by Jean Lorrah
“No,” said Tonyo, “thank you, Zhag. You saved my life.”
“I think that makes us even,” said Zhag with a smile at his Companion. “Until the end of the month.”
“What’s…vriamic whatsis?” the young Gen asked.
“Spasms in the vriamic node from providing several transfers in a row. Normally I don’t perform that particular function at all. It’s nothing serious — it’s like the cramp you get in an unused muscle if you suddenly exercise hard. Working channels get proper training in First Year, and then keep up the exercise daily. Playing shiltpron doesn’t use the same…muscles, as it were.”
“As long as you’re all right.” Tonyo appeared to have recovered completely. “What was that gas,” he asked, “and how do we protect Gens from it? I didn’t get the full effect, but the anxiety attack it gave me was bad enough.”
At Tonyo’s words, Jonmair shuddered again. “I’m so sorry,” she said, fighting back tears. “I— I couldn’t control my fear, Baird!”
“Of course you couldn’t,” he replied, stroking her hair as he knew she found soothing. “It’s all right now.”
“No it isn’t,” said Tonyo. “I’m not afraid of Simes, but I sure am afraid of that gas! Bloody shen—the first canister was meant for Zhag and me. They thought they could make him kill me. But not all Simes have Zhag’s control. If we’re attacked again, how can Gens keep from losing control?”
“You can’t,” said Zhag, “any more than you can keep from losing consciousness if you’re hit over the head. It’s a police matter now—maybe an army matter. They’ll get the people who did this—count on it.”
“You mean the gas is not something new?” Tonyo asked.
“No,” Baird told him. “It’s the stuff of legend, but obviously it actually exists.”
“But...before Unity what use would there be for it? A weapon against the Householders?”
Zhag said, “Certainly not the kind of direct attack we had here tonight, because the stuff was banned the moment the Sime government found out it was real. The people responsible for these attacks will be executed. Simes are just as terrified of fear gas attacks as Gens.”
“But why?” the boy asked. “Simes didn’t panic. It’s obviously geared to Gen metabolism.”
“True,” said Baird, “but Sime Territories have never had enough Gens to afford the possibility of fear gas set off in a pen or on a Genfarm. Think about it, Tonyo. The sole reason Simes have agreed to disjunct is that the only other option is Zelerod’s Doom.”
“And that,” said Bran Coyt, cradling his wife the way Baird still held Jonmair, “is why fear gas has always been illegal and illicit. In a junct territory, set loose among pen Gens, it would produce enough off-schedule Kills that there would not be enough Gens to go around that month. I don’t care how junct the leanings of the legislature are: even those who secretly dream of a return to the Kill know they can’t allow another such attack. We’re on the road to suicide if we don’t prevent it.”
“What was fear gas ever invented for?” Tonyo asked.
Zhag looked at his partner. “There are Simes who...just don’t get enough thrill out of the Kill of a pen Gen.”
“I know about Choice Kills, Zhag,” said Tonyo.
“Yes,” said Baird, “but most Simes could never afford one, or only on rare occasions. Fear gas could spur a pen Gen into a panic that might satisfy a jaded Sime.”
“Of course that was illegal, too,” added Zhag. “It would be disastrous to have a large number of Simes hooked on such Kills. As if every Sime were a Freeband Raider, seeking more thrilling Kills until they burned themselves out.”
“So it’s not likely they’ll try again tomorrow night?” asked Tonyo.
“You surely don’t think you can perform tomorrow night!” said Treavor Axton, who had remained standing near the entranceway. “We can’t allow you—”
“We can’t allow them to stop us!” said Tonyo.
“Tonyo’s right,” said Zhag. “We must not let the people who did this win. If you keep The Post open, we’ll perform.”
“And if you don’t,” added Tonyo, “we’ll give a concert in the square.”
The same sentiment prevailed all over town. In the morning shops were open, and there were even more Gens in the streets than usual, albeit none without Sime escort. Seeking news of just how bad things had been, Baird, Zhag, and Tonyo went out at daybreak. The dispensary in the Old Pen was open, green flags flying. A long line of edgy Simes who had held themselves in control all night waited for their transfers.
The corridor was nearly empty of furniture today. Baird might have thought the chairs had been removed to make more room for the lines of people, except that the few that were left showed signs of hasty repair, the posters had been ripped down, and gashes on walls and doors indicated how the missing furniture had been broken.
They went into the controller’s office to allow Zhag to report his activities as a channel the night before.
Thea ambrov Carre was acting controller today, her Companion Janine quiet at her side. Thea’s plain heart-shaped face broke into the smile that made her pretty when she saw Zhag and Tonyo together. “I heard you didn’t succumb to the attack,” she said, “but it’s a relief to zlin for myself.”
Tonyo laughed. “Zhag saved me and at least half a dozen other people,” he said. “He’s been channeling all night.”
“Oh, dear,” said Thea, obviously proud of the man she loved, but still concerned. “Zhag, you’re not in practice—”
“—and my vriamic node let me know it!” he responded. “But I’m fine now. We won’t keep you, but you have to have the information for your records.” He gave her the names of the Simes he had given transfer to, and the amounts of selyn.
“Well,” she said, “at least it eases today’s schedule by that many.” She zlinned him. “Do you think you could help out here for a while? Even just an hour would ease the load. So many people have come up short, resisting fear last night.”
“Of course,” said Zhag. “Tonyo and I will be happy to help.”
When Zhag and Tonyo had gone to their assignment, Thea turned to Baird. “Where is Jonmair?”
“I left her sleeping. She was pretty badly affected by the fear gas, but she still wants to give me transfer today.”
“Oh, Baird, you can’t ask that of her!” exclaimed Janine.
“It’s what she wants,” he protested.
“I know it is,” said Thea’s Companion. “I understand how badly she wants it—but out of desire to have it behind her, to not disappoint you, to keep her promise. For Gens, courage kills, Baird.”
Courage kills. He had heard that often enough at Carre: a Gen fighting down fear could not give transfer. A Gen had to truly feel no fear in order to give up selyn in pleasure rather than pain.
“All right,” he agreed. “My appointment is this afternoon. I’ll bring Jonmair, and one of the channels can decide whether it’s safe.”
“No—don’t come ready to be disappointed when you’re told no.” Thea zlinned him. “Baird, you are remarkably stable this morning. You resisted Jonmair’s fear last night?”
“I had to,” he explained. “If I hadn’t protected her, someone would have killed her.”
“How did you protect her?”
“We put all the Gens in the Killroom,” he admitted. “There was no other insulated room—”
“Baird, don’t apologize!” Janine interrupted, eyes shining. “That was brilliant thinking, and I’m sure none of those Gens feels anything but gratitude.”
“But Baird,” Thea persisted, “how did you get the Gens into the Killroom?”
“Drag, carry—whatever we had to do, we did. There was no time to be gentle.”
“Did you—yourself—touch Jonmair?”
He frowned, puzzled. “I—didn’t dare. If I had touched her, I might have killed her. She couldn’t help herself—she was hysterical from the fear gas.”
“Then yo
u actually weren’t near her?” Thea asked.
“I was as close to her as I am to you,” he said. “It was so hard. I had to ask Zhag to help me break away.”
“You...asked? It wasn’t that Zhag intervened because he saw what was happening?”
“No. I had to ask him. He would have given me transfer if I’d wanted it, but I didn’t. I only wanted Jonmair—but for transfer, not the Kill.”
“Oh, Baird,” Janine whispered, tears filling her eyes. “Your matchmate, flaring fear, and you less than a day from hard Need—”
“All the more reason,” said Thea, raising a handling tentacle to stop her Companion’s outburst, “to make certain that nothing goes wrong today. Baird, it’s obvious that Jonmair is a person to you—that you now see Gens as people just as much as Simes. If we don’t risk residual fear causing Jonmair to panic today, I am certain that next month you can complete your disjunction.”
Baird saw Janine frown and start to say something, then think better of it. From somewhere beyond his nagging Need, Baird found a smile for her, knowing it was what Conta had said: that he was disjunct, that last night had proved it.
But Thea was right—Jonmair’s safety was more important than Baird’s comfort. No sense risking his disjunction and Jonmair’s life when just one month would guarantee them both. He accepted the appointment Thea assigned him, almost three hours later than his original one because of the long lines still to serve from last night. Trying to take it as a compliment to his control and not a punishment, he left the controller’s office.
On his way out, he learned more of what had happened at the dispensary last night. Someone had set off canisters of fear gas amidst the lines of Simes in Need. The only Simes not in hard Need were channels. The only available Gens were Companions, Gens with fields like Tonyo’s. Helplessly, they had succumbed to the gas. Four Companions, stripped of their defenses, had been killed before the rest were shut up in the insulated transfer suites, channels fighting hand to hand against Simes trying to reach the remaining Gens.
The police had had no choice but to shut down the dispensary until the gas was cleared and it was safe to bring in more channels and Companions from Carre to cope with the growing numbers of Simes in hard Need.
They were still coping, but although there was much freewheeling anxiety among the Simes waiting in the long lines this morning, there were no complaints. But there were Thank you’s to the Companions circulating among them to ease their stress while they waited.
All over Norlea, there was a new appreciation of Gens. They had always been important, of course, as the source of selyn. But something had shifted in the community’s attitude: more and more Simes shocked into perceiving Gens as people.
Baird saw signs in shop windows that had not been there yesterday: “Gens welcome,” and “All larities served.” When he passed through the square on the way home, he saw a vendor with cheap copies of the Gen collar necklaces Zhag and Tonyo and Jonmair wore, selling them hand over tentacle. Even as he watched, the woman ran out of her supply, and closed up her stand.
The attacks meant to drive Sime and Gen apart had only succeeded in bringing them together.
The newspaper was late today, but by midmorning a special edition appeared, with stories of the horror visited on Norlea. Baird took a few copies back to The Post. There was a special featured story on the front page.
Bran Coyt, it turned out, was a reporter for the Norlea Tribune. “Last night,” he wrote, “Gulf Territory witnessed something no one ever thought to see: frightened Gens turning for protection to the arms of Simes.”
Baird watched his father’s lips thin as he read the paper over his morning kafi. Then he deliberately turned it over to read the story below the fold—about the devastation in the Gulf capital of Lanta.
Gulf’s largest city, where there were no Householdings and no mixed-larity families, was once again under martial law. There were four dispensaries in the city, and all had sustained fear gas attacks. The pen Gens kept on the premises for the channels to strip for selyn had been killed, as had more than a dozen Companions, some by their own channels.
“I’m glad we live here, rather in than in Lanta,” said Baird.
“You enjoy being perverted?” his father asked.
“Dad—we’re not perverted. Juncts are perverted.”
Treavor Axton put down his newspaper and stared at and zlinned his son. “What’s happened to you?”
“I told you—I’ve disjuncted,” Baird replied confidently. “I didn’t want to kill last night. I’ll need selyn every month, but I’ll never want to kill again. I feel free, Dad. You’ll understand in a month or two.”
“No,” his father said.
“Dad,” Baird ventured, “it’s nothing to be ashamed of! I know the only way you could be so much better after just one transfer was if—”
“You don’t know anything!” his father said, rising from the table. “I don’t want you talking about it—understand? No speculation, no discussion. It doesn’t go outside the family.” And with that he walked out.
Baird wished his growing Need didn’t keep him from feeling the contentment he should have. Once his father completed his disjunction he wouldn’t feel ashamed, or dependent on Gens. He, too, would come to understand that Simes and Gens depended on one another equally.
And Baird picked up the paper to read Bran Coyt’s article again.
* * * *
WHEN BAIRD TOLD HER OF THE CONTROLLER’S DECISION, Jonmair felt deprived of the transfer she should have had with Baird, and of the post reaction that would have followed. She wished he had wakened her and taken her along—any Sime could zlin she wasn’t afraid! Next month, she promised herself yet again, joining Zhag and Tonyo in the kafi shop.
They had come back from the Dispensary late for lunch, Zhag weary from performing transfers for over two hours before Tonyo dragged him away to ply him with trin tea and try to get some food into him.
“We have to go back tomorrow,” said Tonyo. “I understand, but Zhag, you have to be up to performing tonight, and then channeling tomorrow.”
“I can do it,” said Zhag. “I’m in good health now, Tonyo.”
“Thea says it’ll take a year to build you up to full strength. So you’re going to take a nap this afternoon.”
Zhag laughed. “Tonyo, you are so sleepy that I won’t be able to help taking a nap!”
“Good! But food first.”
Jonmair sipped her tea and nibbled at fresh bread and cheese. Like most establishments, The Post had opened late this morning, so Chef had not had time to make the usual variety of pastries. It didn’t really matter, though, as the kafi shop was nearly empty. Probably most people didn’t expect them to be open.
“How bad were things at the Dispensary?” Jonmair asked as Tonyo brought a tray laden with fruit, bread, honey, and cheese.
“It was the worst there,” Tonyo told her. “Four Companions were killed.”
“I thought they couldn’t be killed,” said Jonmair.
“Not ordinarily. But you got the fear gas worse than I did last night. If we hadn’t been protected by the Simes here....” he let the thought trail off.
“Didn’t the channels protect their Companions?” Jonmair asked.
“Of course they did,” said Zhag. “There were fifteen Companions out in the public areas, and the channels got eleven of them to safety. But there were over a hundred Simes in hard Need waiting for transfer. Some of them were able to reach the Gens first.”
Jonmair shuddered, remembering how hysterical she had been. It must have been even worse for Companions, to lose the control they worked so hard to learn.
“Did you know a channel called Vent, and his Companion Mern?” Tonyo asked.
“Yes,” said Jonmair. “Vent gave Baird his transfer last month.” She didn’t elaborate.
“Oh,” the young Gen said, and fell silent.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jonmair. “Was Mern one of the Companions wh
o got killed?”
Tonyo nodded, his mouth full of bread and cheese it seemed he was having a hard time swallowing.
“You’ll hear about it,” said Zhag, “so we may as well tell you.”
“Vent killed Mern,” Jonmair said. “Nothing else could make you hesitate to tell me.”
Both men nodded. “Of course that was what the attackers wanted to happen to all the channels and Companions,” said Zhag.
Jonmair remembered the young Gen teasing the channel. “Oh!” she gasped.
“What?” Zhag asked her.
“Something Mern said to Vent—he actually said, ‘You can kill me again any time you’ve a mind to.’“
“Vent was junct?” Zhag asked.
“Yes. The Tecton had just recruited him and Mern, and they were put to work after their first transfer. They had had only two days of experience when we talked with them.”
Tonyo nodded. “It’s a dangerous situation—but there’re not enough channels to go around. I’m sorry it happened, though.”
“What will become of Vent?” Jonmair asked.
“He— Well, Janine thinks he committed suicide,” said Tonyo. “He threw himself into the fighting to protect the other Companions, and someone knifed him.”
“Once he realized what he had done,” said Zhag, “I doubt he cared.”
“Conta’s fiancé, Robert, was killed, too,” said Jonmair. “Then she murdered the Sime who did it.”
Tonyo pushed aside most of his food. “The attackers didn’t achieve what they wanted to, but they sure caused a lot of suffering.”
“Baird says they caught some of them,” said Jonmair.
“Who was behind it?” asked Zhag. “I heard there were attacks all over the territory. Somebody had to organize it.”
“Right now,” said Jonmair, “no one knows.”
The police, though, were trying to find out. They had interviewed Sime witnesses last night, but today they were questioning surviving Gens. Just as the three friends finished lunch, two Simes came into the kafi shop. The younger Sime, female, wore police uniform, while the older, male, was Police Investigator Kerrk.
