he had felt nothing except vague disappointment. With Zhag he felt hope and exhilaration.
When need turned him inside-out, he rode the music like an ocean wave. He was pure energy, blissfully pouring life and warmth into the welcoming void. It was perfect harmony, exact counterpoint—a peak of pleasure, another, and then—what—? Poignant ebb— No! Not enough!
He struggled, needing more, denying that need in crashing discord.
What more could there possibly be?!
He caught the panting, terrified Gen in a woodland clearing. Need clawed at his vitals—need for the fear of the Gen writhing and screaming under his tentacles. He pulled it to him, glorying in anticipation of the kill.
He pressed his lips roughly to the Gen’s whimpering mouth. Terror sang through his nerves—pain—sweet death agony burned away his need. Giddy with satisfaction, he let the husk of the dead Gen drop carelessly from his hands and tentacles....
He was alive!
* * * *
Warm hands loosed their grip on Zhag’s arms and fell away. A head rested heavily against his neck. Fresh, clean, soap scent filled his nostrils. He was brimming with life, but—
His vision was obscured by fallen sunlight. It took a moment to recognize Tonyo’s blond hair—he never looked at the boy, always consumed in his golden nager. But now...nothing.
The door opened. Thea and the Sectuib in Carre entered—and stopped so abruptly that Janine, behind them, almost ran into the two Simes.
Tonyo raised his head, blue eyes wide with awe.
“You’re alive!” Zhag gasped.
The Gen grinned. “I’ve never been so alive!”
Carre’s Sectuib stepped forward, laterals extended. “What the shidoni-doomed shen happened here?”
Zhag was too busy taking stock of himself to answer. His pain was gone, along with his need. He had a sense of well-being so alien he couldn’t respond to it. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, and...he couldn’t zlin.
“Tonyo—what have you done to me?” he asked. “I haven’t felt like this since—”
“The last time you killed?” Tonyo asked. “You can say it, Zhag. You don’t ever have to do it again.”
But that wasn’t it. As Zhag changed focus to the trio on the other side of the room, a wave of vertigo swept over him.
“What’s wrong?” Tonyo gasped.
“Nothing serious,” said the Sectuib, zlinning them. He shook his head. “God protects fools and children.”
“Zhag’s alive!” Tonyo protested. “That’s more than you could promise.”
“Tonyo!” Zhag put a hand on the boy’s arm...and felt his ability to zlin return as he sensed the pulse-pulse-pulse of selyn production. He had been wrong—Tonyo was storing far less selyn than before their transfer, but his field was no less vital. He would be able to perform tonight.
“Thea,” the Sectuib was saying, “zlin this. You will probably never see anything like it again.”
“What’s wrong with Zhag?” Tonyo asked anxiously.
A chuckle escaped the channel’s attempt to be stern. “You burned him!” he told the Gen.
“...what?” Tonyo and Zhag spoke at once, then looked at one another.
“How could a Gen burn a Sime?” Zhag asked in confusion.
“Tonyo is what the juncts call a Giant Killer Gen,” the Sectuib explained.
“I know,” Zhag said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t allow him to work around the juncts at Milily’s.”
“Here we call them Natural Donors—Gens who instinctively control transfer. Being in control eliminates fear. Of course, they still require training,” he added with a sharp glance at Tonyo, “because they can harm Simes.”
“Zhag needed pain,” said Tonyo. “I...felt it.”
“I don’t doubt it,” the Sectuib replied. “But next time deliver something like your pain when the whip cut you today.”
Tonyo blushed. “Oh. Zhag, I’m sorry. I’ll learn to do it right.”
“It couldn’t have been more right,” Zhag told him.
“Tonyo,” said the Sectuib, “you know that, as a channel, Zhag has a dual selyn system?”
“Yes.”
“You filled his primary and secondary systems, and when he wasn’t satisfied, you forced more selyn into his primary system against his resistance. It’s only a slight burn—and Zhag, you feel strange because your fields have never been unbalanced in this particular way.”
Zhag’s secondary system, which Tecton channels used to provide transfer and he used to play the shiltpron, often contained more selyn than his primary system, which stored selyn for daily living. He couldn’t remember ever having it unbalanced in the other direction. “Tonyo, I can correct the imbalance if you’ll let me touch you again.”
Immediately, his Gen reached out to him. Zhag settled his tentacles, laid his head on Tonyo’s shoulder, and let the two systems level. The movement of energy erased the effects of the burn, and Zhag felt even better.
Had he ever felt this good in his life? He wanted to run, to dance, to play his shiltpron—but first, “I’m hungry!” he announced in astonishment.
Tonyo laughed. “Let’s go to the refectory—I was too worried to eat much earlier.”
“I’ll have to have an accounting first,” the Sectuib said, and Zhag’s good cheer disappeared. Numbly, he submitted to deep contact, unsurprised to hear that he had received more selyn than last month. “You’re still in the same category,” the channel reassured him.
“Yeah—but early,” he grumbled. He counted out the carefully hoarded coins while Janine made notes. The Sectuib deducted the collection fee, and held out the rest to Tonyo.
The boy made no move to take it.
“You were paid for your donations, Tonyo,” said Thea.
“I can’t take money for what Zhag and I just did. I’d feel like a whore!”
“Take it,” said Zhag. “You can eat for the next month.”
Tonyo frowned. “Can’t we have a private arrangement, with no money changing hands?”
The Sectuib explained, “The government will collect Zhag’s taxes, no matter what. We never used to do accou
nting inside the Householdings—I’ve got couples who’ve been transfer partners for years. But the new laws apply to everyone.”
Tonyo reluctantly accepted the money, but did not put it away. “It’s your money,” he said to Zhag.
“You earned it, Tonyo.”
“Zhag, it’s not right. We did it together—the way we play music together. At least take half.”
“Shen it!” Zhag snapped. “I’m beholden to you for my life! Isn’t that enough?”
Thea said, “Zhag! That’s post-syndrome talking.”
Zhag felt guilty at the boy’s crestfallen look—but he also felt the anger, along with a hundred other emotions he had been incapable of expressing for nearly two years.
But Tonyo was in the grip of Gen post-syndrome, unable to feel bad for more than a moment. “Zhag,” he said, “I know it bothers you to need me to stay alive...but isn’t it more important that you don’t need me to keep you from killing?”
At the boy’s words—he felt it: no more doubt or questioning! The most important thing was completely in his own control. Zhag’s mood flipped back to exhilaration, carrying him even higher than he had been a moment ago. Tonyo grinned—and Zhag realized it was in response to his own expression.
And when he thought his mood could not go any higher, Janine held out the receipt form for Tonyo to sign...and he saw the boy write “Tonyo Logan.” The Simelan version of his name. He’s going to stay! And Tonyo looked up at him as if he felt and shared the overwhelming emotion it caused in Zhag.
The Sectuib left Thea and Janine to explain to Tonyo what to do as Zhag’s pent-up feelings surfaced.
“I know what Zhag requires,” said Tonyo. “He’ll work it off on stage tonight.” He turned a charming smile on Thea. “Why don’t you and Janine come to the performance?”
Zhag expected an automatic refusal—Householders did not frequent shiltpron parlors—but to his surprise Thea said, “I can’t promise...but I’d love to see you perform.”
After a stop at Carre’s refectory, where Zhag actually enjoyed eating, they started walking home. Zhag had had to conserve energy for so long, had been so weak, that he wanted to run—almost felt he could fly. As his steps speeded, Tonyo scurried to keep up. “We have time to get there,” the Gen protested. “We don’t go on for nearly two hours.”
“I’m ready to play right now,” Zhag told him. And just because he could, he turned cartwheels down the street, then backflipped back to his Gen.
Tonyo laughed delightedly. “Are you gonna do that on stage tonight?”
“Maybe. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”
Tonyo watched him with a puzzled look. Out of the blue, he asked, “Zhag...how old are you?”
“Six,” the musician replied.
“Oh. Well, how old were you when you changed over?”
Out-Territory Gens figured age from birth, Zhag remembered. “Almost fifteen.”
Tonyo was wide-eyed. “I thought you were at least my dad’s age. You’re only four years older than I am!”
Zhag laughed at his astonishment. “I feel like a child—as if I didn’t even know the kill existed.”
Tonyo pondered for a moment. Then, very seriously, he said, “That’s because you gave it to me.”
“Gave what to you?”
“The kill,” Tonyo replied. “During transfer. Thea said you’d shen out if you felt killmode, so I guess you made me feel it instead. Was that your First Kill?”
“Tonyo, what are you talking about?”
The young Gen frowned. “I was Sime,” he said, “chasing a Gen through the woods. I caught it...and I...killed it.”
Zhag zlinned Tonyo’s emotions, the rush of anticipation, the glee at his victim’s terror, the bliss of the kill....
“Shen,” he whispered. “Tonyo, you can’t know those feelings!”
“I got them from you.”
Zhag shook his head. “I’ve never hunted. All my kills were...regulated.” A chill ran up his spine. “It doesn’t matter,” he decided, not wanting to know how a Gen could get such a feel for Sime experience. “It was what you...needed...to be able to give me that transfer. Lucky for me you have a vivid imagination, yes?”
Tonyo nodded, accepting. How long would he continue to accept Zhag’s word, especially when the Sime had no idea what he was talking about?
“Come on!” said Zhag, as they entered a lane overhung with ancient oaks. He caught a branch, and swung from one tree to another. When he hung upside down by his knees from the last one, he finally got the laughter he wanted from his Gen.
“You’re not even out of breath,” said Tonyo. “I could use some of that Sime energy for singing.”
“You sing just fine.” Zhag chuckled, landing on his feet beside the Gen. “Tonight I’ll be able to hear you without working at it. I hope Thea can come.”
“So do I,” said Tonyo.
“You think she’s after you, like all the others?”
“Not Thea!” Tonyo protested. “Can’t you tell she’s in love with you? I knew it the minute I saw you together.”
The Gen’s words made Zhag feel warm. The ravages of disjunction might not be erased with one good transfer, but—
Suddenly, his mind and heart were flooded with melody. Tonyo’s field responded in harmony, and Zhag laughed in pure joy. They were about to create something unique—something he could never have composed alone. “Come on, Tonyo!” he urged, eager to have his instrument in his hands. “We have a new song to finish before showtime!”
BEST-LAID PLANS, by William Maltese
Their blood—a bit from each—was dripped into a mess-kit cup, where it was stirred by Clan Anima Tasilium Max’s dagger, and ceremonially finger-dabbed to all their foreheads. None of which was part of any pre-suicide-mission ritual, although those outside the Bonded Brotherhood likely might well have thought so. Rather, it was a Delta-Zeta rite, in prelude to the Bonded Brotherhood literally going underground. The battle for Castle Dunsmire, and dominance in the Cankintic War, would be won or lost in the Tunnel, Communications Cavern, and Stony Honeycomb.
The original plan of the attackers to exploit a weakness in the defenses of the Castle’s outer East Wall had been traitor-relayed to the Castle Generals, who had plugged it with men reassigned from duty within the Tunnel, Cavern, and Stony Honeycomb.
Turnabout’s fair play: Castle Dunsmire had had its own share of in-resident betrayers, one of whom had leaked, for a price, that the Castle was now possibly vulnerable via the not-manned-as-before Tunnel, Cavern, Communications Cavern, and Stony Honeycomb.
Lesser men, on both sides, having, thus, succumbed to traitorous temptation, it was now the time for men of stronger metal, those of the Bonded Brotherhood, no matter the required sacrifices, to save the day for their side, as their fellow “brothers” had done at the historic battles of Elixir Rey, Dynamo Maul, and Grindon Falls.
To take advantage, the besiegers, firstly, needed successfully to bypass the defenders still left within the Tunnel, who were deemed by the Castle Dunsmire Generals sufficiently capable of defending it; after all, only a hundred men had defended the Pass at Galinopole, and it was over two miles across. More importantly, the Bonded Brotherhood had to silence any Cavern Communicators before even one could warn the Castle Generals of the attacking army’s change in strategy. At least one Tunnel guard would physically have to enter the Communications Cavern to provide warning that the Bonded Brotherhood was coming, because nowhere within the natural bedrock was communication possible except via the Cavern’s High Peephole, that provided the required straight-line visual to the outside necessary for a successful relay of information to the men within the Castle Command Turret. The bedrock itself was impervious to any known communication wave, shovel, drill-bit, explosive, pick, sledge hammer, file, rasp, grinder, or acid. That there was even the Tunnel, Communications Cavern, and Stony Honeycomb, with the latter’s various entrances up and into the Castle complex, was only because some early-in-time and st
ill-unknown Force of Nature, or of early man, had pooled the high plateau with some viably corrosive something that had sieve-like seeped into the bedrock upon which the Castle was later built, to form a single subterranean pool (now the Communications Cavern), finally exiting, via one long and winding flow-out (the now-existent Tunnel).
At least, there was no need for the invaders to fear hidden doors or concealo-panels. There was no way to attach them to the stone. No known glue adhered to the rock.
At one time or another, plugs of various materials had been attempted by way of artificial corkage, but all such attempts quickly disengaged and decomposed. Rumor had it that if a man stood for too long in one place within the underground complex, he, too, would dissolve and flow away.
Not to reason why, but to do or die, Bonded-Brotherhood soldier/lovers Grav and Lynx died first and second in the run of the Tunnel. Their eventually as-fatally-wounded-as-they killer had hidden within one of the Tunnel’s dead-end off-shoots (all the Tunnel off-shoots were dead-ends) as the lovers walked by. Bonded-Brotherhood soldier/lovers Emer and Fox died third and fourth, but not before Emer heart-stabbed the assassin, who was made vulnerable by having wielded his deadly, but too-large, shabarna in too-close quarters….
Tyrone followed his bond-mate and soldier/lover, Wolf, in their crawl over the dead Grav and Lynx (and the dead enemy)…walk over the dead Emer and Fox (and the dead enemy)…plus squeeze by the dead Sard and Bull (and the dead enemy)…and wade through the dead Garn and Stot (and the dead enemy).
For so much carnage within the Tunnel, there was little audible evidence of it—before, during, or after; sounds were no more able to penetrate the rock than anything else could.
Tyrone followed Wolf’s clear-a-pathway jalin-sword cuts through the dead Sandy and Leo (but no dead enemy).
“One of the assassins likely survived here, and is even now headed for the Communications Cavern!” Wolf warned over his shoulder to his soldier/lover (and to anyone else on his side near enough to hear). Hurriedly, he headed off; Tyrone grabbed for, and hand-hooked, his soldier/lover’s belt, and, with sword in his other hand, followed along.
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