Unto Zeor, Forever

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  Digen had a leaping intuition. “She wants a Farris child as her firstborn?”

  Im’ran started, turning toward Digen. “How did you know?”

  “A lot of women have that dream. Farris men develop an instinct for spotting it. I hadn’t really thought it of her, though. She didn’t strike me as the calculating or ambitious type.” Digen had been propositioned many times, and had been happy to consent on several occasions, but never to those who merely wanted the social status and financial security that came with giving the world a Farris child.

  “She’s not like that,” said Im’ran. “She’s the foolish idealist type. Sometimes she goes without sex so long her proficiency numbers fall into the danger zone and the Controller has to order her to straighten herself out. Since she heard you were coming, she’s been impossible to live with.”

  “I can sympathize,” said Digen. “Even though it’s been a long time since I had a transfer good enough to bring me any sort of sexual sensitivity.”

  Im’ran set his tea aside, taking Digen’s hands. “How long exactly?” he asked in his professional voice, reminding Digen more of the chief resident at the hospital than of a Donor.

  “Oh, a little over two years, I guess. I stopped counting.”

  “Shenshid! Farrises have been known to die of coital deprivation.”

  Digen sighed. “Look, Jesse’s all squared away now. Nothing’s preventing you and me from working up to a really great transfer. Then I’ll have a—talk—with Mora.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  IMRAHAN TRANSFER

  During the next few days, as his transfer approached and Im’ran worked harder and harder to raise Digen’s intil factor—the psychological component of Need—to maximum, Digen managed to get through his duties at the hospital mainly by force of will. Hogan, seeing the mounting strain on Digen would coax him out onto their little private spot of roof to watch the sunset and unwind a bit. He contrived to make a regular little ritual out of it, which Digen found himself anticipating with pleasure.

  The morning of his transfer appointment with Im’ran, Digen arranged to get away from the hospital early. He was too irritable and restless for rounds. Trudging up the hill behind the hospital, he took his usual path, angling from the top of the hill down through a little glade, and along a tree shaded tunnel toward the side door of the Sime Center’s in-Territory collectorium. As he neared the top of the hill, fairly counting the steps to the Sime~Gen Territory border marker, he at first thought his imagination was playing tricks on him. But as he neared the turn in the path at the border he looked up and saw with his eyes that Im’ran was indeed waiting for him.

  The moment Digen stepped past the marker, Im’ran began helping him off with the retainers as he did almost every morning, and Digen knew he wasn’t hallucinating. Laughing, Digen asked, “What are you doing here so early?”

  “Hiding,” said Im’ran succinctly. “Sectuib Asquith left this morning, and Mickland is in a foul mood. He’s taking it out on everyone he comes across.”

  “Ah!” said Digen, understanding. Mickland had been using his best political tact while the Center had the Sectuib of the House of Imil as a guest, but it had been too much of a strain on the man. He resented the way people off-handedly took the orders of any Sectuib. Now that the guest was gone, Mickland was back to normal.

  With the retainers off at last, Digen stretched luxuriously and led the way off the path into their favorite glade. In the dewy shade of the summer morning, Digen knelt beside the brook and buried his arms in the chill water. The cold took the fire out of his swollen glands. Im’ran’s nager had already begun to work its magic on him, and he felt much more relaxed.

  Im’ran went to a satchel he’d brought along, saying, “I’ve got something special this morning.” He brought out an insulated bottle and poured muddy brown liquid into glasses, offering one to Digen. “Try this.”

  Digen took the chilled glass and eyed the brew dubiously. “What is it?”

  “Just taste it.”

  Digen sipped, expecting the usual nausea any food roused in him during Need. But it didn’t taste bad. He shrugged and sat down cross-legged on the grass, leaning against his favorite rock. “Well, what is it?”

  “I’ll tell you after you finish drinking it,” said Im’ran, seating himself beside Digen. “Don’t worry, though, it’s nothing you’re allergic to. I checked that.”

  “Never entered my mind,” said Digen. That it hadn’t, he knew, was a sign of how implicitly he had come to trust Im’ran. And thinking of that trust--”Im’, there’s something you ought to know,” he said. “Yesterday I spoke to Asquith about trading you.”

  Im’ran, lazily contemplating the canopy of leaves, suddenly braced himself alertly. “Did she name her price?”

  Digen nodded. “She said she’d trade you—for my sister Bett.”

  Im’ran jerked to a sitting position, spilling some of his tea. “She’s crazy!”

  Digen shook his head. “She just doesn’t want to trade you.” He measured Im’ran with an impish grin that made the dimple in his chin visible. “Actually, it would be a fair trade—if I could qualify you four-plus with this transfer. Bett’s a four-plus, you know. She’s one of only three Gens in the Tecton who can handle me when I go for my full capacity and speed together.” With a glint in his eye, he added, “Except, maybe, you.”

  Catching sight of the mischievous little boy behind the façade of the Sectuib, Im’ran made an exasperated noise and relaxed. “After all the fuss you made about trading into Imil, you expect me to believe you’d trade your own sister?”

  “I’d have to discuss it with her, of course. But consider—she’s not married yet, and her choices would be wider in Imil. Besides, I’d be getting Mora, too, and with her maybe an heir. Not a bad deal.”

  “Digen! You talk like some Sectuib of a hundred years ago!”

  Putting on a hurt face. Digen said, “You don’t want to be the father of my heir?”

  “Will you be serious!” Im’ran was squirming inwardly, and Digen realized that the Gen was actually feeling threatened in some way. Relenting, Digen said somberly, “I’m only half teasing. You are capable of qualifying. And I’ve always been pretty good at dickering up trades to Zeor’s advantage. But it will be easier for me if you do qualify. Asquith has no earthly use for a four-plus companion.”

  “Digen, I don’t have to qualify four-plus to make this transfer work right. I can control it myself, and…”

  “Maybe, maybe,” said Digen. “I know it’s asking a lot but look, I’ve got to have a real Donor, somebody I can’t possibly hurt no matter what I do—I’ve got to have that soon, Im’, and for me that means qualifying someone. You’re the only one—the only one in the Tecton—I might qualify. I won’t—I refuse to—look outside the Tecton.”

  “I understand,” said Im’ran.

  Im’ran was Digen’s protection against the all too natural obsession with Ilyana that would lead to lortuen, and they both knew it.

  “Im’, you don’t realize how far you’ve come these last few weeks. I’d estimate exposure to me has brought your capacity up to within six per cent of mine; and with this appointment a full twenty-seven hours early for me, I’ll only have to draw about ninety-five percent of my full capacity. That leaves you short a mere one percent—considering what I’ve had to make do with lately, that’s what I’d call perfect. It’s surely close enough so that if you’ll go passive and let me control it fully, I can qualify you and still stop short in time not to hurt you.”

  “I may be close enough in capacity,” said Im’ran, “but I’m slow for you, not anywhere near the three-nine-nine-nine speeds you’re tacitly rated at. And you’re really a four-plus. God alone knows how fast that is!”

  “My point exactly. I have to be so bloodyshen careful not to kill you!”

  “Look, Digen, if I’m controlling the transfer, you won’t have that ‘gotta be so bloodyshen careful’ anxiety to deal with. You’ll get you
r full satisfaction. I know my business.”

  “That you do,” agreed Digen. “But do you really know what it means to be a four-plus Donor?”

  “What it means?” said Im’ran ruefully. “It means underdraw, that’s what it means.”

  Digen shook his head, feeling that he was getting to the root of Im’ran’s apprehensions. “No, Ilyana’s case is pathological. All the four-pluses I know—all three of them—have no overproduction problem, at least not uncontrollable like Ilyana. The real difference with the four-plus Donors is that they actually sense selyn fields. Not like a Sime, of course, but it’s what makes the biggest difference in transfer. They’re not working blind the way you have to. They—participate. Haven’t you ever wondered what transfer is like for us? Wouldn’t you like to share some of that?”

  “Digen, don’t tempt me.” Im’ran’s voice shook.

  Digen laced one ventral tentacle through Im’ran’s fingers and gave a little squeeze. “You want it. I can give it to you—now. How many years do you think it will be before chance brings you another opportunity like this?”

  Biting his lip, Im’ran turned his face away, but his fingers held on to Digen’s tentacle like a lifeline. Digen said, “You don’t have to be frightened. If we try it and then find it’s not working, well, you won’t catch me off guard.”

  “Shen you? After all I’ve done on your intil factor and everything for weeks and weeks? Oh no, Digen, not this time!”

  Digen sighed. There’s always next time. “I’m willing to risk it. I have confidence in you. I’ve qualified enough Donors—I’ve learned to trust my instincts.”

  Im’ran, still trembling with conflict, shook his head. “No, Digen, this is your transfer. My turn will come after I’ve gotten you straightened out.” But there was a dark, bleak thread underlying those words.

  Digen thought he understood. “Go ahead, say it. There might not be a next time. We’re both pledged to the Tecton. We could be sent halfway around the world at five minutes notice. We might never meet again—unless you become one of the three or four people who are matched to me.”

  “Digen, don’t talk like that. You’ll undo all my hard work. You’ve got to believe, really believe, that this is the end of transfer denial for you, or you’ll hold back from commitment just enough to stifle your intil and ruin everything.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Digen. “I’m saying the words, but they have no emotional reality to me at the moment.”

  “They better not have, or we’re sunk. Really sunk.”

  There was a desperation in the Gen’s words that struck through Digen. “Im’, you’re actually worried about this transfer, aren’t you?”

  Im’ran was silent, struggling not to trouble Digen with his emotions.

  “I’m sorry,” said Digen. “I didn’t realize you were so worried about it. Look, I’m not really working in surgery yet. My conditioning isn’t being undermined.”

  “Shen! I’m not afraid of you!”

  “There’s been enough gossip—”

  “Gossip?” said Im’ran, visibly relaxing. “But some people are even talking about how it will be after you’ve succeeded. Why, transfusion alone, of all the Gen surgical techniques, is going to save thousands of lives!” He went on talking about whether decreasing the Sime death rate was really such a marvelous idea during a Donor shortage when the channels could barely cope as it was.

  Digen listened with one ear, satisfied that his little gamble with Thornton’s niece’s life was paying off.

  For the first time since he was ten years old, Digen felt a quickening of real hope. Surgery would be his own unique contribution to realization of the Zeor dream. At the same time, he knew it was terribly grandiose to think like this. He was Sectuib in Zeor by default. He had never even received Zeor in the official ceremony of an heir’s appointment.

  “Though I must say,” Im’ran continued. “as far as I’m concerned, any Gen who’s crazy enough to want to get sliced up can take his chances in a Gen hospital; when it’s my life on the line, I’ll only trust a channel. Statistics prove Gens live longer when tended by Simes.”

  “Ah, but a Sime surgeon?”

  “With all respects, Sectuib—it may be irrational of me—but I’d rather die with my dignity intact and all my cells whole.” He pulled a little silver medallion on a neck chain up out of his shirt. “See? I wear one of these so my final donation will be taken as quickly as possible. Maybe I’m superstitious, but I wouldn’t want a single cell missing from that.”

  Digen nodded his comprehension, thinking, No, it wouldn’t be easy to go against a long-entrenched cultural bias.

  In a lighter tone, but trying not to sound deprecating, Digen said, “I never knew you were religious.”

  “I’m not. At least I don’t think of myself as religious. But there is more to reality than just—this—you know.”

  “My father used to say so. But I kind of lost it after the accident.” Uncomfortable, Digen dropped that line and went back to the main topic. “Well, if you’re not afraid my conditioning has gone to pieces this last week, then what is bothering you? The lateral scar?”

  “There is that,” Im’ran said, “but I think I’ve got the trick of it now. I’ve been working with Hayashi’s training machines.” Digen grimaced and Im’ran said, “No, Digen, really. If Hayashi could get the funding, he could lick this whole Donor shortage business—forever! Those machines are that good.”

  “Machines!” scoffed Digen. “I’ve been training Donors since I finished First Year. There’s a lot more to it than mere mechanics. You ought to know that.”

  Im’ran said, poking a little fun at Digen, “True, but if I’d used you for practice, it would have taken so much of your time that you wouldn’t have been able to run two Sime Center departments—or play doctor on the side. Now, just a second ago, you were all for medical progress, and when Hayashi hands it to you all packaged and shiny, you go ‘back to nature.’ “

  Chagrined, Digen laughed. “All right, you win that round. But truly, Im’, supplemental practice is one thing—actually training new Donors is something else.”

  “I admit he doesn’t have all the theory yet—but he’s such a genius!” He eyed Digen closely. “You don’t think much of him, do you?”

  “Hayashi? I think about him a lot,” said Digen evasively. “Especially now that I’ve met him.” Looking back over his first weeks in Westfield, Digen realized it was true. Hayashi somehow seemed to be a focal point, constantly bringing up thoughts of his parents, of Wyner and Nigel and Vira—and even Bett, the only other survivor of his family. It had been years since he’d thought of them all so frequently. Now, suddenly, their presence seemed to shadow everything that was happening.

  With a shiver, Digen took another sip of his drink and, looking to change the subject, said, “What’s in this stuff anyway?”

  “Oh, just half trin tea, half citrus juice—orange, lemon, grapefruit, pilah.”

  Digen held the glass out in one tentacle and curled a lip at it.

  “Come on, drink it down. It doesn’t taste as bad as it sounds, does it?”

  “I think I’ll just pass on this one,” said Digen, putting the glass down.

  “It’s an old family recipe,” argued Im’ran. “The theory is to balance your electrolytes before transfer to help prevent primary abort. Or,” he said, raising one eyebrow, “would you prefer it—intravenously!” Im’ran curled his tongue around the foreign word with a certain pride, savoring Digen’s reaction. Then he added piously, “I’ve been saving that one.”

  Digen picked up the glass. “With me, threats will get you everywhere.” Holding his nose with two tentacles, he knocked back the remaining tea in three huge gulps. Then he juggled the glass back and forth between his tentacles, spinning it high into the air. “See, not a drop left. Satisfied?”

  As he juggled, Digen kept his eyes on Im’ran rather than on the spinning glass. For several seconds Im’ran managed to hold a straig
ht face, and then gradually it cracked like a mask into a thousand pieces. Before Digen relented, he had the Gen rolling on the ground, holding his sides with laughter. Straight-faced, Digen said, “I fail to see what’s so funny about practicing my First Year coordination exercises. One must keep these things up, you know.” Then Digen cracked up, lying down to laugh beside the Gen because it just felt so good. And, he realized, the tea had made him feel better.

  After a while they laughed themselves out and lay silently gazing at the canopy of leaves. In the distance, somebody began playing a shiltpron—a Sime-invented musical instrument—but only in its audible range without any selyn field modulation. Seeking to identify the bittersweet melody, Digen imagined the selyn field modulations that would harmonize. He remembered hearing the song once, at a Simes-only party where they had all gotten drunk on shiltpron music and Householding nostalgia. “Pledge to My House and Marry Me,” yes that was the title, written hundreds of years ago, anonymously, by a Sime and a Gen. It had that kind of blended vitality that marked out Householding art, Sime and Gen united. Fully modulated, it could shake your teeth loose with raw emotion.

  When the music had died away, Im’ran said, “Really, Digen, you don’t do Hayashi justice. He keeps the Zeor disciplines. And he’s so—lonely. Couldn’t you—”

  “Im’,” said Digen, sitting up, “if you’re going to pledge Zeor, you’ve got to realize that we are still, in many ways—well, conservative. No, the Sectuib doesn’t have a lot of duties or power left. Not externally, anyhow. But the Sectuib is a symbol—a symbol of the House and everything it stands for. Hayashi disobeyed my father and thus rejected the House and everything it stands for. And so he’s excluded from Zeor—and, by tradition, from every other House.”

  Digen sensed Im’ran’s cold shudder and added impatiently, “It’s not as if we’d condemned him to go junct or live in isolation like in the old days. He’s got the Tecton—”

  “Digen, do you really think it’s the same? How would you feel—without Zeor?”