by Jean Lorrah
Oh, yes, Jonmair knew that feeling, and the screaming frustration when Baird had run from her.
“Well,” Tonyo continued, “it’s something like that, except that it’s not about transfer. He just needs you to be there—you want to move close, see that no one gets in between you. It was only bad for a moment.”
“Because you were there to support me,” Zhag agreed. “But then you forgot all about me...as usual.”
Suddenly Baird got it. “Oh, no,” he laughed. “Tonyo, you didn’t go on flirting with the women in the front row?”
Tonyo winced. “Well, I have a certain reputation—”
“Gens are always post!” chorused Zhag and Baird, while Tonyo blushed.
Then he said, “I learned last night that we’re not. After the show, backstage with those women, well—”
“You’re too good an actor,” said Zhag. “They wouldn’t have been all over you if you’d just let them feel what you were really feeling. Or rather weren’t.”
“I thought I was over getting culture shock every time I turn around,” said Tonyo. “Back home, it’s not normal for a healthy man of my age to have three beautiful women coming on to him and not be able to...uh....”
By this time both Baird and Jonmair were trying helplessly to stifle guffaws. Tonyo glared at them. “That’s what he did,” he said, pointing a thumb at Zhag, “so I pulled the rug out from under him.”
“Tonyo,” Zhag said soberly, “I honestly had no idea you didn’t know you’d be affected.” Then, with a quirky grin, “I was trying to imagine how you thought you were going to fake it.”
“And I didn’t know how hard it would hit you to have me suddenly withdraw support.” He looked over at Baird and Jonmair. “He fell over in a dead faint. Certainly took my mind off my troubles!”
“Zhag?” asked Jonmair in concern. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. If I survive a few more transfers with this one, I’ll stop reacting to every shift in the ambient like some finicky Farris.”
“I forget how sick Zhag was only two weeks ago,” Tonyo said contritely. “He seems so strong and stable now.”
“Any other day,” said Zhag, “I wouldn’t have reacted so strongly. But that was within an hour of my turnover—and you’re my matchmate. Anyway, I wasn’t hurt, just out of it for a few seconds. No convulsions, no voiding—I’m well, Tonyo, just not back to full strength yet.”
“Are you sure you’re strong enough to perform tonight?” asked Baird.
“Baird, I need music as much as I need selyn,” Zhag said solemnly. “The day I can’t perform is the day I die.”
“You were strong enough to fight off attackers last night,” Jonmair said.
“I really didn’t do anything,” Zhag insisted. “If those Simes claim I beat them up, it’s because they don’t want to admit that a Gen laid them out in the road without even getting his hands dirty.”
“All I did was Genslam them,” said Tonyo. “By the time I noticed them, that’s all there was time for.”
Jonmair had only recently learned the nageric trick of shocking a Sime with her field, a dangerous practice that could easily backfire. “How could you slam them without slamming Zhag at the same time?” she asked.
“He knocked me hypoconscious first,” said Zhag. He shook his head. “I was focused on Tonyo. Suddenly I couldn’t zlin—there were Simes coming at us from all directions—and then they fell, I could zlin again, and Tonyo was apologizing for not having time to warn me!” He laughed again. “If I can survive life with Tonyo, I can survive anything!”
* * * *
BAIRD LISTENED TO THE STORY, and watched Tonyo manipulate Zhag, with growing revulsion. How could Zhag not mind what the Gen did to him—even controlling whether or not he could zlin! He wanted to squirm in his seat as he watched Tonyo peel another section of mango with a sharp knife, slice off a piece, and offer it to Zhag speared on the blade.
“No more,” said the shiltpron player, waving the fruit away with a casual handling tentacle. He never seemed to worry about sharp instruments in Tonyo’s hands, even in proximity to Zhag’s forearms. How could he place that kind of trust in anyone, let alone a Gen?
Tonyo didn’t argue, but simply asked, “Want some cake?”
Zhag shook his head. “I’ll just have a bite of yours.”
Tonyo used his nager to summon a waiter, and ordered cake and kafi.
“You’re still hungry,” Zhag observed.
“You can have anything you want,” said Baird.
“I’ll eat after the show. Better warn your cook, Baird—I’ll be hungry.”
Baird laughed. “I’ll be sure to do that. You cleared the buffet last week—but when they replenished it, our customers cleared it again.”
“You eat even more than I do,” Jonmair observed.
“I’m a lot bigger than you are,” said Tonyo.
“Is that the reason,” Baird asked, “or is it that Tonyo produces more selyn?”
“Probably both,” said Zhag as the kafi arrived. “Tonyo, are you sure you want a stimulant?”
“I miss coffee,” the singer replied. “This kafi is different from the coffee we had back home, but it has the same kick—maybe even more. Will it affect my selyn? If so, I won’t drink any on our transfer day.”
“I think he meant because you’re so full of energy as it is,” observed Baird.
“Of course I’m full of energy,” said Tonyo, taking a sip of steaming kafi. “I’m Gen!”
The kafi was very hot. Baird could zlin it burn the roof of the Gen’s mouth, and yet he swallowed it and took another mouthful, savoring it. Baird zlinned Zhag, who, past turnover, would have to deliberately concentrate not to zlin.
“Oh, that’s good!” Tonyo said blissfully.
Zhag echoed the Gen’s satisfied smile.
“You wouldn’t be allowed to do that in a Householding,” said Baird.
“Do what?” asked Tonyo. “Drink kafi? They served it at Keon.”
“No,” said Zhag, “you wouldn’t be allowed to drink it that hot.”
“Who wants lukewarm kafi?” asked Tonyo.
“Gens who don’t want to burn nearby Simes,” Jonmair told him.
Zhag zlinned Baird. “Did Tonyo hurt you?” he asked.
Tonyo put his cup down and began to say, “I’m sorry—” but Baird held up his dorsals.
“No—I zlinned what you did, Tonyo. To you it felt and tasted good, so it did to me, too. I guess...it’s something Simes and Gens have in common. Something that’s just a little bit painful actually feels good.”
“Then it’s not a junct reaction,” said Zhag, relief in his voice and field. “Thea is worried about our act—that we’re playing to the junctness of the audience. She’s afraid it will get out of control.” Thea was the Carre channel Zhag had a romantic interest in. Baird couldn’t help wondering if his friend was setting himself up for heartbreak.
“Sime or Gen,” said Tonyo, “there’s no life without pain. Our act is about life. I don’t think people want just sweetness and light.”
“What you’ve been doing certainly draws the crowds,” said Baird, “so don’t change it!”
“We’re just adding to it,” said Zhag. “Wait till you hear the new song Tonyo wrote.”
“Tonyo wrote?”
“Only the lyrics,” Tonyo explained. “After our transfer, Zhag composed this great melody. I just put words to it.”
Zhag said, “It’s more than that. You’ll see. I hadn’t been post in a year, and all my feelings came pouring out in the music. But Tonyo—” he shook his head “—somehow he knew where the music came from. Wait and zlin.”
After they had eaten, they went to the main salon, where Zhag made certain that his shiltpron was set up correctly, all the strings in tune. Then he and Tonyo put on the clever vests that Jonmair had made, and they tested the lighting from various positions on the stage.
Then Tonyo asked the lighting director, “Can you keep
one spot on Zhag, and follow me into the audience with the other?”
“Into the audience?” the woman asked.
“We shift the ambient in performance,” Zhag explained. “That way everyone gets to zlin Tonyo up close, too.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Baird asked without thinking.
“Just because he’s singing instead of serving drinks?” Jonmair asked.
“Sorry,” Baird replied, flustered. She controls our customers all the time. Do I even know how often she controls me?
Tonyo’s request required repositioning one of the spotlights. By the time that was finished, the grand opening was only three hours off.
“Zhag,” said Tonyo, “if you come with me, do you think we can find a barber shop that will take a Gen customer, or do I have to go all the way to Carre to get my hair cut?”
“No!” exclaimed Zhag, Baird, and Jonmair on one breath.
“Huh? It hasn’t been cut since I came in-Territory,” he said, pushing unruly curls off his forehead. They tumbled right back down into his eyes.
“You’d look like a Pen Gen!” Jonmair exclaimed. “Tonyo, your hair is only starting to get long enough.”
Tonyo looked from Baird to Zhag. Gulf Territory men typically wore their hair collar length, or even brushing the shoulder. “But mine curls,” he pointed out. “In this humidity it frizzes. I’ve cut it short ever since I got my Mom to realize I was too old for ringlets.”
“Your hair is beautiful,” said Jonmair. “All it requires is proper treatment. What do you use to wash it?”
“Just soap.”
“Well, get some proper shampoo. Wash your hair, and then rinse it with sugar water—that’s how my mother tamed my little sister’s curls.”
“Sugar water?” Tonyo asked doubtfully.
“That will give it body,” Jonmair explained, “so it won’t frizz.”
When the four of them went barging into the kitchen, Baird expected the wrath of their temperamental chef, who had his staff preparing delicacies for the evening. Instead, he watched Jonmair appease the man with a soft brush of her nager, watched him leave his work to examine Tonyo’s hair, nod, and mix up a small pitcher of water and sugar. Then he added a squeeze of lemon juice, saying, “That will keep your hair shining as brightly as your field.”
Tonyo took the mixture and stared into it. “You’re all playing a joke on me, right? You want me to wash my hair with lemonade!”
Jonmair chuckled. “Taste it—there’s not enough of either sugar or lemon to make lemonade. It’s not a joke, really, Tonyo! Come on—let’s get out of Chef’s way, and I’ll show you.”
Upstairs, Jonmair gave Tonyo some shampoo and sent him to shower. “The last thing, after you’ve rinsed out the shampoo, is to pour the sugar water through and leave it in,” she instructed. “Then come back and I’ll style it for you.”
With Tonyo behind the insulated bathroom door, Zhag lost his good cheer, but not his stability. If Baird had not seen him with the Gen, he wouldn’t have zlinned anything but a normal post-turnover Sime. Were the good feelings worth being dependent on a Gen?
On the other hand, was keeping Gens around any different from drinking wine or porstan to release inhibitions and enhance feelings? Baird pretended interest in the costume designs Jonmair was showing them. Why had he run from her? She was just a Gen. He didn’t have to hand control over to her the way Zhag did to Tonyo.
People made choices about wine, porstan, or gambling, didn’t they? Baird and his father earned their living from those choices. A few people could not control themselves and became addicted to one or the other. But most people were perfectly capable of using The Post’s offerings as recreation, and not having them take over their lives.
So most Simes ought to be capable of interacting with Gens, using them for their selyn, and not letting them take over their lives. I can do that. I don’t have to run away from Jonmair.
Tonyo rejoined them, hair damp, announcing, “At least it’s not sticky.”
“I told you it wasn’t lemonade,” said Jonmair. “Now come here and let me comb your hair.”
Baird watched her fuss over the Gen, placing him before the sewing room mirror, combing his hair in different ways, snipping a few recalcitrant strands to make them blend with the rest. Zhag and Baird were at the other end of the long sewing table, the shiltpron player cheery now that his pet Gen was back in the room.
Tonyo was amusingly concerned about his appearance. “Doesn’t he know all the audience cares about is how he zlins?” Baird said softly to Zhag, while Jonmair dispensed hair care advice to Tonyo.
“He’s still learning,” Zhag replied, “but so is our audience. After all, we want them to hear Tonyo. He does have an amazing voice, too.”
That was true. That first night he had performed with Zhag at Milily’s, Tonyo had shown power and range beyond any singer Baird had ever heard. Six weeks under Zhag’s tutelage had given him greater control over his voice and a far better understanding of the meanings of their songs.
Duoconscious—both zlinning and watching the two Gens at the other end of the table—Baird noticed how interested Tonyo seemed in the costume sketches Jonmair was showing him...and in Jonmair. Tonyo couldn’t do anything beyond flirting until his next transfer, but nonetheless—
Zhag was also watching the Gens. “Jonmair has artistic talent, too,” he commented. “And they get along together. Maybe we should breed them.”
The shock that went through Baird was so strong that Jonmair looked up sharply. Tonyo, though, said to Zhag, “I heard that. Gens don’t go deaf and blind when we concentrate, you know.”
Zhag, usually ultrasensitive to other Simes’ feelings, ignored Baird’s discomfiture as he replied, “Well, you should think about settling down, Tonyo.”
“When I’m ready,” the Gen replied, “I won’t interfere with someone else’s relationship. How would you feel if I tried to court Thea?”
“I’d rather you courted Janine,” Zhag replied. Janine was Thea’s Companion.
“I like Janine,” said Tonyo, “but I don’t think we could ever be more than friends.”
Baird sensed something Tonyo wasn’t saying, and zlinned that Zhag did too.
“Besides,” the Gen added, “I’m younger than you are. I’m having fun. You don’t have to tie me down with a wife. I’m not going anywhere.”
* * * *
JONMAIR HAD ALSO HEARD ZHAG’S REMARK, even uttered in his soft voice. It was uncharacteristic—of all the Simes she knew, Zhag was the most accepting of Gens as people in their own right. At Baird’s reaction, though, she realized that she had an ally, not an enemy: Zhag had made the outrageous remark to test Baird’s feelings. Carefully, she controlled her field so that her joy would not show.
Still, Zhag gave her an understanding smile: the channel could zlin through her control when renSimes could not. She couldn’t affect him, either, as she could most of her customers, and testing her abilities on Inspector Kerrk had shown her it was that they were channels, not whether they had their own Gens, that gave them immunity to her talents. It didn’t matter: as long as she could soothe Baird and her renSime customers, she was happy.
When Zhag and Tonyo left, Baird went downstairs to supervise last-minute preparations, and Jonmair was left to get ready for the evening. She arranged her hair in an elegant updo, and put on the dress she had made from the iridescent silk Zhag had picked out for her. She loved the material, the way the color shifted between black, dark blue, and a deep wine color that nearly matched her eyes.
If it were not already obvious to everyone that she was Gen, though, the dress revealed her increasingly rounded bosom and flowed outward from her slender waist over curves like no Sime woman’s. If I were Sime, she reminded herself as she studied her image, I would not be able to give Baird what he needs. I couldn’t even dream of giving him transfer.
She had no model for Gen beauty. But as she went down the staircase, Simes turned to her, laterals
extending to zlin her...and she had to laugh at herself, and Tonyo as well. Among Simes, it hardly mattered what a Gen looked like.
There were a number of troops in uniform among the people already gathered, but Conta and Robert were for the first time dressed in civilian clothing. Conta wore a pale yellow dress with a tulle shawl, and her hair lay loose on her shoulders, fastened back with gardenias. Jonmair had had no idea the tough soldier could look so pretty. Robert, in a new suit of in-Territory cut, beamed with pride.
The opening was calculated to take advantage of as many post reactions as possible—even if the performers were not post themselves. Jonmair found Zhag and Tonyo in the dressing room, arriving just in time to stop Tonyo from taking a brush to his now-dry hair. “You can’t brush curly hair,” she told him. “In this climate it will frizz.”
“Then how—?” he asked, puzzled.
“Just run your fingers through it,” she told him.
When he did so, his hair sprang into soft curls around his face. He laughed. “That’s neat! How did you know that?”
“From watching my mom with my little sister,” she said. At the memory of her mother running her tentacles through Faleese’s strawberry blonde curls the ache in her heart—that aloneness, desertion, betrayal she had felt so strongly in the Pen—suddenly reopened wounds she had thought healed.
Tonyo saw her face in the mirror, and Zhag must have felt her pain directly, for Tonyo hugged her, and Zhag came up behind her, wrapping gentle fingers and tentacles about her upper arms. The feel of those appendages brought tears again, tears she had thought she had used up forever in her first days of captivity.
Tonyo gently wiped her tears away with tissues from the dressing table. “It’s all right,” he said. “I didn’t realize—of course you miss your family.” Then he added, “But now—can’t you go home to them if—?”
Zhag’s hand moved swiftly from Jonmair’s arm to Tonyo’s, squeezing him to a halt. The Gen was bewildered. “What?” he asked. “What don’t I know this time?”
“My parents,” Jonmair managed to choke out, “s-sold me into the Pen.”
“Bloody shit!” Tonyo exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—Jonmair, I never dreamed— How could anybody sell their own child—?”
