He realized that all about him Simes and Gens were pairing off across the normally strict family lines, and even the Simes who were not ripe for transfer were enjoying intimate lateral contacts they would ordinarily shun.
His Tecton scruples twinged in dismay, but as a cuddly Gen woman came into his arms, he laughed at himself and seized the waves of shiltpron music, taking them through himself and flinging them to the far corners of the room, bidding everyone joy. Before long he found himself again dancing with Ilyana, she gathering and focusing the shiltpron fields for him to grab and send outward in a coruscating display of hyperconscious pyrotechnics. They were so perfectly attuned it almost hurt. Digen became caught up in the intense gratification.
He retained a flashing memory of Ilyana’s face, rosy and sweat-streaked, exuberant with the bursting vitality possible only to a Gen. And she was his. Love and need moved and mingled as he had never thought possible. He was drunk on it and he knew it and didn’t care.
Digen danced harder and harder until Ilyana, breathless, bent over, saying, “I have such a stitch in my side!”
Someone came and took her to the sidelines, but Digen was still wild with the newfound joy. Before he knew it, he was drawn up on the bandstand and the shiltpron player thrust the instrument into his hands. Digen began to demur—he wanted to dance. But the musician reached over and touched off a chord among the tines that hit Digen stronger and deeper than it had when he’d been way out on the dance floor. He sat down slowly, cradling the shiltpron in his arms.
His hands and tentacles fit themselves automatically among the upright tines and webbing of taut strings, and the anticipatory shimmer from the people in the room sent Digen off into hyperconsciousness.
Once or twice, during his first year after changeover, Digen and some of the channels at his training camp had held secret orgies of deliciously wicked shiltpron music. But, of course, they hadn’t allowed any Gens near them. Remembering those nights, Digen let his laterals just grace the tines here and there as he played.
Each time he made that contact, the music seemed to penetrate his inner core a little deeper, to possess him a little more strongly, to open out layers of tensions he would have sworn were not there. He seemed to be thinking more clearly, understanding his own nature more profoundly. Each time he touched the tines, his own body translating the audio music of the strings into nageric harmonics, the audience begged, “Again—again—faster—more—again!” Soon he was daring longer and longer lateral contacts, using both his primary and secondary systems to modulate the music as nobody else had ever been able to at Rior.
He let the music flow through his vriamic without fear that his lateral scar would cramp on him. Without fear. The Simes were blind drunk on the music, but the Gens were in control. Nobody was being hurt; nobody was in danger.
As Digen played, he realized that hours had passed. The younger children had stuffed themselves from the buffet and fallen asleep in the hayloft or been sent home to bed. The Simes who had nursed their need, conserving it for this occasion, had taken transfer, and the drunkest of them had already sought out their spouses and settled down to enjoy postsyndrome. The rest were simply reveling in the expanded capacity of their senses under the shiltpron.
Little by little his channels opened. He was pouring energy into the ambient nager—beat and ebb, beat and ebb—until he was commanding the inner flows of all the Simes in the room. It was not any of the channel’s functionals he’d mastered in the Tecton, but it was what a channel was really for in a way he could never put into words.
Through the shiltpron, he was in deep contact with the Simes, and through them with the Gens they touched, little bright sparks embedded in a dim ruddy glow of half need. Without conscious decision, Digen was feeding into them all the newfound bliss and glory of his lortuen, celebrating it beat after insistent beat.
The power of the ambient nager took hold of him, lifting him to new heights of ecstasy, which he magnified and fed back to them, enjoying the pure need without fear.
Ilyana was before him, gathering and bathing in the shiltpron field, spewing torrents of bright wavefronts in every direction, a pinwheel to the hyperconsciousness.
Digen knew there was no stopping it now. The Simes had all paired off with Gens, moving deeper and deeper into lateral contact, trautholo, and verging right up to transfer, even for those not actually in need. He was a part of that network, central to it as all the fields blended and focused through his vriamic. It was as if, via the shiltpron standing wave, he was about to give transfer to all those Simes at once.
His secondary channels opened wider and wider, selyn rose from his depths and poured out into the ambient nager beat and ebb—beat and ebb—harder and harder and harder until, at one crescendo beat, the room surged with selyn movement—deep—beautiful—perfect.
It was over.
The couples folded in on themselves, sinking to the floor, stunned and breathless. The shiltpron fell from Digen’s hands as his secondary system went into recovery transients. He hadn’t performed a secondary functional in months, and now he reached for Ilyana’s steadying nager, shaking with the unexpected strain, and suddenly cold sober in the flickering colored shadows of the hall.
Ilyana folded him up in her arms as they, too, sank to the floor, exhausted. Only then did he realize that he had played the shiltpron fully, and without so much as a twinge from his lateral scar. He let Ilyana’s silken field bring him down, down, down to normal, as he thought over and over, This is what it’s like not to be crippled.
All at once, outside in the yard there was a great clattering of horses hooves and wagon wheels, men and women yelling, and the snapping crack of longwhips.
Roshi ambrov Rior, Head of the House of Rior, had returned with saltfish and provisions for the winter. Almost before anyone could stir out of exhaustion to meet him, four or five men burst into the hall, shoving before them two mud-spattered Gens who stumbled and sprawled into the crowd on the dance floor.
Roshi, a tall, slender Sime with black hair and the high forehead that made him look vaguely Farris, stormed into the room and bellowed. “I left orders the celebration was canceled this year! Do I hold your pledges or not?”
Ilyana climbed to her feet and in her clear soprano said, “I ordered the celebration.” In Rior, Head of House was usually the Gen in direct descent from Hugh Valleroy. Because of Ilyana’s illness, Roshi had taken her place, and Ilyana had never before seen fit to challenge that. But now she was well again.
Roshi strode over prone bodies, some of them so absorbed in postsyndrome they didn’t even notice him, and confronted Ilyana. Everywhere, Simes and Gens were picking themselves up, focusing on the battle of wills. “So,” said Roshi, “I come home a little early, and what do I find? This place blazing like a Tecton city, enough to be seen all the way to Valley Station—half the guards partying in here while two Gens have broken through our perimeter! And one of them from out-Territory!”
Everyone turned toward the two helpless Gens. Digen, clinging to Ilyana for strength as he fought through the recovery, watched the gathering mob converge on the interlopers and begin to shove them around from group to group, seemingly to provoke their fear for the fun of it before killing them. Around the outside of the group of Simes, Gens gathered to yell insults and dire threats at the Gens.
Digen could scarcely believe it. The joyfilled people had become a savage pack of barbarians. Living secretly in an armed camp like this would do that to people. They can imagine what the Tecton—or the out-Territory Gens—would do to them if ever this place were found. And it doesn’t help that I’ve gotten them all into postsyndrome at the same time, nor that Roshi interrupted it.
The Simes who’d been on the trail were not post-; many of them were in need. They sensed what they’d missed by not being here. All together, there wasn’t an emotionally stable Sime in the entire room. And they were bent on taking out their frustrations on the hapless prisoners.
Dig
en got up onto his own feet and made his way through the crowd. The two Gens had been separated, and he went toward the most frightened one. He got to the edge of a cleared space where two Simes were literally throwing the terrified Gen back and forth. The moment he laid eyes on the Gen he recognized him.
“Joel! Shidoni!” Digen pushed and shoved his way through the ring of bystanders and out into the cleared space, catching Hogan as he reeled toward one of his tormentors. Glaring at the two Simes, Digen said, “This one’s mine. Or would you care to contest that?” His voice held a deadly threat.
For a moment the two Simes seemed about to contest it, then the larger one waved a tentacle and said to the woman from whom Digen had rescued the Gen, “He’s not worth it.” In a moment the circle had broken up and many had drifted away to watch the play with the other victim. Few Simes in all the world would care to take on Digen Farris.
Digen held Hogan slumped against his shoulder, becoming more aware of his worn but essentially healthy condition, and his terror. Simultaneously, Hogan became aware that the punishment had stopped. Dizzy, he raised his head and began to struggle onto his own feet.
Digen let him go but kept a hand on his shoulder. Hogan focused on his captor. “Digen!” There was a surge of joy in the Gen, but it was swamped out by a new wave of fear. Hogan’s eyes went to Digen’s hand on his shoulder.
“What’s the matter?” asked Digen. “You can’t be afraid of me?”
“Is it true, what they said? Are you—junct?”
As much as he wanted to, Digen could not say no. “I have never killed in transfer, Joel, and I never will. That’s all that’s left of my life.”
Joel searched Digen’s eyes, judging truth as best as a Gen could. He finally relaxed. Then he stiffened in sudden memory. “Digen, they’ll kill Im’ran!”
“Im’ran? He’s here?”
“We came looking for you together.” Hogan was pulling Digen toward the knot of Simes who surrounded the other captive Gen. Digen restrained him.
“Joel, Im’ran can take care of himself. We’ve got to get you out of here. Some of these people are in need, and the others could turn ugly at any moment.”
“I’m not too sure Im’ can take care of himself. He’s been suffering from underdraw—at least we think that’s what it is—ever since the channel who was guiding us got killed in a rockslide.”
Digen dragged Joel toward the door until he encountered Ilyana. He thrust Hogan at her, saying, “You remember Joel. Take him home. I’m going back. They’ve got Im’ran in there.”
“I’ll go with…,” she said.
But Digen plunged back into the melee of Sime and Gen bodies, yelling over his shoulder, “No! You protect Joel!”
He pushed through the crowd, saying over and over to himself, “Im’ can take care of himself. None of these renSimes could ever hurt a Companion, let alone a Tecton-trained fanir.”
In the far corner of the room, surrounded by a throng of Simes and Gens, Digen found Im’ran faced off before Roshi, who was in need. Digen could sense it despite the dense nager. It was the first close look at Roshi Digen had had in several months. And he began to see what the trouble was.
Roshi was a channel, although, being Distect, he had never performed any secondary functions other than perhaps playing the shiltpron. Now in his middle years, his secondary system had begun to stir to life. He would, Digen realized, have been feeling sick, out of sorts, and perhaps even a bit irrational, especially during need.
Behind Roshi, at the edge of the crowd, stood Fenris, the man who was Roshi’s regular Donor. On Im’ran’s side of the circle, beside Digen, stood Fen’s wife, Ora, and her transfer partner, Roshi’s wife, Dula—one of the most beautiful renSimes Digen had ever seen. The whole foursome were grimy from the trail and tired from the long ride.
Dula grabbed Digen’s elbow in her handling tentacles. “If you’re really on my side, you’ll get that Tecton Gen away from him.”
Ora grabbed his other shoulder, saying, “Fen can satisfy Roshi, if he’ll only give him half a chance. I know it.”
Digen looked from one woman to the other. They were locked in orhuen, both in postsyndrome. Where lortuen attracted during postsyndrome, orhuen repelled. The static between them was almost unbearable. Digen broke loose and plunged into the cleared space, coming up beside Im’ran, grateful for the fanir’s clean nager.
“Digen!” said Im’ran. Then he tossed a glance around the room. The steady fanir’s rhythm drove into and through Digen, powered by the Gen’s overcharged selyn field. “Digen, Joel Hogan was with me. They took him—”
Digen flipped a tentacle, wiping away Im’ran’s concern. “He’s all right. Now, what about you?”
Im’ran paused to consider, as if he hadn’t thought of that. “Well, I seem to have an assignment for transfer. He’s not much, but I admit I’d be glad for anything right now.”
To Im’ran alone Digen said softly, “You could overcontrol him easily. But he’s Head of the House of Rior. If you survive the transfer, you’d become his permanent Donor—until his old Donor—or his wife—kills you for it. The political ramifications could bring the roof down on us before we can get you and Joel out of here.”
Roshi bellowed, “I said get away from him!”
Digen turned. “I heard you, Sectuib Rior.” In the Distect, “Sectuib” was a gross insult, not a title of respect. Digen had made his tone a model of deference.
Roshi, tense with need, turned livid.
“You’re a channel,” said Digen. “Everybody knows that shameful secret. What they don’t know is that you’ve lately found a strange quality to your need. You’re not satisfied with Fen anymore. And now you’re after a Tecton Gen who happens to be a Companion to the Sectuib in Imil. What kind of a Sime can only be satisfied by a Companion, Roshi? An active channel, Sectuib of this House.”
“No!” said Roshi.
Im’ran stepped up beside Digen and their eyes met. “Please, Digen—don’t.…”
Digen put his arm around Im’ran’s shoulders, falling into synch with him in the old way, feeling now from Im’ran the same sense of desperation he’d felt from Ilyana all the months in Westfield. He worked to control the Gen’s wildcatting production rate, and said to Roshi, “Let me teach Fen to help you. You don’t really want a Tecton-trained fanir in your family—and you don’t believe for one moment you could kill him in transfer. So let me help.”
With a roar, Roshi flung himself at Digen, going hyperconscious and into the Sime hunting mode. At first Digen thought Roshi was attacking Im’ran for a kill, but then he knew that he, himself, was Roshi’s target. He shoved Im’ran aside and yelled, “Fen!”
Then Roshi was upon him, tentacles digging into Digen’s arms, forcing a vicious Sime~Sime lateral contact to strip Digen of all selyn. Digen rolled with the momentum, struggling to bring his secondary system—still in recovery from the shiltpron—up to transfer pitch. He felt a searing lance of pain through his vriamic node as he switched to secondary functioning while Roshi had just begun to force selyn movement in his primary system. But Roshi had no vriamic control at all, and Digen took control, handling the channel as if he were any berserker Sime, providing him just the right amount of resistance to induce the necessary satisfaction, and giving selyn to repletion. It didn’t take much, but it was a lot more than Digen had expected for a mature but undeveloped channel. A lot more.
It was all over by the time Digen’s shoulders hit the floor and they rolled to a stop at the feet of Dula and Ora. Fenris pulled Roshi off Digen and started ministering to his transfer mate. Digen came to his feet and went to Im’ran.
“I’m sorry, Im’. I had to keep him off you—I know you wanted it—but I had to. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Behind them, Dula was bending over her husband, sharing his postsyndrome. Suddenly, Ora went wild, and attacked Dula, screaming incoherently. When Fen tried to pull her away from the Sime woman, she turned on him and threw her shoe at him
.
Shuddering, Digen started toward the door. Im’ran swayed on his feet. “It’s so hot in here. I think I’m going to faint.”
Digen swung one of the Gen’s arms around his neck and walked him through the muttering crowd and out into the fresh night air. “It’s not far to the house. Think you can walk now?”
Revived by the cool air and Digen’s firm grip on his nager, Im’ran said, “I think so.”
They took a downhill path through some shrubbery and off between the wheat fields. After a few steps Im’ran said, “Do they always behave like that?”
“No,” said Digen. “It’s just that here—they take transfer very personally—even more personally than sex. And I’m afraid the ambient nager in that hall was enough to drive anyone crazy.”
Im’ran paused to look at Digen in the dark. His emotional nager ran the gamut from shock and disbelief to censure of Digen for making excuses for them. He shook himself and continued along the path. “Are they just going to let us walk away like this?”
“Why not? Here, transfer is a private matter, not regulated by laws.”
“But isn’t channeling illegal here? And you gave him channel’s transfer.”
“Not illegal so much as immoral. In the morning, Roshi will probably be very ashamed of himself.”
Im’ran stopped. “Shen! You’re in recovery. I should be….”
“Ilyana will take care of me. I want to get home before my knees start to shake—and before you collapse. This way.” Digen turned into another path and shortly they stepped onto the wooden slats that led across the often muddy ground to the front porch of Digen’s house. Digen stopped for breath, saying, “As soon as my insides stop churning, I’ll take care of your problem with underdraw. Come on.”
Unto Zeor, Forever Page 24