by Jean Lorrah
Tears blurring her vision, Jonmair fled.
CHAPTER NINE
CITIZENSHIP
JONMAIR DRESSED IN HER WORK LIVERY THE NEXT MORNING and came down to breakfast. Baird was nowhere to be seen, nor was his father. She was over an hour late, having cried herself to sleep near dawn, but Chef was only beginning to lay out the makings of lunch. She saw him studying lists of foods, frowning. “How am I supposed to prepare foods for Gens that are poisonous to Simes?”
“Hire a Gen cook?” Jonmair suggested before she even thought.
He stared at her indignantly for a moment, and then shook his head. “Why not? Can you cook, Jonny?”
It was useless to protest Treavor Axton’s name for her with his staff, so she replied, “All I know is cooking for Simes or children.”
He grinned. “Of course. And I don’t know where to get these ingredients anyway. White cloud mushrooms? Cheltenham flour? Strawberries? There’s none of that in the market.”
“Did someone say strawberries?” Tonyo asked, barging into the kitchen and helping himself to a cup of kafi and an orange. “Where’d you get strawberries out of season?”
“I didn’t,” Chef told him. “They’re on this list of Gen foods.” He showed Tonyo.
Tonyo said, “My dad has a strawberry patch in the back yard. Maybe the Householders grow them. I love strawberry shortcake.” He studied the list. “I can help with the mushrooms. My dad taught me the safe ones when we went camping. I don’t know what Simes call most of them, but I can show you in the woods. I ate lots of mushrooms and blackberries on the road between Keon and here.”
“Blackberries are safe for both larities,” said Chef. “Until I can add a Gen cook to the staff, I think we’ll have only two kinds of food, ‘Simes only,’ and ‘Safe for everyone.’”
“That’ll do for now,” said Tonyo, opening the bread cupboard and slicing himself a big chunk. “Jonmair, you want some bread and jam?” he asked.
“Don’t go spoiling your appetite for lunch!” Chef warned. “You’re both due in the kafi shop in an hour.”
“That’s why this is all I’m having now!” Tonyo replied, smearing his bread with marmalade. Then, “I wonder if Miz Coyt would want to work here.”
“Who’s that?” asked Chef.
“Penta Coyt am Carre,” said Tonyo. “She’s Gen, but her husband’s Sime. She works at the Keon Emporium, but they’ve got a son just established they want to send out-Territory to learn Gen engineering. That’s going to cost more than the two of them are making right now.”
It was clear to Jonmair that Chef was taken aback at actually hearing of a candidate for the position of Gen cook—he had probably thought he could use the lack of staff not to deal with providing a Gen menu. But he quickly melted under Tonyo’s innocent gaze, and no doubt the effect of his field.
“Tell her to come and see me—and remember, if I hire her, what she cooks, you have to eat!”
Then he shooed Tonyo and Jonmair out of the kitchen. “Why are you here so early?” Jonmair asked Tonyo. “And where’s Zhag?”
“Asserting his independence,” Tonyo responded. “Actually he’s fine on his own. No matter what people say, I don’t want Zhag dependent on me between turnover and transfer.”
“Simes got along without Gens at their side before Unity,” Jonmair agreed.
“Yeah, but Zhag’s a channel. From what they tell us at Carre, I ought to keep him on a leash two weeks out of the month! It’s ridiculous. The man has so much control I’d swear he could levitate if he just put his mind to it.”
“They’re afraid he’ll hurt somebody?” Jonmair asked.
“Isn’t that crazy? The Householders are paranoid about protecting Gens, when with the proper training we’re perfectly capable of protecting ourselves. Oh, well, people will get used to us.” He pulled a pamphlet from his pocket. “Will you help me puzzle out some of this legal language?”
The pamphlet contained instructions for applying for citizenship—and although Jonmair had spoken Simelan all her life, she found it as confusing as Tonyo did. “That’s deliberate!” she said. “They don’t want Gens to understand it.”
“I wonder if Simes can,” said Tonyo.
“Ask Zhag.”
“I will. He hasn’t seen it yet—I picked it up on my way here this morning. But come on—let’s see if we can work it out.”
The language was deliberately convoluted, but the two Gens took it paragraph by paragraph, and had worked out the requirements by the time Baird Axton entered the kafi shop.
* * * *
THE FIRST THING BAIRD SAW AND ZLINNED was the table near the entrance where two hungry Gens sat side by side, bent over some papers. He was about to scold them and tell them to eat when he realized that Sime customers were being affected by Gen hunger even when the Gens weren’t. There were more customers than the day before, and the staff were already making fresh pots of tea and kafi. As he watched, honey cakes were brought from the kitchen to restock the empty shelf.
So he forced down the annoyance he felt as he approached the Gens’ table, wondering why he was displeased to find Jonmair trying to work her sorcery on a fellow Gen. Tonyo looked up with a grin as Baird approached. “Hello! Just the man I want to see!”
“Oh?” Baird asked suspiciously.
“Do you have any of your old school books I can borrow, Baird? I can read and write and do arithmetic, but I have to study up on Gulf Territory history and government before I take the citizenship test.”
“You’re serious about that?” Baird asked. “Why would you want to become a Gulf Territory citizen?”
“Because I live here!” Tonyo told him. “Zhag and I can work together here. It’ll be years before Simes will be allowed into Gen Territory. Besides, I like it.”
What harm to let the Gen try? “Sure, Tonyo—I think my old schoolbooks are in the library. After lunch I’ll help you find them.”
Jonmair had said nothing so far. She seemed subdued today, her field as neutral as she could hold it without doing her disappearing act. Now she looked around. “Oh—it is time to eat, isn’t it? I’ll get us some food.”
Tonyo watched her go with a puzzled frown. “Lovers’ quarrel?” he asked. Then, “Sorry—none of my business.” He turned his attention on Baird, who almost squirmed as the focus of that overpowering field. Tonyo pulled it down several notches and said, “I thought you approved of Unity.”
“I do,” Baird said. “It’s just...I don’t think any of us considered all the consequences.”
“Like the possibility of Gens in the legislature?” Tonyo teased.
“Like the possibility of Gens everywhere,” said Baird. “Chef wants to hire a Gen cook. Pretty soon there won’t be anywhere a Sime can go to escape Gens.”
Tonyo looked at him, eyes candid, field candid, and asked, “Why would you want to? I feel no desire to escape Simes—ever since I set foot in-Territory it’s felt right.”
“Just last night you claimed you couldn’t live here at The Post because you require privacy,” Baird pointed out.
“Well, there are some things no one wants to broadcast to the world,” Tonyo said reasonably. “Most of the time I’m perfectly comfortable being zlinned.”
Tonyo’s field indicated that, in fact, he enjoyed it.
“Yes,” the Gen disconcertingly answered his thought, “I do enjoy it, especially when I’m post and the Simes zlinning me are beautiful women. But when I’m in Need—”
“High field,” Baird corrected. “You can’t feel Need, Tonyo.”
“Really?” the Gen asked, and washed him over with a poignant yearning that was only an echo of what Baird had zlinned in Jonmair when she had pursued him—stalked him, he realized—on his transfer day.
Tonyo shielded the feeling immediately, and said, “That’s nothing to what I felt when Zhag was in hard Need, and now that I’ve actually experienced transfer I expect it will be nearly unbearable to be apart at the end of the month. And you
tell me it’s Zhag who’s dependent on me?” He sat back, looking Baird up and down as if he might see what a Sime would zlin. “You brought Zhag and me together, Baird. You knew—you zlinned me and immediately sent for Zhag. Why can’t you zlin that you and Jonmair belong together?”
Baird watched Jonmair, who had finally reached the front of the queue, loading a tray with food and drinks. “Why can’t Jonmair see what you see? You don’t have to watch Zhag all the time. To tell the truth, the way you control him sets my teeth on edge, but today he’s in Need and you’re not dogging his footsteps. Or did he send you away?”
“No—he didn’t invite me along today, so I let him go. And Baird...I don’t control Zhag, any more than Jonmair controls you. We could, because in both cases we’re matchmates—but you and Zhag could control us, too. But life shouldn’t be a contest of wills. I think the reason Zhag doesn’t sense my support as control is that he knows it goes both ways. Try zlinning how much what you do and feel affects Jonmair. I think you’ll see she has no advantage.”
Remembering again the selyur nager—the Need to Give—with which Jonmair had pursued him on his transfer day, Baird had to agree. Why had it frightened him? Wasn’t Jonmair doing exactly the same thing Tonyo was today, staying away from him because he hadn’t invited her?
I drove her away, he reminded himself, regretting his harsh words.
In the cold light of day, he realized that their lovemaking last night had not happened only because Jonmair was Gen. Every available room in The Post had been taken after the concert—if he had been with a Sime woman, the same thing would have happened. If anyone was at fault, it was Zhag and Tonyo! But no one else considered their good feelings after the concert a bad thing.
As Jonmair brought her loaded tray back to the table, Baird rose and took it, saying, “I’m sorry about last night, Jonmair. But...I can’t promise it won’t happen again.”
She gave him a puzzled frown. “Why?”
“Because...I just realized why Zhag doesn’t have control issues with Tonyo.”
“Because Tonyo knows when to back off and I don’t?” Jonmair asked, eyeing the other Gen.
“No,” Baird assured her. “Jonmair, it’s not your fault—it’s mine. The difference between Zhag and me is that he has completed disjunction, and I haven’t.”
* * * *
JONMAIR TOOK BAIRD’S STATEMENT SERIOUSLY ENOUGH to ask about it the next time she was at Carre. The channels assured her that Baird’s behavior was not unusual during disjunction. Jonmair looked forward to the weekly lessons, glad that she was in one of the smaller classes that had started immediately after Unity. Now that no Gens could be sold into the Pens, a new and larger class began each month. It was strange to see the newly-established Gens, only a few months younger than she was, and wonder, Did I ever look that young? That innocent?
The new Gens were ill at ease, as they were almost all the children of Simes. They believed themselves inferior somehow, a disappointment to their families.
Jonmair realized...she no longer felt inferior to Simes. As she did her work, including making new and intricate costumes for Zhag and Tonyo, she didn’t even yearn for the convenience of tentacles.
But outside the Householding, most Simes saw her as less than human. She felt safe walking or riding through Norlea by herself now, but most shopkeepers still would not wait on her. If she was in her Post livery, vendors would sell her food and supplies, assuming she was on a servant’s errand—but Sime customers expected her to step aside and let them go first.
At The Post, Jonmair was now accepted as part of the staff, there to see that customers’ desires were met—but she was tired of waiting tables, doing laundry, cleaning guest rooms, and mending linens. Treavor Axton adamantly refused to let her design costumes for any act other than Zhag and Tonyo—and then tried to keep her too busy to accept their private commissions. Performing every evening, they required more elaborate outfits as their reputation spread and the waiting lists for tickets to their performances grew longer. She stayed up late, sometimes falling asleep over her work, rather than give up the one creative task she was allowed.
She was still not in charge of her own destiny. Her larity had decided for her: she would always be considered a little less than human, always have someone ordering her around. Tonyo might think Gens had the advantage over Simes, but what did a Wild Gen know about it?
Zhag and Tonyo arrived at The Post one morning, grinning. “I passed the test!” Tonyo announced, waving a parchment with an official seal attached. “I’m a citizen of Gulf Territory, with all rights and privileges pertaining thereto!”
Zhag was as proud as could be of his partner, but Jonmair saw the disconcerted look that crossed Baird’s face at the news. He covered it quickly with a smile, though, and said, “Congratulations, Tonyo! I suppose this means you’ll be running for Mayor of Norlea?”
“Not this year,” Tonyo replied. “Maybe someday, though.” He showed his certificate to Chef, who managed to sound sincere in congratulating him. The kitchen staff followed their supervisor’s lead.
All except Penta Coyt, the new Gen cook, whose enthusiasm was unforced as she kissed the boy and said, “Good work, Tonyo! I knew your studying would pay off.”
“What about you?” Tonyo asked her. “When are you going to take the test?”
Only the Householding Companions had been declared citizens on the first day of Unity. All other Gens, including those under the protection of a Householding, like Penta, were wards of whatever Simes had previously owned them—her husband, in this case.
“I have an appointment the end of next week,” Penta said. “When word got around that you had taken the test, every educated Gen in Norlea rushed to sign up—so now there’s a waiting list.”
Jonmair said nothing. The first day she had been allowed out alone, she had gone to the registry office, relieved to find that taking the citizenship test did not require the consent of Treavor Axton. The legislators obviously recognized that such a restriction would have prevented most Gens from having a chance at freedom. Her appointment was in two days, deliberately chosen because no one would question what time she returned from her weekly lesson at Carre.
Tonyo had told her the test was easy as long as she could read and write, and had taken him less than an hour to complete. If a Wild Gen could pass it, she felt even more determined.
Tonyo carefully rolled up his certificate and retied the ribbon around it.
“Show them your tags,” said Zhag, in tones of annoyance.
“Zhag, it’s not important,” said Tonyo, taking out two green enamel tags inscribed with his name and tax number. “It’s easy enough proof to carry, until eventually everybody simply assumes that an adult Gen is a citizen.”
“No,” said Penta, examining the tags, “it’s an insult, Tonyo. They’ve copied the registry tags in the Pen system. You didn’t grow up seeing those tags on the collars of Gens being led through the streets to their death.”
“Oh,” said Tonyo, closing his hand over the tags. “Then...Zhag—what can we do about it?”
“Keep them in your pocket, and only show them if you’re questioned,” said his partner.
“But that won’t change anything!” said Tonyo. “How do we get the government to choose a different symbol? We have to protest this one.”
“The Householders already have,” said Penta. “They were told they’ve already been given everything they wanted, so if they insist on designing different identification it will delay offering Gens citizenship by at least a year.”
“Politics!” snorted Zhag. “Let it go, Tonyo. You’re a citizen under the law. That’s all that matters.”
“Not to me,” said Tonyo. Then, “Shen it, I’m proud to be a citizen of Gulf! It’s not something to be hidden as if it were shameful. Let’s do with these tags what Keon did with the white-painted chain.”
Householding Keon used that chain as its symbol, worn by all members, both Sime and Gen.
“I know what to do,” said Zhag thoughtfully. “It will probably take a few days to get ready, but I know some other people who will join in.”
Meanwhile, Conta came to The Post that evening cheering Robert, for he, too, had passed the test. Then they trumped Tonyo’s news by announcing their wedding date.
Their glowing happiness only made Jonmair more determined that she would win both her freedom and transfer with Baird before the month was out.
* * * *
THE DAY ZHAG AND TONYO HAD THEIR NEXT TRANSFER, The Post bulged at the seams with customers wanting to ride on their post reaction. Therefore, that night the musicians chose to implement Zhag’s plan to spite the junct legislature’s tagging new Gen citizens like Pen Gens.
Just the day before, Jonmair had received her own tags and certificate. The certificate was hidden under her mattress, the tags in her pocket, while she waited for the right moment to inform Treavor Axton that she was no longer his ward. She wanted to tell Baird first, but he had been away on a purchasing trip, and returned only an hour before Zhag and Tonyo’s performance.
Today was definitely not the time to tell Baird’s father. He was at the breakfast table when Jonmair came downstairs, reading the paper and drinking kafi.
Treavor Axton had not recovered well from his bad transfer. Although he was functioning, his face was drawn, and despite Jonmair’s bringing her hunger into his presence every day, he was not eating. Jonmair wished she knew how to get past his resentment so she could help him.
“Stop that!” he snapped.
“I’m not doing anything,” she replied. “You can’t expect Gens not to have feelings.”
“You’d better not go around pitying Simes, or one of ’em is gonna slit your throat.”
“Then you think I can’t be killed?” she asked.
“I’d never trust your hands anywhere near my laterals!”
“You’ve heard what they’re teaching new Gens,” she said. She referred to the fact that normal—instinctive—Kill or transfer position put a Sime’s vulnerable lateral tentacles right where the Gen could do serious, even fatal, damage with a sharp squeeze. All the Gen had to do was overcome the reflex to pull away.
