by Jean Lorrah
Tonyo’s field flared defensively. Zhag lifted a tentacle to forestall his outburst and said, “Yes. That reflex doesn’t disappear with disjunction.”
“Just the Kill reflex,” said Tonyo. “Mr. Axton, I was no help. First I saw the Kill, and then Zhag grabbed me—I was sheer, pants-wetting terrified. I forgot everything I know about handling myself around Simes. It was Zhag who shenned out of the Kill.” He shook his head. “If he weren’t disjunct, I’d be dead.”
Baird could zlin several emotions in the Gen’s field: regret, embarrassment, residual fear at what had almost happened, but most of all a warm combination of pride and trust in Zhag. Will anyone ever feel that way about me? Baird wondered. Can I ever deserve such trust?
Tonyo continued, “Zhag collapsed—and I forgot to be afraid. Thank goodness there were some nice folks in the market who helped me get him away from the fighting, and then when it was all over they helped me take him to Carre. The channels explained about us being matchmates. They didn’t want me to try to give Zhag transfer till next month, but I was afraid—” He looked for a word that didn’t exist, to differentiate types of fear. “Not afraid of being killed. I was afraid Zhag would die. He was so weak.”
“I know,” said Baird. “I hesitated to come here today, for fear he hadn’t survived another bad transfer.”
Tonyo grinned. “You don’t ever have to worry about that again!” He got up and refilled their tea glasses, then began puttering in the cupboard. “I hope you don’t mind if I put out some lunch—I am so hungry today!”
Zhag joked, “So what makes it different from any other day?” Then, as Tonyo was distracted, he said softly to Baird, “Zlin him.”
“I have,” said Baird, and added in a combination of amazement and amusement, “He’s as post as any Sime.”
Zhag chuckled. “You should have been at Milily’s last night. At least half the crowd was at turnover, and Tonyo had them post.” Controlling his nager, he added, “Some of the channels and Companions from Carre decided to come to the performance. It got...pretty raunchy.”
Tonyo returned to the table with bread, nut butter, and an orange. He sectioned the fruit and put it in the center of the table. Even Baird, riding on Tonyo’s hunger, ate a segment of the orange, while Zhag ate three pieces and half a slice of bread that Tonyo spread with the nut butter before handing it to him. “Thea enjoyed the performance,” Tonyo said teasingly to Zhag. “But I think she enjoyed your performance after the show even more.”
Baird recalled that the channel, Thea ambrov Carre, had become good friends with Zhag. From Zhag’s blush and the way he sharply controlled his field, he gathered that last night their relationship had gone beyond friendship.
Tonyo piled as much filling into his own sandwich as the bread would hold. “What are you embarrassed about?” he asked. “Thea’s really nice—and don’t try to tell me you don’t like her as much as she likes you.” He took a bite.
“Forget it, Tonyo,” Zhag warned. “Thea and I are from different worlds.”
The Gen answered that with a derisive flick of his nager as he paused to swallow the sticky nut butter before answering, “And you and I are not? It’s a whole new world, Zhag. All the old rules are over.”
As they talked, the Gen consumed the rest of the fruit, his sandwich, and the other half of the slice of bread he had prepared for Zhag. Tonyo made no apologies about “eating like a Gen,” as Jonmair sometimes did. Come to think of it, it made sense for Gens to eat far more than Simes if they were to convert nutrients into enough selyn for two people every month.
Simes used nutrients from food only for growth and repair of tissues—they drew energy for living from selyn alone. Zhag was thin almost to emaciation—Tonyo was right to get as much food into him as he could to restore the same health to his body that now shone in his field.
It didn’t seem to bother Zhag to let Tonyo control him. When the Gen got up to put the food away, Baird asked Zhag, “Aren’t you worried about being dependent on Tonyo?”
“Simes have always been dependent on Gens for survival,” said Zhag.
“Yes, but we controlled them. What if Tonyo decides he doesn’t want to give you transfer?”
“How could I ever decide such a thing?” Tonyo asked.
Baird blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve never given a Gen a good transfer, have you Mr. Axton?”
“Given—?” The syntax was possible in Simelan, but unthinkable. Gens gave, or were taken from. Simes received.
“It’s completely addictive,” Tonyo explained, coming to stand behind Zhag with his hands on the Sime’s shoulders. “I can’t imagine going without what Zhag shared with me yesterday.” His field underscored the truth of his words.
“Ask the Companions,” Zhag told Baird. “They all say the same thing. So no, I’m not afraid Tonyo will refuse me transfer. I’m afraid of something happening to him, as he is such a daredevil, but I’m not afraid he won’t want transfer next month.”
Baird looked up at the young Gen, then at his friend Zhag, and zlinned the interaction between them. They had been together less than a month—but their bond zlinned as if it had been building for a lifetime.
“Let’s play Mr. Axton the song we’ve been practicing,” suggested Tonyo.
“I’d like to hear it,” said Baird. “And then I’d like to talk to you about coming to work for me.”
* * * *
JONMAIR WAS PLEASED TO HEAR that Zhag and Tony were coming to perform at The Post, especially when Baird told her they had become transfer mates. She liked both of them, was delighted to see how much better Zhag was, and wanted that example before Baird every day. She wanted to do for him what Tony did for Zhag. And more.
When Tony complained about not being able to find clothes to fit him, Jonmair said, “Me, too. The Householdings are the only places where they make clothes that will fit Gens—but you require costumes for performing, not work clothes or Householding cloaks. I’d be happy to make them for you.”
“That would be great!” said Tony. “Can you make something for both of us? Zhag’s clothes aren’t really up to the standards of this place, either,” he said, making a sweeping gesture that included the stage, the crystal chandelier, and the elegant tables and chairs of the main salon where they were rehearsing.
Zhag didn’t seem to mind Tony speaking for him, Jonmair noticed. He was a quiet man most of the time, surprisingly so for someone who earned a living by public performance.
“Whatever you make for Zhag, though,” added Tony, “be sure to allow room to let it out. I intend to get him to eat more.”
“More!” exclaimed Zhag. “I’m already eating enough for three people.”
“Three Simes, maybe,” said Tony. “Gens are people—remember?”
“If I forget, you’ll remind me,” Zhag told him, and went back to noodling on his shiltpron.
Zhag never had the outbursts of anger that the Axtons, father and son, both exhibited—or that caused fights to break out all over town. Jonmair hoped that Zhag’s attitude showed how all Simes would be once they disjuncted. It was nerve-wracking for Gens never to know when a perfectly innocent act or word would irritate nearby Simes.
She studied the two men, as different as night and day even to Gen senses, and tried to think of appropriate costuming. Zhag had hazel eyes, she saw now. Months of bad transfers could not be wiped out overnight. There was still darkness and puffiness under his eyes, but he no longer squinted as if his head ached, or moved as if he might collapse. Jonmair saw the makings of a handsome man.
Tony was in glowing health, and his face, oddly, seemed more mature than only days before. Perhaps it was taking responsibility for keeping Zhag alive and healthy. Whatever it was, it looked good on him—but his threadbare clothes did not.
“We’ll have to go shopping,” said Jonmair, “and find the right material for costumes.”
Would they really let her do this? In her childhood dreams she had
designed elegant ladies’ dresses—but wasn’t designing costumes even more exciting?
“What’s wrong with just a nice shirt and trousers?” asked Zhag. “Dress Tonyo up if you want to—he loves being the center of attention.”
“We’re a team, Zhag,” Tony responded. “Let’s hear what Jonmair has in mind. I don’t think she’ll put you in pink spangles.”
Jonmair giggled at the image, but responded, “No—but I would like to put you in complementary costumes if you’ll let me. Day and night—the same outfits, but on Zhag’s embroider or applique the moon, on Tony’s the sun.”
“Tonyo,” said the Gen.
“What? Why would you let Zhag change your name?” asked Jonmair. “He doesn’t own you.”
“He didn’t change it—I did,” Tonyo replied. “It’s just a stage name anyway. ‘Antoine’ is the name my mother gave me, the same in either territory. I have a new life in-Territory. So I’ve taken the in-Territory version of my name.”
Jonmair looked at Zhag, who was smiling—but not in the triumph she could imagine on Treavor Axton’s face if she capitulated to his attempts to take away the only thing she had left of her former self.
But then, Tonyo had come here of his own accord—he had never been sold into the Pens or been legally less than a person. Jonmair would never give up her name. Furthermore, she determined to parlay the chance Zhag and Tonyo were giving her into the start of a career. One day her name would be synonymous with exquisite design.
Jonmair took the two men into Jax street, to the shops where her mother had always purchased yard goods. She started with the larger store—but the moment Jonmair began searching through the bolts of cloth a sales clerk came running up, saying to Zhag, “Control those Gens! Don’t let them paw my merchandise. They’ll get it all dirty!”
Tonyo scowled at the clerk, saying nothing—but from the woman’s expression Jonmair suspected he had done something very rude with his nager.
The clerk glared at him, but still spoke to Zhag. “Get those animals out of here!”
“I’m certainly not going to spend my money where my friends are not welcome,” Zhag responded, and they headed for the door. Behind them, Jonmair heard the clerk gasp, and then begin to sneeze uncontrollably.
Although she could hear the laughter in his voice, Zhag said softly, “Tonyo, stop that! We don’t want to give reason for juncts to look down on Gens.”
Out on the street, Jonmair asked, “You really made her sneeze?”
“One of the easiest Companion’s tricks,” Tonyo told her. “Handy for incapacitating a Sime without hurting her.”
Zhag said, “You had no reason to incapacitate that woman. She’s just ignorant. Ignorance is curable if you don’t give her reason to resist.”
At the second store the clerk was male, and didn’t even allow them to reach the bolts of cloth before he descended on them. “If you please, Tuib,” he said obsequiously to Zhag, “we cannot allow Gens or children to run loose in the shop. I have a holding room where they can be perfectly comfortable while I show you—”
Zhag interrupted, “I know nothing about choosing materials. Jonmair is the costume designer for my partner and me. If you like, Tonyo and I will wait in the holding room while she shops.”
The man’s eyes nearly popped from his head as he sought for polite words to respond. Jonmair joined in the pretense that Zhag was making sense. “No,” she said, “I need both gentlemen with me so I can see which colors and fabrics will look best on them,” and she moved toward the goods on display as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a Gen to shop for a pair of Sime/Gen partners.
The Sime clerk had to augment to get in front of her—but she won, in a way, because he addressed her directly. And as if she were in charge! “You get out of here, and take those— those—”
“We’re transfer mates,” Tonyo supplied.
“Perverts!” the clerk retorted, completely losing his composure. “Leave at once, all of you!”
They left, but at the door, Tonyo could not resist turning around to announce, “In case you hadn’t heard, perversion is now the law of the land!”
Zhag grabbed his wayward partner by the bicep and yanked him out into the street. “That doesn’t help, Tonyo!”
“Well, after we open at The Post, when those lorshes realize that it was Zhag Paget they insulted today, they’ll never live it down.”
“You may be right,” said Jonmair, her momentary triumph fading, “but what are you going to wear for opening night? Zhag, I may be able to find something among the costumes at The Post to alter for you, but everything there was made for Simes. It’s all far too small for Tonyo.”
“Let’s go to the Keon Emporium,” said Zhag. “They have everything you could want—and at much better prices.”
The large, wealthy Householding had opened stores in Gulf’s main cities years ago—and their quality goods at bargain prices had caused many Simes to overcome their prejudices and buy from Householders. Jonmair’s parents had not been among them, though, and she had never set foot in the place.
In the big department store there were both Sime and Gen clerks, all wearing Keon red tabards and neat name tags. No one questioned a Sime and two Gens shopping together. Tonyo noticed a display of denim trousers and shorts on special offer. “Look!” he exclaimed. “Both Sime and Gen sizes!”
Indeed, everything in the ready-made department was designed for both larities. These were work clothes and basics—they quickly equipped both men with plain trousers in black and brown, and Tonyo with two pairs of denims to replace the threadbare ones he wore. Jonmair’s job would be much easier if she had to make them only shirts and vests or cumberbunds to start out with.
“How about some shorts, Zhag?” asked Tonyo. “Don’t Simes feel the heat like Gens?”
“Not as much,” Zhag replied, “either heat or cold. But it is the hottest part of the year, and come to think of it, I’m feeling the heat since our transfer.” He smiled apologetically at Jonmair. “I was cold practically all the time when I was ill. Do you mind if I take the time to get some lighter clothes?”
“I have all afternoon,” she replied. “This is fun, actually.” She didn’t tell them it was like playing dressup with live dolls.
Jonmair helped them choose shirts, as well—and Tonyo decided to wear one of his new outfits. “Maybe we’d have had a more favorable welcome in those other stores if I didn’t look so disreputable.”
“Tonyo,” said Zhag, “looking is not the first thing any Sime does on meeting you!” He paid for their purchases in ready-made and they proceeded to the fabric department. The Sime clerk was available to answer questions, but expressed no surprise that Jonmair knew what she was doing.
There was an amazing selection, from Arensti-winning Zeor designs down to the least expensive cottons. No wonder even before Unity this place had had junct customers.
Jonmair found sapphire blue silk, which she held up to each man in turn. Like many brunettes, Zhag looked good in blue, while the material picked up and emphasized the color of Tonyo’s eyes. “Perfect!” said Jonmair. “I’ll make you both shirts from this.”
Then she went back to shirt patterns, thinking of how The Post used vests that could be worn over dresses or shirts and skirts or trousers as their livery. “I should make something like that for you two,” she said, searching the pattern book for designs that would serve the same purpose but be different from The Post’s livery.
She found a kind of waist-length sleeveless shirt. In the hottest weather it could be worn alone, and in cooler seasons over another shirt. She put a pattern for it in Zhag’s size on the growing stack of purchases, and then, “Look, Tonyo! Patterns in Gen sizes, too!”
Including, she realized, dress patterns she could adapt for herself. When Zhag noticed her looking longingly at one for an evening ensemble, he said, “That would look beautiful on you. Go ahead and get the pattern and material for it.”
“I don’
t have any money,” she said.
“We’ll buy it for you,” said Tonyo. “You can wear it to our opening night.”
Among the imported Zeor fabrics, Jonmair found gold and silver tissue. It was outrageously expensive, but she required only a small piece of each.
There were too many packages even for all eight of Zhag’s handling tentacles, but Tonyo pulled a string bag from his pocket and put all the notions into it. “Gen tentacles,” he explained, making Jonmair giggle. She had never seen such a self-assured Gen, even at Carre. The Companions were secure enough, especially inside the Householding, but none had Tonyo’s brashness. “You should have one of these,” he added, glancing around.
Sure enough, string bags in different colors hung on a hook near the till. Tonyo’s was brown, but he picked out a pink one for Jonmair. As she put the materials for her new dress into it, she was forcefully reminded of the day she had first seen Baird, when Mama had been so impatient with her for dropping things while she tried to control her younger brother and sister. How long ago that day seemed now—another lifetime.
When Zhag again paid for their goods, Jonmair wondered if Tonyo had any money of his own. On their way back to The Post, she got up the courage to ask, “Does Treavor Axton have you on the payroll, Tonyo?”
“It’s the same as it was at Milily’s,” the Gen replied. “He pays Zhag and me as an act. We know it’s a way of not recognizing me as a person, but for the moment it’s not worth making a fuss. But if you’re asking why Zhag’s paying the bills for both of us, right now he can have a bank account and I can’t, so he writes the checks. I just carry walking around money,” and he jingled the coins in his pocket.
“But you keep the books, so you know exactly what I owe you,” said Zhag.
Tonyo added, “Zhag insists on splitting fifty/fifty with me, which isn’t fair, especially now that my meals are included at The Post.”
Letting go the strange idea—and then the question of why it should seem strange—of a Gen keeping accounts, Jonmair focused on Tonyo’s afterthought. “Why isn’t it fair for each of you to get half of what you’re paid as an act?”
