House of Zeor

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  They rode steadily, side by side, as they passed an occasional wagon or fellow rider. Once they had to leave the road while two heavily laden grain wagons passed each other. And more than once their blue Zeor cloaks attracted stares of curiosity or lips curled in open disgust.

  Every other Sime they passed was armed with the Sime weapon-of-choice, the long supple whip curled at his belt. These juncts raked disdainful glances across Klyd’s bare hip while the channel ignored their attitude with a patently false innocence.

  Along this major artery, on both sides, farmhouses dotted the landscape, with occasional clusters forming small towns. Valleroy saw the green pennant flying over one such cluster and knew that it signified the presence of a Pen. In the far distance, on the slope of a hill behind the pennant building, he saw green-clad workers harvesting grain—Gens raising their own food, breeding stock.

  Tales rose out of his childhood to haunt him. He asked, “Is it true that they use drugs to make Gen women bear more children in the pens?”

  Klyd threw him a sharp glance, obviously sensing Valleroy’s roiling emotions. He pulled off the road, dismounting and loosing his horse to graze before answering. Valleroy followed suit. They had been riding steadily for hours. He was hungry enough to eat despite the memory of the funeral.

  “Those Gens are well treated,” said the channel as he dug his lunch out of a saddlebag.

  “Well treated?” snorted Valleroy.

  “Certainly. They are valuable property, aren’t they?” Klyd took the canteens and settled down among some rocks overlooking a placid pool on the edges of a stream. Only the sound of an occasional rider marred the stillness of a warm, Indian summer afternoon.

  At Valleroy’s incredulous look, Klyd continued, “It is only during the last few months, after they are marked for distribution, that their health and welfare is no longer important. Even then, they are well fed.”

  “You’re as bad as all the rest of them! You talk righteously about disjunction, and then discuss them”—he waved toward their backtrail where the green pennant could barely be seen over the rise, unconsciously irritating the Sime gesture—“as if they were just cattle!”

  Imperturbably taking a bite of a roll of black bread, Klyd chewed and swallowed methodically before answering. “Those people are nothing more than animals.” At Valleroy’s indignant rise, the channel gestured impatiently. “Sit down and eat. Maybe you’ll learn something if you can be quiet long enough to listen.”

  Sullenly, Valleroy sat and bit into his roll. The cake-like bread was moist with flakes of nut meats and chunks of fruit throughout. He found the canteen filled with a rich, syrupy drink that satisfied hunger without filling. Between bites, he said, “I’m listening.”

  “Those people over there”—Klyd gestured toward the distant pennant with a graceful tentacle—“are not and never have been your people. They were born in the pens. They have no language to speak of...no culture...and no art. They have no religion, and little in the way of morals guides their behavior. They are almost literally animals.”

  Klyd paused to let that sink in while he swigged at his canteen. “That is the main reason that most Simes out there”—he made an expansive gesture to include all Sime Territory—“don’t really believe Gens are people. If Gens aren’t people, then there’s no reason not to kill them as you slaughter animals to eat. If Gens aren’t people, then Simes who interbreed with them to produce the incredibly skilled donors like Denrau...and use those donors to avoid the kill...are certainly perverts of the worst sort. If Gens aren’t people, it follows that the wild Gens are to be hunted down and used in whatever way seems convenient.

  “Until the channels came along, it was sincerely believed that all Gens were merely animals...anthropoid copies of people. But then we found that your people, left to yourselves, develop language, culture, art, religion...everything that we have and maybe a bit more. Still, it is true that those bred and raised in the pens for generations don’t have these attributes. I know this, Hugh, because it is my job to take them and turn them into people.

  “And, Hugh,” said the channel, leaning forward impassioned, “we do succeed! We have shown over and over that the most dull-eyed denizen of the pens can blossom into a real human being given the right circumstances. That is the reason Andle and all his followers are frightened of us. Simes are no more fond of murder than you are.”

  “What happens to the ones born in the pens who go through changeover?”

  “Most of them die in changeover...from the drugs they’ve been saturated with all their lives. The few who survive are trained to become keepers of the pens...they have little memory of their childhood and very little intelligence. They rarely live as much as ten years after changeover.”

  Cynically, Valleroy smiled. “Oh, a necessary evil?”

  Klyd didn’t answer, avoiding Valleroy’s gaze. For once, Valleroy wished he could read Klyd’s emotions. “What about the captives? Don’t they teach....”

  “Captives are never mixed with stock. It was learned a long time ago that that only produces violence.”

  “So Aisha couldn’t possibly be there?” Valleroy couldn’t drag his eyes away from the pennant.

  “No, not a chance. That’s a government-supported operation. If she was taken by the Runzi, and if she’s still alive, she’s either in a Raider’s pen somewhere in the wilds, or she’s been placed for auction.”

  Valleroy mulled that over as he chewed on a fresh, crisp apple. Klyd knew more about the distribution of Gens for the kill than anyone from out-Territory could. They were following the best lead that had turned up. As frustrating as it was, there was absolutely nothing more they could do. Considering Feleho’s death following this same lead, it just might be the right one.

  Nevertheless, Valleroy felt guilty for just sitting in the shade placidly eating an apple while Aisha was, perhaps, screaming for help...somewhere. As long as he was moving or engrossed in some project, Valleroy could rest satisfied he was doing enough. But the moment he stopped to rest, his mind would conjure up torturous nightmares that made him want to jump up and run to her rescue...but he didn’t know which direction to run!

  He took a deep breath and stretched out, leaning against the tree behind him. Klyd sat, tailor-fashion, watching a flock of migrating birds so high in the blue sky Valleroy couldn’t tell what they were. The Sime appeared not to have a care in the world at that moment, yet Valleroy knew that Klyd walked the most dangerous path of any of Stacy’s agents. “Tell me something, Klyd.”

  “If I can.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Oh, everything...I guess it amounts to collaborating with the enemy. Working for Stacy. Searching for Aisha. Sending your friends into danger and not even telling them why. No other Sime is doing any of those things. What makes you different?”

  “Oh, I guess it’s the way I see history, or rather my place in it. Only a member of a Householding would do any of those things...and only a channel could. It has to be a channel whose Householding borders Gen Territory...in this district, that means Zeor. It has to be a Head of a Householding because only a Head could put together an information net useful to Stacy. And it has to be somebody who has a contact among the Gen authorities. I don’t know anybody else in that position.”

  “Since you’re the only one who could, you must? That doesn’t seem very logical.”

  “It is if you grant that somebody must provide a bridge between us and them.”

  Valleroy didn’t even notice that Klyd had said “us and them” rather than “us and you.” He still wasn’t satisfied. “How did you come to meet Stacy?”

  The birds had long since disappeared into the distance, but Klyd still gazed upward, as if some scene played itself out against the sky. “I was out checking a stand of timber on Zeor’s western border...the one on the bank of the river. We thought it might be ready for some selective harvesting. I was riding alone since I didn’t plan to
go off the holding. I was about to light my campfire for the night when a very exhausted Gen staggered into the clearing...right into my arms. He was being chased by a young Sime, just through changeover and berserk with need. That was the first time the river tunnel had been used in generations.

  “The Gen was Stacy?”

  “And the young Sime was Stacy’s nephew. The boy joined Zeor, and Stacy and I became friends.”

  “I must have met him, then, and never known it.”

  “No. Duvan was a martyr of the last pogrom. He had no children.”

  “Oh.” It was all Valleroy could think to say. Klyd’s tone bespoke a deeper tragedy better left buried. He gathered his things. “We’d better get going.”

  It was well after sundown, and the horses were blowing frosty clouds by the time they reached the Halfway House, which Klyd insisted was the only safe place to spend the night.

  The building was a converted mansion apparently reconstructed around a prewar frame. They paid the stable fees for the horses and trudged, bedrolls in hand, through the front door.

  Inside, warm air welcomed them. The large central room was a parlor, with a crackling fire laid in the stone hearth at one side. A handful of fellow travelers sprawled in the scattered lounge chairs, toasting their feet or dozing. A homely couch that might once have been red plush was piled with a salesman’s sample cases. In one corner a card game attracted several onlookers. All of them, Valleroy noted, were Sime. And all of them were watching him with that spring-steel alertness only a Sime has.

  He moved closer to Klyd while the channel signed the register, obtained a room key, and performed some ritual involving finances. It was the first time that he had seen Sime money, and it made Valleroy aware that he had none.

  Following Klyd up the stairs to their room, he shrugged. If the stares from the Simes around the room meant anything—particularly that of the salesman—Valleroy knew that without Klyd he wouldn’t last long enough to require money.

  While they unpacked, Valleroy surveyed the room. It was dingy and threadbare, but clean. On one wall a small painting of a sunset looked like it had been done by a child. There was a chair, lumpy with broken springs, and a single sagging bed. “I guess I’d prefer the floor,” said Valleroy, picking a spot.

  “Oh, no! What if the maid should ‘accidentally’ walk in? Blow the cover clear to the moon! A channel’s traveling Companion always sleeps in the same bed, eats at the same table, and stays within arm’s reach of the channel.”

  “Why? I’m supposed to be a person, right?”

  “It’s the image. The Householdings are trying to sell the idea that a Sime can associate with a Gen without killing. You have to convince them, by concrete actions, that you are not afraid of me...that you protect me of your own free will. I will never order you to do anything where they can hear. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good.” Klyd winked conspiratorially. “I’m going to get something to eat.”

  “Me too, then,” said Valleroy, following back downstairs.

  The thunderous silence that fell as they passed through the parlor raised goosebumps on Valleroy’s neck—especially the oily way the salesman pivoted to watch them pass. But he played his part, keeping his head high and trying to be the pride of Zeor. They marched, sleeve to sleeve, through the double doors that led to the dining room.

  The long dining table was deserted, but the cook had set two new places for them. Steaming soup dispelled the last of the stiffness from the day’s ride. Savory potatoes, fresh salad, fruit-nut bread, the bread deep-fried and swimming in a heavy sauce, completed the most lavish meal Valleroy had eaten since crossing the river. Klyd pointed out, discreetly, the foods not for Gens, commenting that the cook expected him to take double the Sime portions.

  The door to the parlor had been left ajar. The stares of the Simes spoiled Valleroy’s digestion. He said in English, “Every time I pick up my knife, I get the distinct impression the whole room is going to jump me!”

  Chuckling, Klyd replied in English, “Speak Simelan, it’s more impressive.”

  “Well,” said Valleroy, switching languages with an ease that surprised him, “are they?”

  “They find the sight of a sharp tool in the hands of a Gen...ummm...disturbing.”

  Valleroy was about to answer that when a gust of chill wind from the front door stopped him. Two figures stumbled into the parlor, blinking at the bright light. Valleroy dropped his knife, stunned.

  The first figure was a Sime dressed in plain riding breeches and a short jacket, unadorned. Behind him, on a chain welded to an iron collar from which dangled three green tags, was the sorriest-looking Gen Valleroy had ever seen. He was hardly more than a boy, thin and undeveloped. His skin was tanned against his white knee-length tunic. Under the tunic, he wore nothing but goosebumps.

  The Gen was practically blue with cold but didn’t seem to be aware of the warmth of the hearth. He stood quietly, eyes downcast, like a trained animal without the will to move unless pulled.

  As the door clattered shut behind the pair, Klyd half rose out of his chair, eyes locked on the Sime. “Hugh, that boy’s in need!”

  Valleroy wrenched his eyes from the Gen to inspect the owner. “He’s trembling. Looks pretty weak.”

  At that moment, the Sime’s eyes met Klyd’s, slid over Valleroy respectfully, and locked again with the channel’s. Leading his Gen, the Sime started toward Klyd. Halfway, he stumbled...something Valleroy had never known a Sime to do.

  In a flash Klyd was at his side, assisting him to a chair, deftly inserting his own body between the Sime and the Gen. Valleroy hastened to his channel’s side, not knowing what would be expected of a Companion under these circumstances.

  After a moment, the boy regained his breath. “I promised my mother, on her deathbed, this time I would not kill. But...can’t. Zeor is too far....” With a sudden surge of strength, the Sime tried to lunge to his feet. “Must....”

  Klyd moved with that incredible Sime swiftness to wrench the chain from the boy’s hands. He handed the end to Valleroy as the Sime struggled to reach the Gen.

  But Klyd’s superior strength held him. “I am Sectuib Farris of Householding Zeor. Come upstairs with me. I will serve you. It’s not far. Just up the stairs. You can make it that far, can’t you? You’ve come such a long way. It’s cost you so much agony. Only a little farther and you have succeeded.”

  “Zeor?” asked the Sime bewildered. “Sectuib...you....”

  “I am, and I will if you come upstairs.” As he moved for the stairs, still carefully between the Sime and his intended victim, Klyd continued to croon encouragement in that same professionally persuasive voice he used on his patients.

  Valleroy brought the Gen on the chain. Just as he placed a foot on the third step, the old woman who worked at the desk cried out, “No! I won’t allow any filthy perversions on my premises!” And she started after them.

  Suddenly angered, Valleroy wheeled on her. “You won’t allow...! And just how are you going to stop Sectuib Farris?”

  Valleroy felt the other Simes in the room tense. They could wipe him out in five seconds, but he’d gone too far to back down. He took a wild stab in the dark, trusting that Klyd wouldn’t do anything illegal. “The boy asked for the Sectuib’s help to avoid killing this one.” He held up the white-painted chain for all to see. “Sectuib is within the law in providing that help wherever and whenever it is sought! We rented a room. What we do there is our own business as long as we obey the law!”

  The electric tension in the room was poised to destroy him. Defiantly, Valleroy thrust his chin high and marched up the stairs pulling the Gen behind him. He could almost feel that salesman’s eyes boring holes in his back. As he topped the stairs, the Simes below broke into furious argument aimed just as much at each other as at the arrogant Gen.

  By the time Valleroy reached their room, it was all over. The Sime boy lay on the bed, curled on his side sobbing fitfu
lly. Klyd let them in, then went to hold those seemingly fragile shoulders until the sobbing ceased.

  “What’s your name, boy?” asked Klyd gently.

  “Heshri Sikal.”

  “Why is it that you wanted so to please your mother?”

  Heshri’s eyes bored into the channel’s, searching for something.

  “No, Heshri, I mean no disrespect. But the determination you have shown is rarely mustered to please someone else. It must come from within. Why do you want to disjunct?”

  “I have seen the numbers of Zelerod. It is frightening. If he is right, I will not live to help my mother’s grandchildren through changeover.”

  Klyd rose and paced across the room to where the Gen crouched in the single chair, feet drawn under him, dull eyes downcast. Looking down at that pitiful form, the channel said, “He is right, Heshri. Zelerod is...terrifyingly...right.”

  The silence lengthened until Valleroy hazarded, “Who is Zelerod, and what is he right about?”

  Shaking himself as if rousing from a dream, Klyd said, “He’s the mathematician who predicts that within a hundred years, perhaps less, the human race will be extinct because of the increasing proportion of Simes living longer adult lives, killing so many Gens that there won’t be enough to keep us alive. Zelerod shows mathematically that the only survival is through the channel. We have known that for generations, but the juncts wouldn’t accept it...until one of their own predicted it and died in the attempt to disjunct because he was too old.”