by Jean Lorrah
Slowly, alone with his best friend, both of them alive and free of the cages, Zhag began to see their situation more clearly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, slowly realizing that he had made matters much worse.
“Don’t apologize,” said Tonyo. “Tell me what happened back there. What’s been happening every time we play the song you used to love. Zhag—we can’t go on like this. What’s setting you off—it’s something about your brother, isn’t it?”
The Gen was far too perceptive. Zhag turned away and began to unsaddle his mount. “We have to cool down the horses,” he said, “and then find them some water.”
“Don’t change the subject,” said Tonyo, although he, too, set about caring for his panting mount. “Talk while we walk them.” When Zhag remained silent, the Gen began, “You lived near Lanta. Your dad died soon after your little brother was born. You had just changed over into a Sime when your mom died, and left him in your care. Two years later, he established as a Gen—and instead of turning him over to the authorities, you decided to take him to the border.”
“That’s right,” Zhag agreed. This much he had told Tonyo early in their acquaintance, when the Gen had startled him with the lyrics to the song that had been so right, and now kept going so wrong.
“The Householdings were too far away?”
“I never even thought of the Householdings,” Zhag admitted. “There was no Householding in Lanta. Simes and Gens living together—it didn’t sound possible. Gen Territory seemed the only place Remmy could be safe. We stayed off the roads as far as the West Eyeway. But we couldn’t get across it without someone zlinning Remmy—he was high-field by then.”
When Zhag stopped, Tonyo prompted, “And so you got caught.” At the Sime’s continued silence, the Gen added, “Remmy was confiscated and killed.”
“Yes,” Zhag whispered.
“There’s more to it,” said Tonyo. “Zhag...did they force you to witness it?”
“Yes,” he managed around the tightness in his throat.
But Tonyo had come to know Zhag too well in the four years they had been partners and transfer mates...and he had also learned Sime history. “They wouldn’t let you get away with aiding a Gen to escape, would they? Remmy was killed—but you were also punished. What was it? Attrition?”
Zhag nodded, hoping that horror would be enough to satisfy Tonyo’s curiosity. It should be enough—it was the worst punishment Simes had: for depriving a Sime of a month of life, which was the way junct Simes of that day perceived escorting a Gen out of Sime Territory, the perpetrator was caged on display, deprived of a Kill for a full day beyond hard Need.
Every Sime going by zlinned his sense of encroaching death, while in the next cage, separated by bars that neither Sime nor Gen could reach through, was held the Gen he had tried to rescue—until the Sime no longer knew brother, sister, son, daughter, best friend. Not a person. Only a source of life.
Zhag realized he was standing frozen, leaning against the horse that had, without human guidance, led them to a spring bubbling through the rocks. Tonyo led his horse up to drink, then tossed the reins of both animals to the ground. He took Zhag by the shoulders, turned him back to where they had left the saddles, and made him sit down.
Tonyo took the water bag hanging from one of the saddles, and returned in a few moments with fresh water. “Drink,” he instructed, and Zhag did, glad the Gen was satisfied. Even Tonyo must never know—
“Did they force you to kill Remmy?” Tonyo asked.
“No!” Zhag gasped, all the horror rushing back.
“But that was the standard punishment, wasn’t it? Zhag, I understand. It wasn’t Remmy to you anymore—just a source of selyn. That was the lesson you were supposed to learn.”
Unable to bear having Tonyo think that, Zhag whispered, “It was Remmy—the way you are you when you give me selyn. They tried to make me kill him. I...couldn’t.”
Warm pride Zhag didn’t deserve flowed from his Companion. But Tonyo had to ask, “Then...how did you survive?”
“When they put Remmy in with me—he tried to make me kill him! He kept trying to take my arms—” Zhag choked to a halt, drew a breath, and added, “It wasn’t supposed to be a death sentence for me. I was supposed to be taught a lesson, not executed.”
“But you and Remmy were teaching a lesson that junct society wasn’t ready for,” Tonyo added.
Zhag nodded. “Finally they took us off display, took Remmy away, and brought me another Gen.”
There. Tonyo should be satisfied with that.
But the Gen shook his head, his blond hair white in the moonlight. “That’s not the end of the story.”
“Of course it is,” said Zhag. “I had to kill to live.”
“Don’t lie to me, Zhag—killing a nameless Pen Gen is not what ties you in knots every time you think about Remmy. I’ve known from the beginning that our song reminded you of your brother, but there’s something new. What has changed?”
“The way you sing it.”
“No. Your response has changed. I tried it without you—if you weren’t performing, I thought you wouldn’t react. I was wrong. But Zhag, I have to know why I was wrong. What has changed?”
“You...have changed,” Zhag told him.
“How?”
“What you said at rehearsal. You think like a junct.”
“I certainly understand more than I did four years ago. And I have more control.”
“It’s not the control. Remmy had no control.”
“Remmy?”
“I think...you remind me of him more than ever because you think and act like someone raised in-Territory.”
“So,” said Tonyo, “now when I start to sing ‘My Brother,’ it’s not just that you remember Remmy. It’s as if you are back in that cage with him? “
Zhag nodded.
“Then...why the shame, Zhag? You shenned out to save Remmy, right? I know how secure your disjunction is. You nearly died shenning yourself to protect me, remember?”
Early in their acquaintance, when Tonyo had witnessed a Kill for the first time, the Gen had spiked fear and triggered Zhag’s Sime instinct. Tonyo could handle such an attack today without a thought, but then—Zhag had aborted out of the commitment to the Kill, sending his selyn systems into nearly fatal spasms.
With Remmy...he had also shenned out. When he had come to with his brother leaning over him in wide-eyed terror for Zhag’s life, that fear had no longer been appealing. It was as if he could not feel his Need.
“I shenned Remmy twice,” he said, “but after that...I didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t entice me, though he tried, Tonyo. He wanted me to live.”
“Of course he did,” Tonyo said. “He loved you as much as you loved him. Zhag...is what’s bothering you that, if you had cooperated...he might have been able to give you transfer? Neither of you had any way of knowing that.”
“If he had, they’d have slit his throat,” Zhag said grimly. “No, Tonyo—the moment we were caught Remmy was as good as dead.”
“But...you couldn’t kill the other Gen either, could you? What happened, Zhag? You’re no ghost—so how did you survive?”
“They couldn’t let me die over a simple one-day Kill delay. So they replaced Remmy with another Gen. They even tried a Prime Kill, I’m told. I don’t remember it. They were desperate to save me because I had shenned Remmy while we were still on display. People were curious.”
“Nothing like the power of public opinion to get officials to do the right thing,” said Tonyo. “Did they finally call in a channel?”
Zhag nodded. “A consult—they wouldn’t let her try to give me transfer. Against the law, of course.”
“Of course,” Tonyo agreed flatly.
“All she could do was suggest a cascade. Do you know what a cascade is, Tonyo?”
“It’s what nearly got me killed that time we saw a Kill in the marketplace—zlinning that Kill provoked killmode in every Sime around.”
“Yes—one Kill sparks another
. They brought in another Sime and her Kill. Her killmode triggered mine, and I...killed too. I survived for another month.”
“...but?” Tonyo prompted.
Zhag felt the apprehension in the Gen’s field, and knew his Companion had already guessed. “The Kill...rang with my brother’s death. The other Sime...the one whose Kill triggered mine...was given Remmy. To me...it was as if I had killed my brother.”
Zhag turned away, sick with shame. Reborn out of his brother’s death, for that one supreme moment he had been—
“You’re not junct anymore.” Tonyo’s voice was quiet, as was his field, supportive, not accusing. “You left the Kill behind—”
“I tried,” Zhag told him. “I tracked down that channel, found out she was from Carre...but when I went there—”
“They told you you were too old to disjunct,” said Tonyo. “And you proved them wrong.”
“I proved them right. I wasn’t able to stop killing.”
“Zhag—you have stopped killing. You disjuncted before we ever met. If you hadn’t, I would have died that day in the marketplace.”
“You don’t understand. I’ve just told you my greatest shame—”
“No,” his partner said gently. “You have just told me your greatest fear—your Need nightmare. It’s not shame that is causing riots at our concerts, Zhag. It’s fear.”
“Fear of losing control.”
“You? Lose control?” Tonyo laughed. “Tell me, what has been going on tonight?”
Before Zhag could respond to the insult of the Gen’s thinking any of this funny, Tonyo continued, “You are within four days of hard Need, but in the jail you refused to zlin, so I couldn’t affect you! What killer Sime could do that?”
Zhag stared at his friend in the moonlight, zlinned him, searching for any nuance of either dishonesty or disgust. But there was nothing in Tonyo’s field but admiration and concern...tinged with amusement. “Zhag—you have so much control it’s pathological. Finally I know why: to you, killmode means experiencing your brother’s death. Worse than that—it means tearing your own life from his death.”
Zhag nodded, unable to speak.
“But that is what makes you disjunct.”
“What?” He often found it difficult to follow Tonyo’s strange Gen logic.
“You wouldn’t learn their junct lesson, would you? That your life depended on not caring who the source of selyn was or what you had to do to get it? Be ashamed of the juncts who tried to teach you that, Zhag...not of yourself for denying it—for knowing, painful as it was, that Remmy was still your brother.” Tonyo put his hands on Zhag’s shoulders again, letting his lush field wash through the Sime’s depleted systems. “Gens are people. To know that in your heart is what makes you disjunct.”
“I still...killed,” Zhag pointed out. “That Pen Gen was a person, Tonyo. And...I had to kill again, months later—”
“And then you stopped killing altogether.”
“But even after I knew better—”
“—you still had to learn how,” Tonyo told him. “Remember the patience you had with me while I learned how not to get myself killed, and how not to hurt Simes in the process? What are you afraid of, Zhag?”
“That others will know my shame.”
“They should know it,” said Tonyo. “It is your badge of honor.”
“What...?” Zhag whispered.
“It’s a battle scar,” Tonyo continued. “Zhag, you are stronger for what you’ve been through than luckier young Simes who have never killed.”
“How can you say that?” Zhag asked. “The taint of junctedness is seared into my nager. You can’t know what nonjunct Simes zlin in me.”
“I can’t zlin it, but I know what it is. The shame you feel at having your life at the expense of your brother’s is also your sure and certain knowledge that you will never kill again. Junct Simes can aspire to attain that knowledge of themselves one day. All the young nonjunct Simes can do is hope that the situation never arises.”
“I...never thought of it that way,” said Zhag, wondering again at his Gen’s perception.
“Well, think of it!” said Tonyo. “That is what you have to give the Simes of Pueblo Territory: your field says, ‘This is what is possible. You don’t require some channel or Companion to protect your Gen loved ones from you—you, yourself, can protect them until they learn to protect themselves.’ You bear scars, Zhag—but scar tissue is stronger than unblemished flesh. You are a perfect example of why disjunction is worth the pain.”
Zhag sighed. “I don’t know if we’ll get the chance to show anybody anything. I really shenned us this time.”
“Yeah,” Tonyo agreed, “you certainly did! Jailbreak, horse theft—”
One of the horses whinnied, and both animals raised their heads, shifting uneasily.
“Someone’s coming!” Zhag whispered, zlinning.
“We’re already here,” a female voice called, as two figures came between the rocks that had shielded their approach. They were Gen, one male, one female.
Tonyo jumped up, placing himself in front of Zhag before he realized who the only Gens who could sneak up on Zhag could be. “You’re not the Border Patrol. You’re Companions from the Dispensary at Dis Junction.”
“Yes,” replied the man. “We had to leave the Simes at the border. It would be wise if you came back with us now.”
“We’re ready,” said Zhag. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have broken us out of jail.”
“We’ll do whatever’s necessary,” added Tonyo. “Pay for the damage—or I’ll fix the roof myself so no other Sime can go through it.”
“You can take that up with the sheriff,” said the woman.
The ride to the border was brief. There a channel and three other Simes waited with the sheriff. But when Zhag and Tonyo tried to surrender, he said, “I had no right to arrest you. I’m sorry. I forgot you had diplomatic immunity.”
The grim annoyance emanating from the Tecton channel, Vohar, told Zhag that he was none too pleased with either the sheriff for forgetting that fact, or Zhag and Tonyo for their antics, either. But Tonyo’s burst of laughter as the tension eased put all the other Simes into high good humor.
Nevertheless, both Zhag and Tonyo apologized and insisted on paying for the damages to the jail. “And if anyone was badly hurt—” Zhag continued, fearful that someone might indeed have been injured by Tonyo’s genslam.
The sheriff, his headache gone now, chuckled sardonically. “Everybody’s mad at me for breaking up the concert. No one got hurt, not even what they’d get in a barfight.”
“It hit you pretty hard,” Tonyo observed. “I didn’t mean for anyone to do more than pass out for a minute.”
“I dunno,” the sheriff replied. “Maybe I was closer, maybe I was wide open because I was zlinning everything—”
“Or maybe,” Zhag said, “the Tecton hasn’t bothered to tell you you’re a channel.”
“What are you talking about?” Vohar demanded angrily.
“This man is obviously a third-order channel,” Zhag told him. “Why aren’t you training him? You’re going to require hundreds of thirds to disjunct this territory.”
“That’s why you were so strongly affected,” Tonyo told the sheriff. “You’re more sensitive than a renSime.”
Vohar was none too happy about being told his business by a shiltpron player. “Vohar,” Zhag said, “Out here on the frontier you can’t wait for a first-order channel. I’m a second, like you. Didn’t you suspect the sheriff was a third?”
“No—but I just arrived here last week. I haven’t given him transfer yet.”
“Well, see about getting him a Companion instead,” said Tonyo. “You’ve got a huge job to do here, and you need every channel you can find.”
Despite all that had happened, it was still only a little after midnight when they rode back into Dis Junction. The saloon was open, as were the other bars, for people who had come all this way were making a night of it
. Only the families with children had left—and when Zhag and Tonyo announced that they would finish the concert, nearly seventy people crowded back into the saloon.
They took the stage once more, and Tonyo called the sheriff to come forward. When he told the crowd that one of their own was a channel, a cheer went up—to these people channels were the heroes who stood between them and the Kill. Not only forgiveness for spoiling their fun, but practically worship poured over the beleaguered man, who escaped, blushing, only when Tonyo picked up his guitar and Zhag returned to his shiltpron.
Tonyo addressed the audience once more. “This is a show, folks—no matter what happens, there’s no call for you to protect me from Zhag—all right?”
The crowd response was laughter, perhaps a little embarrassed, but mostly understanding, intimate, the accord of shared experience.
They started the interrupted song, “My Brother, He Turned Out Wrong.” Despite his trepidation, Zhag let his feelings flow when they reached the point where the memory of Remmy’s death rose to haunt him. Need—fear—
Grief rose from the audience—few of them, living as Raiders until they banded together to form Pueblo Territory, had escaped such loss of child or friend turned suddenly Gen. Then came the dangerous part in which Tonyo drew Zhag, and with him the whole audience, toward the feeling none of these Simes wanted to feel—toward killmode. Zhag’s shame rose—
—and then Tonyo’s response: strength, pride, confidence. They reached the refrain, “And I will never see his face again,” with the audience weeping openly in the agony of denial—acceptance—love—sharing—joy—triumph! Life!
No one wanted the song to end, so Zhag played a variation of the refrain, while Tonyo vocalized wordlessly. And then...the Gen’s field changed. Zhag zlinned, but could not believe his own laterals. Every Sime in the place was caught up in it, for even those who had had transfer very recently were zlinning this performance.
Terrified, Zhag began the outtro of the song, trying to force Tonyo to follow, to end what he was doing.
The song ended. Silence fell. The audience remained spellbound, gripped in the ambient nager. Zhag set his instrument on its stand and moved carefully to his partner’s side. “Tonyo!” he whispered, still not believing what he zlinned. “You are broadcasting Need—hard, junct Need!”
