Unto Zeor, Forever

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  The spring holidays came with the first rains of the season, and the whole city got decked out for the celebrations. Ditana Amanso’s second surgery was scheduled for just after the holidays, and Digen had not yet found a way out of Mickland’s injunction. But he was determined that somehow he was going to scrub on that case, if no other. He also knew there was no way he could survive another surgical procedure on such a Donor without somebody like Im’ran to back him up. He was now convinced that with a good Donor working at hand, surgery would be easy.

  As Digen wrestled with all this, the whole city, in- and out-Territory, laid plans for the celebration of Faith Day, commemorating the first true act of trust between Sime and Gen.

  Historically, Klyd Farris, then Sectuib in Zeor, had led the combined in- and out-Territory Sime and Gen armies against the last and biggest of the roving bands of Sime raiders who preyed on Gens. They had laid winter siege to the town the raiders had occupied, and, at spring thaw, the combined Sime and Gen armies were just about beaten. Then Klyd Farris had given to the Gen army all the food his army of Simes had on hand, in an act of faith that the Gens would support them with selyn donations. The Gens did, and the Gen Territories were rid of the worst menace they had ever faced.

  Every year Faith Day was celebrated, with the Simes giving gifts to the Gens, and vast numbers of once-a-year General Order Donors descending on the Sime Center until, on Faith Day itself, a full holiday was declared, the householdings in formal conclave, families gathering from all parts, and the spring season was joyfully launched.

  It was the emotional peak of the year, with brotherhood keynoted throughout the land, and all Digen’s most cherished ideals were given public expression—even if only once-a-year lip service.

  Digen had looked forward to the day, the first time in four years he’d be able to preside in Zeor. But just as in medical school, he’d been listed as on duty for the holiday and so could not travel to the local Zeor gathering point. Digen was left alone on the holiday, the only member of Zeor in the city.

  Restless, he found himself prowling the Sime Center halls, finding excuses to look in on this or that patient and generally getting in the way of his own staff. Shen! It’s supposed to be a holiday! Even out-Territory it’s a holiday! Which brought to mind the loneliest patient in his care—Skip Ozik; a junct channel denied his just heritage of Gen transfer, an out-Territory kid trapped in foreign surroundings without even the support of a First Year camp full of kids in the same plight.

  He turned on his heel, went out, and bought Skip the unabridged, illustrated encyclopedia of horticulture, which he’d been wanting for weeks, and had it gift wrapped.

  With the package tucked under one arm, Digen bounced into Skip’s room, radiating holiday cheer, and was three steps into the room on sheer momentum before the ambient nager hit him full force. “Ilyana!”

  In the moment of silence that followed, Digen mentally replayed the few words he’d heard her saying as he came in. “…have to do is go to eighteen Pirot Street, and tell them Roshi’s….” Pirot Street. That sounded vaguely familiar, but at the hospital Digen dealt with so many out-Territory addresses that he couldn’t keep them all straight.

  At the same time, his doctor’s eye raked Ilyana’s emaciated body, the discolored hollows around her eyes, the too prominent knucklebones. His channel’s vision gathered the texture of her nager. His physician’s intuition—all too often accurate—told him that she was not going to survive. She was burning herself up in selyn overproduction.

  She gathered her shrunken, withered body to face him, and Digen noted that her reaction time was unusually slow, even for a Gen. She said, “What are you doing here?”

  The lack of resonance in her voice bit into him. Changed so much! In only a few months! Something Hayashi had said came back to him. Ilyana was on transfer three times a month now. It wasn’t helping her at all; it was increasing her production, eating her alive.

  With an effort, Digen unkinked his frozen muscles and moved to hand Skip the package. “This is for you.” And in English he added, “Your first Faith Day on this side of the border, Skip. It should be something special for you—I’m sorry it’s not.”

  Skip took the package on his lap; then, clasping his hands over his breast, he said, “Hajene Farris, would—would you—”

  He was looking sideways at Ilyana. He was in need; she was high field, and the tension in the room was unbearable. Digen stepped between them, pulling the fields down for Skip’s comfort. “You shouldn’t be in here, Ilyana. You might precipitate his crisis, and it’s still just a bit early for him.”

  He took Ilyana’s arm, feeling her resistance. “Skip, I’ll be back later,” he said, propelling Ilyana toward the door. She went a couple of steps with him, then drew away with a snap to her nager that forced Digen to let go.

  “No! Skip and I are not on your precious rotation rolls! Why shouldn’t we share a transfer?”

  “It’s for his protection, Ilyana,” said Digen patiently.

  “Protection? Can’t you stop torturing him even on Faith Day? Or is it that you won’t let anyone else have what you deny yourself?”

  Pained, and urgent that she understand him, Digen said, “He could kill his best friend—or his lover—if he’s not utterly conditioned to channel’s transfer. It may be callous, but it’s his only hope for any happiness in life.”

  “His only hope for happiness? You haven’t come to your senses yet, have you?”

  The image of Jesse’s body floated before Digen’s eyes: …not your fault, Dane…a hero…the bleeding wreckage of human lives….

  “Ilyana—”

  “No. It’s no use. I should have known that all along.” She grabbed the book from Skip’s hands and shook it at Digen. “This is what you give him for Faith Day when what he—needs—is a warm—human touch!” With her last strength she hurled the heavy tome at Digen, saying, “This for your miserable Tecton! I can’t stand the stench anymore! I’m leaving!”

  Digen caught the volume and passed it neatly to Skip while Ilyana whirled and made for the door. But her frail body, shaking from the intensity within her, betrayed her. She sank to her knees and Digen scooped her up, shocked at the wispy, weightless arms and legs, horrified by the wildcatting selyn production eating her alive. Over his shoulder, he said, “Ilyana is not well, Skip. I’ll see to her. Mora will be in to see you in a while.”

  Outside, he carried her through the storeroom to his office and laid her down on the lounge. All the while she was crying softly, “It was all for nothing! I should have known you’d never change.”

  With the door shut behind them, Digen said, “In here you can rant at me all you like. But wouldn’t you prefer some tea first?”

  Preparing the brew, he let her fall into that dead-perfect synchronization he had only half remembered during all the months of winter. He told himself he had to do it in order to bring her production rate down or she’d die right then. But inside he knew that this was what he’d been aching for all these weeks. This was what was missing from his life. He didn’t want to train Tchervain—or even Im’ran. He wanted this, and nothing else.

  But he couldn’t have it.

  He shoved all that aside, addressing himself to the problem at hand. He had to get some food into her, and bring her production rate down in a hurry, or nothing else would matter. He cast about, and remembered that Im’ran had always kept some candy on hand for emergencies. Rummaging in a drawer, he found a box of candy bars and offered her one with the tea, which he’d laced with cherry syrup. “Good Faith Day, Ilyana,” he said. “Come on, take it.”

  She sat up, saying sarcastically, “I suppose you’d be offended if I refuse?”

  “Yes,” said Digen simply.

  She grabbed the candy bar from his tentacle and flung it across the room as hard as she could. “That’s for you and all your shidoni-be-f—” She broke off, throat constricted with unshed tears, and then slid off the lounge to her knees, curling ar
ound the impossible, shuddering ache, and sobbing helplessly. “I give up! I don’t care what you are, just help me. Oh, please, don’t fight me like this, don’t make me die. Not like this. Let me have it right, just this once and I’ll die tomorrow willingly.”

  I’ll die tomorrow. Yes. I know. Digen had felt just this so often at the brink of attrition, at the gathering of a fourth primary abort, at the lip of sudden death. With nothing left to live for, we die gladly, but not like this.

  He sank down and took her in his arms, engulfing her within his nager, seeking a controlling grip on her fields—an impossible task, as her body stored more selyn than his at that moment. He had to quell his transfer impulse again and again, managing only because she had no control at that moment, and he was desperate not to increase her production rate but to will it to slow down.

  Her head rested on his chest, her field penetrating deep into his vriamic node. Drowning in her nager, he floated to pure hyperconsciousness, commanding her systems as if they were a part of himself. She offered no resistance, joining to him, drifting with him beat for perfect beat. She can see. Of course.

  After a time, he got her to drink some of the tea and to eat a candy bar she picked out of the box herself—not a formal Faith Day offering, just food to keep her going.

  Then they sat for a long time, holding each other. He became aware of her touch on his arms, doing the splendid but unsanctioned things only a Gen such as she could do for him. He started to withdraw, but relented, thinking, Just once more—what harm in it?

  Aaahhh! She’d touched that deep channel Im’ran had opened in him, and Digen’s need suddenly bloomed as it hadn’t since Imrahan had worked for weeks to bring it up. Ronaplin poured from aching glands, and his laterals danced in the sudden flood of it.

  Ripping himself back to duoconsciousness, he pulled himself free, knowing that one moment more of that and he simply would not refuse it. He was too far into need to refuse. “I can’t permit—unscheduled—”

  “Don’t…,” she said, grasping his arm just over the ronaplin gland. With the lightest of touches she held him immobile. Her precision was so great that she inflicted not the slightest pain—in fact it was intense pleasure—but Digen dared not move. She controlled him utterly.

  “Digen, let this be our act of faith. I’ll accept your food if you’ll accept my selyn—mankind unified in us?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” She damped her frustration so it wouldn’t paralyze him through her touch. “We can’t control what all the people of the world do with their lives, but with our own lives we can exemplify what life should be.”

  Put that way, it seemed so reasonable. Doggedly he repeated, “I can’t. I can’t. Don’t you feel what we are to each other?”

  “What we are—you’re the only one in all the world who could resist me like this. That’s what we are to each other.”

  Digen knew just how precarious his resistance was at that moment. He himself wasn’t even sure why he was resisting, and he was afraid of the question. He knew that resisting her had been causing the primary entran, the lousy transfers, everything. It was killing them both.

  Her hand tightened on his arm. “Just do it now Digen—our act of faith on this day—and I’ll gratefully lay this body down to its grave.”

  “And me beside you,” said Digen. “No, Ilyana, we can’t die before we’ve lived.”

  “We can’t live like this. Perhaps our deaths would be a symbol—”

  A suicide pact on Faith Day—how melodramatic—and how utterly typical of underdraw. Digen felt her desperation deep in his bones. He eyed her fingers spread around the vital nerve plexus under his lateral. The right pressure, and she could kill him so easily. Yet he knew she would not. He knew it. She had no fear of him, and thus not the least impulse to harm.

  “Free me, Ilyana.”

  Their eyes locked in a silent clash of wills. He held fast, at her mercy yet commanding her.

  She said, “You hold my life, moment to moment, with your will. I—I need to touch you.” Her use of the word “need,” reserved for the Simes’ sensation of selyn hunger, touched Digen as nothing else could have. It was the literal truth. She was one of the few Gens ever to live who knew what that word, “need,” really meant.

  He took a firmer grip on her nager, damping her selyn production rate with his will. “I won’t desert you, Ilyana. But you must free me.”

  She took her hand away. He got up, reaching to help her up. “There is a way for us to live under the Tecton laws. No, let me finish!” he said, forestalling her indignation. “Lortuen is recognized. It happens—it will surely happen to us the moment I touch you in transfer, and there’s no way short of the grave we can avoid transfer. We have to make Mickland see that and give us a legal assignment. Then we can apply for a lortuen exclusive and be taken off the rotation rolls completely. If I have to—” Digen broke off, then took the plunge, “If I have to, Ilyana, I’ll use my Demand Rights to get you. But for that to work, you must pledge to the Tecton and qualify to be put on the rotation rolls.”

  She was shaking her head, lips compressed, eyes wide and leaking unheeded tears.

  Digen took her by the shoulders. “There’s no other way for us, Ilyana—because I am still Sectuib in Zeor, whether I will or no—and you are—what you are. There simply is no other way out.”

  “Yes, there is. You could come home with me.”

  “I’ve taken oaths that I will not betray. Especially not on Faith Day. Ilyana, the whole world looks to the Sectuib in Zeor. As long as I hold true to the dream of unification of mankind, the world believes it can really happen. It’s intangible, but it’s very real. And with the Tecton—in the trouble it’s in—it’s very important that people continue to believe.”

  “I have also taken oaths—Unto Rior, Forever!—to the unification of mankind—to lortuen or at least a strong dependency as the inalienable right—not privilege to be applied for, but inalienable right of everyone. And now that I’ve finally found lortuen for myself—on my deathbed—it’s denied me—by some law I don’t even acknowledge.”

  After a long silence Digen said, “Ilyana, I can’t be—other than what I am.”

  “Nor I, Digen.” She turned to the lounge as if to lie down and die right there and then.

  The phone rang. When Digen heard it, he realized it had rung before, and rung and rung, ignored. Digen gathered her into his arms again, willing her body to life. “My shidoni-be-flayed Tecton conscience won’t let me ignore that phone. Wait for me, Ilyana. You’ve got to wait for me.”

  She let him go to the phone. It rang twice more under his hand before he could bring himself to pick it up. Then he raised it slowly to his ear and said, “Hajene Farris. Yes? …What! Be right there!”

  He slammed down the phone and headed for the back door of the office. “Hayashi’s been shot. Come on.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HAYASHI’S PLEDGE

  Digen arrived at Skip Ozik’s room well ahead of Ilyana. In the stark clarity of shock, he saw it as if he’d never seen such a room before.

  To his left was the wetbench, a long, free-standing counter with sinks and hoods where instant lab analyses could be done. In the far corner was the bed, surrounded by all the paraphernalia of a treatment room. The door to the adjacent library/sitting room was ajar, admitting a splash of cheerful yellow sunlight to the dim, shaded room. To Digen’s right was the contour lounge where Digen had managed Skip’s transfers, but Skip was nowhere in the room.

  On the lounge lay Rindaleo Hayashi, arms across his abdomen. Mora Dyen was trying to stanch the flow of blood from Hayashi’s arm, but she herself was half hysterical. Digen could see why. Hayashi’s blood loss was negligible compared to the profuse selyn voiding, a plume of brilliance spewing high from one torn lateral.

  Seeing Digen, Mora said, “We’ve got to have a four-plus therapist! He’s dying in attrition.”

  “Calm yourself, Mora,” said Digen, but
actually it was himself he was admonishing. “Don’t even think about attrition. We have plenty of time. We’re going to save him.”

  Holding himself rigidly apart from the grisly reality Digen took a place opposite Mora and put his hands over hers. “Shift control to me—I’ve got it now.” He then examined the wound visually. It was a long gouge aslant one lateral sheath and biting deep into the lateral tissue itself. Digen couldn’t tell how deep, but, from the intensity of the voiding, he guessed it was pretty close to the core. It was very similar to the injury Digen himself had survived.

  “I’d like two pairs of matched anchor teams on this one,” said Digen, hearing his own voice as if it belonged to a stranger. “Who’s available?”

  “Nobody! Digen, I’ve been calling and calling all over for fifteen minutes. It’s a holiday!”

  “There must be a Donor in the Sime Center you could use! Mickland couldn’t have given everyone off!” Digen knew only one way to handle this type of injury, using carefully balanced channel/Donor teams on each side of the patient. He and Ilyana would make one pair, and Mora was half of another. “There must be someone!”

  “There’s nobody I could use except maybe Chanet, and she—”

  “Forget Chanet!” said Digen. “She could never do this.” Digen own sense of panic was rising now. He knew what had to be done, but there was no way to do it. Meanwhile, his fingers and tentacles moved automatically to apply a backfield to the wound to slow the selyn loss. Covered with Hayashi’s blood and ronaplin, Digen probed deeper and deeper, seeing now that there was voiding in both the primary and secondary systems.

  Despite all Digen could do, the selyn and blood losses continued. He’s going to die, thought Digen, with rising paralysis. Right under my hands, he’s going to die of attrition. The thought echoed in his mind, blocking all other thoughts. He’s dying of attrition.