To Kiss or To Kill

by Jean Lorrah

  Even though she was young as a Gen, she had more curves than a Sime woman—lovely soft flesh it felt good to touch. She liked to be touched, and her pleasure resonated in him.

  Would it be like that with a Sime woman?

  He didn’t have to think about Sime women today. He could feast his senses on this Gen, without remorse. She had beautiful hair, soft and thick, falling in waves over her shoulders, over his skin when he held her. It was an unusual color, like fine wine, and her eyes held wine-colored glints in their depths.

  Because he liked touching her, he reached across the table and took her hands. Caressing her fingers with his, he used his dorsal tentacles to feed her bits of fruit and honey cake. She licked juice and crumbs from them, and he had a sudden memory of her sucking his lateral—and the amazing jolt of pleasure that had shot through him at that unexpected intimacy! He suspected that if she had kept it up, she could have brought him to climax doing nothing more.

  Where could an inexperienced girl get such an idea? She had been virgin—of that he had no doubt. She was such a perplexing combination of innocence and sensuality!

  The Gen might have eaten herself into lethargy if Baird had let her, but he didn’t. When the edge was off her hunger, he took her back to the bed and began to caress her again. She snuggled against him, soft and clean-smelling, her hands stroking over him as he zlinned that she liked touching him, too.

  He refused to lose contact with her feelings this time, holding himself back as he sought ways to arouse her desire. Her pleasure provoked his, perfect reciprocity, so whenever she felt apprehension he backed off to find a new approach. It was harder this time—the memory of her pain the first time haunted her, and he had to experiment, suckling her softly rounded breasts, tickling her navel with his tongue, delving gently into the mystery of her womanhood to locate the secret nerve center that, he had been told, brought women to higher peaks of sexual pleasure than men could know.

  Unless men zlinned what women were experiencing.

  To his amazed delight, he was able to send her into spasms that proved the stories true—but who cared whose nerves experienced the pleasure when he could share? Laughing with sheer release, he held her close again, enjoyed the way she clung to him, the incredulous joy in her nager.

  * * * *

  JONMAIR COULD NOT BELIEVE the things Baird Axton did to her. It was obvious he was experimenting, and clear that her pleasure triggered his. If this was how it felt when she could not share his feelings, what must it be like for two Simes to share every nuance?

  Well, she would never know, would she?

  When her mood shifted, Baird gathered her into his arms again, stroking her—he had quickly learned how much she liked to be caressed. To her surprise, she felt lassitude in his limbs—he was relaxed and sleepy, not eager to proceed to his own satisfaction.

  In fact...he appeared to have shared her own experience completely. Happily, she settled into his arms and fell asleep.

  He woke her a few hours later, and made love to her again with even more new-found skill. Simes required far less sleep than Gens—how long had he lain awake, plotting how to bring her whole body alive with pleasure? Jonmair almost thought she might not survive the blissful celebration of life.

  And then the dawn broke, rosy light filtering down through the skylights. Baird rose and stretched, gorgeous to look at, young and healthy and full of potential—

  But he did not look at her. Instead, he disappeared into the bathroom. When she heard the shower running, Jonmair realized that it was over. He would leave her now, and she would be returned to her holding cell to await her death.

  * * * *

  WHEN BAIRD CLOSED THE BATHROOM DOOR, he was cut off from the Gen woman’s amazing nager. The lavatory facilities were selyn shielded because the pleasure rooms were most often used by Sime couples. There were, after all, some things one wanted to keep private—especially during romantic moments.

  And last night had provided the most romantic moments of Baird’s life. He had never even thought in such terms before!

  This Gen woman made him feel good—better than he had felt since his changeover, when his father had refused to honor Baird’s desire to be taken to the channels at Carre, or to bring one of those channels to their home. A brand-new Sime, driven to the depths of Need by the spasms that broke his tentacles free, had no ability to control his actions. Baird had helplessly killed the Gen his father presented him with—and then sunk into profound guilt and despair.

  He had suffered the same emotions when he failed his disjunction attempt so spectacularly in the square in Norlea, and again the last two months when he took what his father and everyone else except Householders deemed a “proper” Kill, privately in the family killroom.

  But yesterday— Yesterday he had felt what a Sime was supposed to feel after a Kill: elation, fulfillment, and sexual desire. For the first time, he had not given a single thought to the drained corpse that only moments before been a living, feeling—

  A chill of infinite horror raised gooseflesh all over Baird’s body, although the water washing over him was warm. He knew Gens were people! He had made friends among the Gens at Householding Carre during the four months he had tried to disjunct.

  And yesterday it was as if none of that mattered—as if he were as thoroughly junct, joined to the Kill, as his father was. It was what his father wanted—but not what Baird did!

  Baird knew, as every thinking Sime must certainly know in the privacy of his heart, what his sister had seen with her own eyes and written to him about in the last days of her life: the Kill could not go on forever. As Simes lived longer, healthier lives, it was simply not possible for each Sime to kill twelve Gens each year and not have the world run out of Gens.

  But it was more than just an ecological necessity that Simes stop killing. Gens were people, with as much right to live as Simes had. How could Simes, who would not mistreat a horse or a dog, convince themselves that Gens were animals who each existed only so that a Sime could have one more month of life?

  And...how could a Gen, that creature that had spent the night casting her spell upon him, her nager affecting him even as she slept—how could she so betray her larity, making him see the Gen he had killed yesterday as no more than...a melon? Consume the ripe inside, discard the empty rind.

  What was she, this temptress who had so controlled his mind, his feelings, all night long? Certainly not what she appeared—not some local girl with the misfortune to be the one in three who turned out wrong. Even Choice Kills had no such powers over Simes.

  The Companions in the Householdings—the special Gens who cared for and gave their selyn to the channels—they had some such powers, but none of them would ever use them to cause a Sime to take a guiltless Kill! So what was that creature he had spent the night with?

  * * * *

  WHEN BAIRD EMERGED FROM THE SHOWER, damp and beautiful, Jonmair had to grasp hold of her shattered emotions to keep from throwing herself at his feet and begging him to stay—if only for another hour!

  No. She might be Gen, but she would not be a whore. She drew the imaginary selyn-shielded curtain around her again, determined to maintain her dignity.

  When she did so, Baird gasped, staring. “You are a Wer-Gen!” he exclaimed. “Did my father—? Can you—?”

  He came to the bed and grasped her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Go on,” he said. “The sun’s up. Turn back.”

  She would have laughed, except that he was so obviously serious. And...frightened? Of her?

  It was the most absurd superstition, a story for children. How could this well-educated man possibly believe there were such things as Wer-Gens, Simes who could turn themselves into Gens—or were turned by the wizards in the Householdings—so as to provide selyn for other Simes without being killed? She had heard the self-assured Gen Companions of the Householdings referred to that way, but only in jest. No one over six natal years actually believed such nonsense!

 
Before she could stop herself, before she remembered her place, she asked scornfully, “Do you think if I could turn into a Sime I would be in this Pen, waiting to die?”

  “A witch, then,” said Baird. “You cast a spell on me last night. I still want you!” He began dressing, quickly, as if his clothes were a protective barrier to ward off her spell. “I can’t feel this way! No matter what you are, it’s wrong!”

  What way? What did he feel? “I was happy to be able to help you,” she began—

  “I won’t have your Gen pity, either!”

  In shirt and trousers, shoes and jacket in hand, Baird Axton moved toward the door. “Stay away from me, Gen! I won’t have any more of your dark magic. I hope you are really what you say—because then you’ll be dead soon!”

  When he was gone, the door vibrating from his slamming it, Jonmair sank back down on the bed, wondering what could have gone so wrong. Baird Axton believed the old superstitions, it seemed. Well, many people fell back on such nonsense when things went badly.

  But things had not gone badly last night! Why was he so upset? What had she done?

  And what was she to do now?

  Other than die.

  At that thought, Jonmair realized that during the night something had changed. Yesterday she had been resigned to her death, merely hoping that she would go quickly in a clean Kill.

  But after what she had experienced last night with Baird Axton...she now desperately wanted to live!

  CHAPTER THREE

  UNITY

  THE DEFINING MOMENT OF BAIRD AXTON’S generation would always be summed up in the question, “Where were you when you heard the Unity Proclamation?”

  It was an early summer morning, already hinting at the stickiness of Norlea’s summer heat. Baird, in shirt sleeves, listened and zlinned as another shiltpron player auditioned. Only because it was cool in the parlor did Baird not stop the audition. The musician had some skill on the audial level, but his control of the nageric ambience was tentative at best. It grated on Baird’s Need-strained nerves. He was due to collect this month’s Kill later this morning.

  The Gen shortage had grown so bad now that there was only a five-hour leeway. Of course his father would gladly have bought him a Choice Kill, but even this close to hard Need, Baird could not consider killing...a person. Last month’s liaison with the beautiful Gen woman might have awakened his sex drive, but it had only increased his conflict at having to kill to live. He knew what he felt was Need anxiety, and that he would succumb to his Sime nature when confronted with a high-field Pen Gen. But it became harder and harder to silence that little voice that told him they were all human beings, even the mindless ones raised strictly for the Kill.

  Turning his attention back to the music, once again Baird wished that Zhag Paget were in good enough health to play for a full evening—he would hire him at once, never mind his father’s objections to the man’s lifestyle. However, even though he had supposedly passed his disjunction crisis, Zhag’s health had not improved beyond what that one good transfer had done for him. He still had little appetite, tired easily, and moved like an old man.

  Zhag played a set at Milily’s every evening, but he didn’t have the strength to play for hours, as working at The Post would require. Still, Baird realized he hadn’t seen his friend in over a week, and Zhag would have taken transfer in the meantime. Maybe it was a good transfer. Maybe Zhag was getting stronger.

  He couldn’t take any more of this fellow’s aimless noodling! “All right—that’s enough,” he told the shiltpron player. “I have a couple more to audition, and then I’ll let you know. Be sure to leave your address with Charl.”

  It was a polite lie; there were no other applicants after him, but this young man really should be looking for some other employment. Baird decided to wile away the time before his Kill by going to visit Zhag.

  Baird took his cloak from the back of the chair, but hung it on the rack by the door—at nearly noon it was already far too warm. Then, considering the part of town he was headed for, he went upstairs to change into plain shirt, denims, and the old boots he wore when he rode out into the country.

  He was taking off his ring when his father came up the stairs and paused at Baird’s open door. “Where are you going, dressed like that?” Treavor Axton demanded.

  “To try to find us a decent shiltpron player,” Baird told him.

  “Not that pervert friend of yours! Last time I saw him, he looked like a day-old Kill. You’ve left that sick lifestyle behind, Baird. Leave him behind as well.”

  “He’s the best shiltpron player in Norlea,” said Baird. “That should be all that matters.”

  “It would be if he weren’t likely to drop dead in front of my customers. Come on—Sellie’s got some new dancers. Let’s see if they’re any good.”

  “What will they dance to if we don’t have musicians?” Baird asked.

  “Charl can play the piano. We’ll break out those casks of Gen wine I bought—it’s fine stuff. Did you try it?”

  Baird had, and found it excellent. The wine was surely contraband, a bonus picked up on an illegal raid out-Territory and sold on the black market. Probably another of his father’s deals with Old Chance, the penkeeper. Idly, he wondered who had ended up with the Wild Gen he had seen that night his father had set him up with the lovely—

  He pulled his thoughts from the Gen woman who had so bewitched him. Something about her had made him react like a normal Sime...but left him torn between his broken vow to his sister’s memory and the reactions his father wanted from him. If only Elendra could have lived to come home, if the two of them could have stood up to Treavor Axton together.

  Deliberately, Baird focused on what his father was planning. The wine was more expensive than porstan—but without shiltpron music to enhance the potency of the more common Sime drink, a few special evenings with wine and dancing girls would preserve the reputation of The Post as the best establishment in Norlea. Simes liked wine because it gave them a quick high, but no hangover. They would have until the wine ran out to find a decent shiltpron player.

  Leave it to Treavor Axton to make a virtue of necessity! Baird didn’t like his father’s dealings with Old Chance. One of these days the penkeeper would go too far, and then how many of Norlea’s wealthy and powerful citizens would he take down with him? But despite last month’s normal post-reaction, Treavor Axton still didn’t accept his son as an equal—and Baird had no idea what it would take to convince him that he should have more to say about how the business was run than auditioning mediocre shiltpron players.

  The two men were walking across Norlea’s square—a place that made Baird shiver to this day with the shame of his all-too-public Genjacking—when an official crier entered, ringing his bell. “Gather round, gather round all!” he shouted. “Official proclamation from the legislature!”

  “Another Gen shortfall, bet on it!” said Baird’s father as they joined the crowd of jittery Simes to listen to the latest news. “Shen that war out west! Why is Gulf involved in it anyway?” And Baird knew he was thinking of the apparently senseless loss of Elendra.

  The crier had a large document scrolled up, and was followed by a man and a woman, each with several scrolls. Those would be copies of the same document. After the official reading they would be posted in all the public areas of Norlea.

  The crier unrolled the top portion of the scroll and, with a flourish, turned it so the gathered crowd could see the large black headline as he declaimed the best news they had heard in months: “The war is over!”

  The cheers greeting that statement drowned anything the official reader might have tried to say for several minutes. Baird turned to hug his father who, for once, accepted the gesture. But in a moment he felt his father tense, zlinned the tension building within the crowd as they quieted and turned to the crier again.

  “Who won?” someone shouted.

  “We did! The Freeband Raiders have been defeated!” the crier replied, and anoth
er cheer went up as he turned the scroll so that he could read the lengthy proclamation.

  A hush fell over the crowd as they listened, knowing that until the official reading was completed the copies would not be posted for those who could read to absorb perhaps more quickly, perhaps with greater belief.

  The Sime and Gen armies that Elendra had written about had survived a terrible winter in the mountains—and as the war resumed in the spring the Raiders cut their supply lines. The Gens ran out of food. The Simes ran out of Pen Gens. As Elendra had told Baird, many Simes and Gens had gotten to know one another, had fought side by side, had saved each other’s lives. Many Sime soldiers found it hard to face killing even mindless Pen Gens—but now even those were unavailable.

  There was no way to prevent the army of Simes from killing the army of Gens—their allies against the common enemy of the Freeband Raiders—except to separate them. But that would leave the Simes to die of attrition, and the Gens under the tentacles of the Raiders.

  But then the Householders—those perverted channels and their wer-Gen Companions tolerated by both armies because of their healing powers—had suggested a solution: if the Simes gave the Gens all the food in their supplies, and—through the channels—the Gens donated their selyn to keep the Sime army alive, they could stand together against the Freebanders.

  Despite his state of Need, tears caught in Baird’s throat. Oh, Elendra, if only you could have lived to be part of that! And then he realized, You were there in spirit—you believed Simes and Gens could survive without killing, and two whole armies proved you right!

  Beside him, Baird’s father whispered irreverent words in a reverent tone: “Bloody shen!”

  “We won,” Baird murmured. “The war is over—it’s all over.”

  “We? Some kind of perverted witchcraft—”

  But as the murmurs of amazement dwindled, the crier held up his scroll again, ready to read on. “Furthermore, a peaceful accommodation having been achieved between the armies of all Sime and Gen Territories east of the Great Mountains, the leaders of those territories have entered into a Unity Treaty together to maintain that peaceful accord. In exchange for trade across the territories, and an end to border raids from either side, the governments of the Gen Territories known as Ningland, Heartland, New Washington, Mizzoo—” the list continued through names Baird knew and others he had not known existed, exotic Gen names that even the professional crier’s tongue tripped over “—have agreed to allow tested and licensed channels to be stationed within their territories to collect selyn to provide for the continued welfare of the citizens of the Sime Territories.”