by Jean Lorrah
Twice, Treavor Axton tried to come downstairs, and both times nearly passed out in the ambience of The Post’s crowded rooms. Baird did not miss the irony of his father’s not only being unable to enjoy the greatest success the establishment he had built had ever known, but resenting vehemently that the success came from the incredible combination of Sime and Gen that was Zhag and Tonyo.
The Post was now known as Gen-friendly, so at any given time, besides Jonmair, Tonyo, and Penta, there were likely to be other Gens on the premises. Simes were learning that being around Gens who were comfortable in the presence of Simes eased their Need nerves, and The Post was packed, day and night.
Baird was beset by guilt when, after considering hiring more am Carre Gens like Penta to enhance the ambient, he realized that he could do so only over his father’s dead body.
Treavor Axton’s friends visited often—holding death vigil, Baird was afraid, but if his father didn’t protest he decided that anything that kept his mind off his Need had to be good. So Old Chance and Treavor Axton’s other gambling buddies visited daily, none of them as sick as his father, but all showing signs of the Need anxiety gripping Norlea.
When most of the city had passed turnover, the crowds thinned. Gens or no Gens, food consumption dropped, and only the most inveterate gamblers could concentrate well enough to enjoy the games. Nevertheless, Zhag and Tonyo’s shows remained packed with Simes seeking relief from the nagging ambient everywhere else in town.
After working separately from Jonmair most of the day, it was blissful relief for Baird to hold her in his arms at night and feel her growing desire to assuage his growing Need. At last, the channels said it was safe for them to attempt transfer. The appointment was made, and Baird was determined that this time he would not flee. Basking in her growing field, he could not understand where that terror had come from last month, to send him hurtling away from her when all she had wanted to do was give him life.
If only there were a Gen who felt that way about his father. If only his father would permit a Gen to get that close to him.
His mind circled endlessly, trapped in anxiety that only increased as the end of his cycle approached.
One day he heard angry shouting from his father’s room, and rushed in to find Old Chance standing by the window, Treavor Axton facing him on unsteady feet. But he was too weak to shout anymore, and dropped back into his armchair, passing a withered hand over his eyes. “Oh, shen, Chance,” he said in a voice like ash, “you’re right. But you shouldn’t be. You shouldn’t be.”
“I didn’t design the Sime larity,” the ex-Penkeeper replied. “You can’t fight nature, Treav.”
That night when Baird came to give his father the house report, Treavor Axton told him, “When I’m gone, this place will be yours.”
“That won’t be for a long time, Dad.”
“Perhaps,” his father told him. “But I want you to know that I’m proud of you, Baird. You will adapt to whatever life brings—so do what you have to do to stay alive and keep The Post running—understand? No matter what happens to me, no matter what happens to you. The important thing is to keep going for as long as you can. Do...whatever is necessary. Understand?”
Baird understood that his father expected to die the next day. “Yes, Dad,” he replied solemnly, glad he was too close to Need to feel strong emotions. “I’ll do what I have to—I promise. But tomorrow you’re going to do what you have to.”
A weary smile, more of a grimace. “Yes. We’ll both do what we have to, tomorrow.” Baird didn’t bother to correct him about his own transfer date, which was a day later—no reason to remind his father of his shortening cycle.
But the next morning when Baird went to help his father get up and get dressed, he found Treavor Axton’s room empty. A frantic search through The Post brought the information that three of his old friends had come to get him early that morning.
Jonmair, sticking to Baird’s side as if on an invisible chain, allowed him to rest on her field as he realized, “He’s going to die—and he doesn’t want me there!”
She remained silently sympathetic as Baird tried to decide what to do. He could not live with himself if he didn’t try to find his father.
But as he and Jonmair walked out the front door of The Post a wagon pulled up...and Treavor Axton climbed down from his seat beside Old Chance. On his own power, he walked up the steps and into Baird’s arms, the three Simes on the wagon laughing and yelling encouragement.
“Dad!” Baird exclaimed, unable to feel the joy he wanted to feel, just as he had been unable to feel sorrow last night. “Dad—you’re alive! You’re better!”
Treavor Axton set him aside, saying gruffly, “Of course I am. I told you I’d do what I had to. So will you.” He turned, saying, “I got a good bargain on some rare wine.” He lifted a cask out of the wagon and thrust it into Baird’s arms. “Put that in the fourth cellar for now. It has to rest a few days.” Then he brushed past, ignoring Jonmair, merely adding, “Somebody get me some kafi—I’ll be in my office.”
Arms around the wine cask, Baird stared after his father’s retreating back. “What just happened?”
Behind him he heard the wagon pull out—he wasn’t going to get the answer from his father’s gambling buddies, who all zlinned high-field and full of themselves.
Jonmair answered him. “They must have matched him with a Gen, and he doesn’t want to admit it.”
It was all Baird could think of to explain his father’s recovery—but he didn’t really care how the channels had managed those four recalcitrant old Simes. They had saved their lives!
With Jonmair by his side, Baird concentrated on getting through this day to the moment tomorrow when she would give him her selyn and he would be disjunct at last.
She came with him to put the wine cask in the fourth cellar as instructed. It was a new cask—but his father had said the wine was rare, not old. There were no markings on the cask, and the contents didn’t slosh as he was accustomed to. Could it be Gen manufacture? Had his father procured a new import?
When he tried to zlin the contents, he found it as opaque as a private lock box, the cask lined with some kind of insulating material. He had only ever heard legends of vintages so precious that their very existence had to be screened from potential thieves. Where in the world had Treavor Axton found something so rare and potent? He was willing to bet it was Gen made and smuggled across the border without paying full duties—his father had always found it worth paying fines for the once in half a dozen times he got caught serving high-priced contraband to special customers. The times he wasn’t caught far more than paid for it. Baird looked forward to trying out whatever his father had found this time. Meanwhile, he had a business to run.
Most Simes were feeling as Baird did today. The Last Kill cycle was drifting month by month, but still more than half the Simes in Norlea were scheduled for transfer within the next three days. Zhag and Tonyo would have their work cut out tonight, especially with this being Zhag’s turnover day.
Jonmair knew better than to try to make Baird eat, though under the impact of both her hunger and Tonyo’s he drank the juice she put in front of him instead of kafi. Zhag came to lunch with Tonyo, not wanting to risk stepping off the precipice into Need without his Companion at his side. Baird didn’t blame him—without Jonmair, his own turnover had been particularly nasty this month.
There were more and more collars with green tags now, jewelers making a nice profit from creating enamel tags for Simes and selling elegant collars to both larities. They were seen most often on patrons of The Post, in far fewer numbers among the population at large. Baird didn’t have one, he realized—and also remembered that Treavor Axton hadn’t yet seen Jonmair’s, didn’t know she was no longer his ward.
“Let’s tell him after our transfer,” said Jonmair.
“Good idea,” said Zhag. “Once you’ve actually shared a good transfer, Baird, you’ll have none of that anxiety that Gens are going to
deprive you.”
“As if we’d deprive ourselves!” Tonyo agreed, grinning at Jonmair. “I am so glad you two are finally going to do it.”
Jonmair zlinned completely confident. Baird pushed down the trickle of fear that she could control him any time she wanted to. He understood, now, that such feelings signaled disjunction crisis. Welcome them, the channels told him, but, paradoxically, don’t fall prey to them.
Would understanding what was happening get him through it this month? Or would he go as mad tomorrow as he had last month?
He saw Tonyo reach over and take Zhag’s hand just as the shift in the ambient signaled that the channel had hit turnover. Jonmair edged closer to Baird, and Zhag smiled at Tonyo, wrapping handling tentacles around his hand for a moment. That’s the way it ought to be, Baird thought. From now on he would never go through it without Jonmair.
As if she could zlin his feelings, Jonmair smiled and took Baird’s hand the same way. From now on, he could feel her promise. From now on we’re going through it together.
That evening Baird returned to Jonmair’s side between each of his routine checks of the various rooms. There were Gens scattered throughout the salons, off-duty soldiers gambling as usual, Robert and Conta among them. Old Chance and a number of other older Simes had commandeered the largest poker table, playing the highest stakes the room allowed. Baird wasn’t worried—they could all cover their bets.
His father had retreated once more to his office. Baird could not gather the emotional energy to demand an explanation of how the channels had managed to match him with a Gen. After his transfer tomorrow he would be up for the confrontation.
What had happened to the Gen? Unless he or she were one of the Companions, Treavor Axton had to be talked into asking that Gen to be his Companion. It was probably one of the young Gens who had recently established into a world of unexpected safety, and had simply gone back to his or her family after transfer. Baird hoped it was someone with skills they could use at The Post, but then, it really didn’t matter much. They could train anyone to serve food and drinks, and Gens quickly developed instincts to keep the ambient serene.
* * * *
IN THE MAIN SALON, JONMAIR SERVED DRINKS as Zhag and Tonyo’s show got under way. They opened with the same song every night, and the centerpiece of the performance didn’t change. Otherwise, though, they played an ever-growing variety of pieces, including tunes from out-Territory. Jonmair wondered if they got tired of playing the same thing all the time, or if they varied it because of all the repeat customers.
Tonyo had a habit of dropping snatches of other songs into whatever he was singing—she didn’t know how Zhag could keep up with him, but the shiltpron player always did.
The salon was packed. Jonmair had to squeeze between rows of customers to hand out mugs of porstan—no delicate breakable glasses in here. She knew how to ease through with her field, no more intrusive than the Sime staff despite not having their inherent grace. Her tips told her the customers found her presence more than acceptable.
Except for one group of Simes by the door, and a couple who had come early and snagged two of only four stools at the small bar.
Jonmair couldn’t help noticing that while the woman was post, the man was in Need and agitated, not getting into the music at all. As she had to pass them repeatedly to pick up drink orders, it crossed her mind that she had never seen these two before. Odd that they hadn’t bought tickets for the next night, when both of them would be post.
She came near them again when she approached the bar with an order for porstan, lemonade, and brandy. Lukis, the bartender, found the brandy bottle empty. He glanced at his assistant, who was mixing cocktails, and turned back to Jonmair. “Run down to the cellar and get another bottle, Jonny.” He tossed her the key to the wine cellar door.
She caught it, controlling her delight when she realized Lukis was treating her exactly as if she were a Sime! She had never been entrusted with the key or sent to the cellar alone before—Simes were always sent for heavy porstan kegs—but she knew what to do.
Jonmair unlocked the door down the hall from Treavor Axton’s office, took a lamp to navigate the old wooden staircase, and paused at the foot to think which room held brandy.
She had only been down here twice before, once when Lukis showed her how the records were kept, and then this morning with Baird. There were racks of porstan kegs behind the first door she opened. The next one, though, revealed wines and liqueurs. A brief search brought her to two bottles of brandy like the one just emptied. She took one, and before returning to the salon followed protocol to record that there was only one bottle left. But the pencil beside the inventory book was broken, and she had no knife to sharpen it.
Jonmair looked around, but there was no one in the corridor who might have a pen or pencil. Why had she left hers on the bar? There were customers waiting for drinks, but if she didn’t record what she had taken there would be trouble at the next inventory.
So she went to Treavor Axton’s office. He wasn’t in—probably at the poker table at this time of night. She took the pen from his desktop, made the entry, locked the cellar door, and returned the pen to its proper place.
As she stepped back into the hallway, she came face to face with Treavor Axton. “What are you doing in my office, Gen?” he demanded.
Jonmair held up the bottle of brandy. “I borrowed your pen to write down that I took this from the cellar.”
“What were you doing in the cellar?” he bellowed.
“I told you—getting a bottle of brandy for Lukis.”
“I don’t want Gens poking around the cellar or spying in my office!”
“I wasn’t spying. I left my pencil and pad in the Main Salon when Lukis sent me—”
“No excuses! You don’t belong in either place!”
“Dad! What’s going on?”
Baird came up and put a protective arm around Jonmair.
“Keep that Gen from snooping around my cellars!” His father went into his office and slammed the door in their faces.
“What was that about?” Baird asked.
“I don’t know. He would’ve yelled at me if I hadn’t recorded taking the brandy, especially as it’s time to reorder.”
Baird shook his head. “I’m afraid he’s not as well as I thought. Though we have occasionally had employees help themselves to the stock. You’d better get back to work, Jonmair.”
“Come with me,” she suggested. “Why can’t your dad do the house inspections when you’re in Need?”
“Because it’s my job. I’ll join you in the Gold Salon right after the show,” he promised. “Go on now—Lukis is waiting for that brandy.”
Jonmair had to push close to the odd couple of Simes at the bar, in order to hand Lukis the bottle and the key.
“You—Gen!” the man hissed at her. “You stop starin’ at me!”
“Shut up, Rark!” the woman said. “You’ll get yours soon enough.”
Jonmair, who had not been staring, deliberately took her attention away from the couple. But when she stopped to see if the group by the door wanted fresh drinks, “Not from no Gen, we don’t,” one of them sneered, while another growled, “Animal!” as she passed. Something besides the arrant prejudice bothered her. Why would such people pay to see Zhag and Tonyo? By this time, she could tell from her body’s response to them, especially high-field as she was, that like the couple at the bar, they paired Simes who were freshly post with Simes in hard Need.
Suspecting they were there to make trouble rather than to enjoy the show, she decided to warn Zhag and Tonyo at intermission, and then find Baird. The Post did not allow brawling, and these Simes seemed to be itching for a fight.
There were only two Gens in the main salon tonight besides Tonyo and Jonmair, but at least a dozen Simes besides those with the Gens wore collar-and-tags. None of the roughnecks did, of course—she suspected they had come to pick a fight with the “Genlovers.”
Unless, of
course, the music and the ambient changed their minds.
Just before intermission, Jonmair and the other serving staff went to their positions along the sides of the room for “My Brother, He Turned Out Wrong.” Zhag came out from behind his shiltpron to begin his introduction of Tonyo’s song—but before he could speak, the female Sime at the bar pulled something out of her pocket, did something to it that Jonmair couldn’t see, and then lobbed it onto the stage.
In the hushed moment it landed with a clunk, and a hissing sound.
The object fell behind Zhag, between him and Tonyo. The shiltpron player turned, gasped “Bloody Shen!” and leaped over the object to give his partner a vicious shove toward the stage door. “Run, Tonyo!”
Tonyo stumbled, saying, “What is that?”
Zhag stripped off his jacket to cover the object as he cried, “Just go! Get all the Gens out of here!”
Although Zhag was trying to wrap up what Jonmair now realized was a small canister, she could smell a faint odor that made her heart start to race. It must have meant something to other Simes, for several ran forward, grabbed her and Tonyo, and carried them toward the stage door.
Other Simes were trying to take the Gens in the audience out through the front entrance, but it was blocked by the group of Simes Jonmair had noticed earlier—and they were flinging more canisters!
“It’s fear gas!” Zhag shouted. “Don’t let Gens breathe it!”
Tonyo was out the door now. Jonmair cooperated with her rescuers as they augmented to try to get her out of harm’s way—but another canister landed between them and the door as the couple who had been at the bar loomed before them, barring their way to safety.
Safety?
Outside, Jonmair heard shouting—and then screams!
She gasped, unable to hold her breath any longer. Acrid fumes burned her lungs.
Zhag threw the male Sime aside, but the woman lunged through the door and slammed it shut in his face. When he reached for the handle, it came off in his hand.
Jonmair was shaking, her heart pounding. She wanted to control, but cold sweat broke out on her skin as her nerves tingled with anxiety.
