First Channel
( Sime-Gen - 3 )
Jacqueline Lichtenberg
Jean Lorrah
Romeo and Juliet with a mutation instead of a family feud.
Two children on the verge of adolescence, greatly in love with each other, discover the adult world that will tear them apart. Living in a Sime world, the young man grows up to become a Sime – a mutant human who must kill a Gen every month to survive. The young woman grows up to become Gen, the human prey of all Simes.
But, despite the social and physical Need to Kill, the young man refuses to Kill this young woman, his best friend. We watch this pair try to find a place they can live together. Wherever they go, either Rimon or Kadi is considered inhuman and sentenced to die.
Until they find Fort Freedom. The inhabitants of Fort Freedom are the children of Gens, who turned Sime and managed to escape into Sime Territory. We see them forced to kill to live – and hating that need. Rimon and Kadi try to teach others to live without killing. Tragically, we see experiment after experiment fail – except for a very few.
This community comes to call the act of Not-Killing “Channeling” – taking life from Gens and give it to other Simes – and this young man discovers himself to be the first Channel. He does not know that this has happened many times in the past. He does not know it will happen many times after his death. He dies young and in agony, a tragic figure who spreads tragedy among all those who follow him because of all he does not know about channeling.
Jacqueline Lichtenberg and Jean Lorrah
Sime~Gen #3
FIRST CHANNEL
Prologue
A SIME LEGEND
In the Days of the Ancients, Simes and Gens lived together without strife, the Gens freely giving selyn to the Simes, the Simes protecting and caring for the Gens. But then the Gens grew selfish. They wanted to keep all the selyn for themselves. The Simes grew weaker and weaker, and finally they went to the Ancients to ask for help, that they should make the Gens give up the selyn they could not use.
The Ancients called the Gens before them and asked why they kept for themselves the energy of life that they could not use. “It is a great treasure,” they said. “See how the Simes desire it. It must be very valuable, and therefore we will store it up.”
At that the Ancients became angry. “You have not the wits to know that this substance has value only when you share it! For your foolishness, we make you subject to the Simes, to be their cattle. And to the Simes we give the power to take selyn from you, whether you will or not.”
And so it has been ever since.
PART I
Chapter One
WHAT GENS ARE FOR
Rimon Farris woke with a start, his body instantly at full battle alertness, his mind crystal-clear. Before his eyes focused, he felt the bed bounce again as little Serri jumped on his feet, saying, “Rimon, come on! Mama says you gotta get up now!”
With a groan, he fell back on the pillow, quelling the shock reaction. The room went out of focus in a sickening whirl, and in a panic he fought for self-control.
The bed was still rippling up and down with Serri’s jumping. Rimon said irritably, “Serri, don’t you know better than to do that when I’m in need?”
“You can’t be in need; not for another week!”
But she stopped bouncing.
The room steadied. A burning ache began to spread from the base of Rimon’s skull down his back and into his arms. Don’t panic, Rimon told himself. Breathe evenly.
Serri eased herself off the bed, her concern at his lack of response barely perceptible to Rimon. She was only a child. Her nager had no more power than Kadi’s. “Rimon —you’re all right, aren’t you?”
To reassure her, Rimon hauled himself to a sitting position. “I will be if you’ll go away and let me get up.” He met her deep blue eyes for a moment, then buried his head in his hands, wishing he hadn’t moved.
She backed toward the door, watching him dubiously. “Everybody else’s finished breakfast. You better not fall asleep again, or Mama will scold me.” She turned and skipped out, copper curls bouncing.
Stumbling to the shower, Rimon let the water wash over him, then turned it to cold and held his forearms under the stream to dull the feverish ache in his swollen ronaplin glands. It was impossible. He couldn’t hold out for another five days. His father would understand, even if Marna didn’t.
“Hmpf!” Marna snorted as he entered the dining room, “you’ve been augmenting again, Rimon, haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t, Marna,” he said. “I really haven’t!”
“Then how did you get into this state so quickly? Rimon, you can have a new Gen every two or three weeks– but what if your father couldn’t supply them? What if you had to wait your turn at the government Pens? You kids! Playing games, I’ll bet. But it’s four years since your changeover, Rimon. It’s time you accepted your responsibilities as a man and stopped wasting selyn.”
“Yes, Marna,” he murmured, only half-listening to the familiar lecture. Her accusations were unfair, but there was no use protesting. The truth was that he had not augmented once this month, and in spite of all the self-discipline he could muster, he was in need after only three weeks and two days. What was going to happen to him? He hadn’t been able to concentrate for the past week—and it was getting worse, month by month.
Recognizing that a large part of his depression was due to need, he tried to shake it off as he drank the trin tea Marna had placed in front of him. He couldn’t bring himself to touch the bowl of cereal, though. The smell of food turned his stomach. His guts were cramping, and there was a heavy, tight feeling in the middle of his chest. He wondered if he’d make it through the day.
As the tea settled his stomach, he began to feel better. Yes, he could manage for a few more hours, put in a good day’s work to impress his father before he had to ask… again.
He sat staring into his empty cup, gathering strength, until his reverie was broken by a cheery “Good morning, Rimon!”
Kadi came in from the kitchen with a tray of clean tea glasses and began quietly stacking them on the sideboard. Immediately Rimon felt better. Kadi’s presence always had that effect on him.
He came up behind her, pushed her shining red hair aside, and kissed the back of her neck. The dormant, child’s nager soaked through Rimon, unresponsive to his need, unthreatening. It was just a touch between friends. Kadi knew that; Rimon sometimes thought she knew every feeling that passed through his heart. She turned and kissed him swiftly—on the nose.
He grinned. “Good morning, slowpoke.” He made a show of examining her forearms, although it was obvious from touching her that she was still cool, showing no sign of changeover. “When are you going to grow up so we can get married?”
“When I’m good and ready. I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry, Rimon. Always first at everything. You’ll just have to wait for me… or marry somebody else!”
He looked deep into her blue eyes, but saw only laughter. No, Kadi wasn’t worried, either about the dangers of late changeover, or about losing him. He’d never seen her afraid of anything; that was one of the reasons he loved her so much.
Rimon watched her putting the dining room in order. She was tall and slender, but at last the curves of womanhood were slightly softening her figure. It wouldn’t be long now before she was his, completely. Determinedly, he thrust from his mind the thought that she might, instead, be lost to him forever. Oh no—not his Kadi. She was taller than average, true, but she was slender. Sime slender, he insisted to himself.
“Kadi!” Marna called from the kitchen. “If Rimon’s through, bring his dishes in here and finish up the ki
tchen.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“I’d better get out to the Pens,” said Rimon.
Kadi looked at him sympathetically. “You’re having a bad time again, Rimon.”
“Yes. I’m not going to make it to my assignment day this time, either.”
“Try,” she said. “I’ll bring you some more tea later.”
“Thanks, Kadi. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He walked out into the bright sunlight, steeling himself against the nager of the Gens. He was to supervise the cultivating of the hillside acreage today, but first…
In the Wild Gen compound he found Ran Morcot, Kadi’s father, sorting out a new shipment. The Gens were crying and jabbering as Ran’s helpers grouped them by sex and age, to determine which strong, healthy, spirited ones would be marked as prime Farris stock, which culled to sell to a local dealer.
The impinging fields grated on Rimon’s nerves, as did the actions of the Gens. The wild ones acted too much like people.
They’re not people! They’re Gens!
As the men began moving a group of five good-looking Gens from one cage to another, one of them, a strong male, made a break for the gate. Instantly, on a burst of augmentation, Ran and two other Simes surrounded him and brought him back to the cage without injury.
“Don’t bother to mark that one,” Rimon said. “Clean him up and have him ready for me tonight.”
Ran noticed him for the first time. “Your father won’t approve of your taking prime stock for an extra kill. Take one of the culls.”
“I’ll talk to Father,” Rimon said with a boldness born of desperation. “Taking a cull guarantees I won’t be able to go four weeks. With this one, at least there’s a chance.”
“All right, I’ll put him aside, but you don’t get him until I have your father’s say-so.”
Relieved at not having to argue longer amid the emotional fields charged with Gen fear, Rimon set about his morning’s duties.
The Farris Genfarm was the largest supplier of choice Gens in the Territory. They purchased the best Wild Gens captured, and also raised their own from the finest breeding stock. The Farris mark—a diagonal notch filed in the left front tooth—was a guarantee of health and spirit. As Syrus Farris said, “It doesn’t cost any more to raise a spunky Gen than to raise a broken Gen.” And spunky Gens brought more profit. Farris Gens were a luxury product that went to the choice auctions, the exclusive bazaars, and occasionally to wealthy individuals who would come to the Genfarm and pick out a year’s supply at once.
One day, Rimon knew, all this would belong to him. And then what? Home-grown Gens made him nervous. He had never had one for a kill, and he knew that his father had him overseeing the cultivating to force him into proximity with them. How can I oversee others when I can’t oversee myself? What will I do when it’s all my responsibility?
The selyn nager of the working Gens was clear to him before he came over the crest of the hill and saw them toiling, sweating in the sun. They were all strong, healthy, equal to the task, the older children working beside them at the lighter jobs. Although everyone on the Farris Genfarm earned his keep, children of Gens were never mistreated. The children of these Gens could still lead normal lives if they should go through changeover. Some of the best overseers were Simes who had come out of their own Pens. But the supervisor of this particular group was Gen.
Seeing who it was, Rimon wanted to turn and run. Nerob. Once Nerob had been Yahn Keslic, son of one of the Sime supervisors. Years ago, the four kids, Yahn and Rimon, Kadi, and Rimon’s cousin, Zeth, had been inseparable. Now Yahn was Nerob, one of the Farris breeding Gens. And Zeth… Zeth was dead.
Rimon shuddered, but forced himself to ride to the end of the row that Nerob was striding, to meet him when he finished that lap of his inspection. Nerob was conscientious, keeping his crew working steadily and well. No wonder. If Syrus Farris were displeased with him, he could be sold tomorrow.
“Tuib Rimon,” Nerob said as he bowed, then looked up at Rimon still astride his horse, “Tuib Farris said you’d be checking this section today.”
“I hardly have to check your crew, do I?” asked Rimon, sliding off his horse to make a perfunctory examination of the work. As they walked the length of the row, Nerob eyed Rimon, warily gauging his state of need.
Rimon dropped a few paces back from the Gen, sensitive to the fear-tension in the man’s nager. About halfway down the furrow, Nerob stopped, waiting for Rimon to catch up. “I expect we’ll make it to the irrigation ditch road by evening.”
Rimon had to close the distance to hear and speak normally, consciously controlling himself. “Don’t drive them too hard, Nerob. There’s always tomorrow.”
“Is there?” The Gen’s eyes met Rimon’s. Then, under his breath, he added, looking away, “For you, maybe there is, not for us.”
Rimon seized the Gen’s arm and whirled him around. But then, despite Nerob’s leap of fear, Rimon thrust the cringing Gen away, thinking, You’re alive, Nerob. You’re Gen, and you’re still alive. Zeth was Sime, and he’s dead! But Nerob wasn’t to blame for Zeth’s death. Rimon had nobody to blame for that but himself.
“You can’t take me, Tuib Rimon,” said Nerob. “I’m under your father’s personal protection. You won’t disgrace the Farris honor.”
Rimon stood back, letting himself become conscious of the complex fields surrounding the Gen, readings the hidden meanings behind the man’s emotions. He wants to hurt me. He wants to use my need against me. He resents me more than I resent him. Why, when Father’s saved his life?
When Rimon came back to normal consciousness, the Gen was flinching away from the raw need in Rimon, his fear almost too much to bear. Shaking, Rimon said, “Calm down. I wouldn’t take you—unless you goad me to it. We were—after all—friends.”
Rimon whirled and stalked back to his horse. But then, instead of following impulse and galloping away, he sat and watched until Nerob had rejoined the distant group of fieldhands. Here in the field, those Gens felt temporarily safe. Anyone coming to buy today would be shown first the Wild Gens in the compound, and then the Domestic Gens down around the big house. Good workers could count on being safe until after harvest. Most of them settled into unthinking routine, their selyn fields high but unresponsive.
Gradually, Rimon’s breathing returned to normal. He wheeled his horse and trotted toward the next group of workers.
Relief washed through him. He usually avoided Nerob and the few other Gens he had known before they established—began producing selyn. It was hard to remember that someone was not a person if you’d grown up with him. Gens looked like people, after all, seemed just like everybody else until the time of changeover when, instead of becoming Sime, they began producing selyn, the biologic energy that Simes had to have to live. Clearly, nature intended Gens to produce selyn for Simes, for Simes were faster, stronger, and equipped with special organs to draw the selyn from a Gen’s system.
Those organs, the delicate lateral tentacles that lay along either side of Rimon’s forearms, protruded slightly from their sheaths under the combined influence of his need and the impinging Gen fields. Deliberately, he retracted them, but that put pressure on his ronaplin glands, swollen with the selyn-conducting fluid that moistened the laterals for transfer.
Extending his handling tentacles relieved some of the pressure, so he extended all four on each arm, curling the ventrals around the reins and letting the dorsals lie across the backs of his hands, along his fingers. The primary purpose of those tentacles was to immobilize the arms of a Gen so the smaller laterals would not be dislodged during the selyn draw. However, they served that purpose only once a month, on the average. The rest of the time the strong, resilient handling tentacles were extra fingers– even extra hands. Gen arms seemed pitifully naked and awkward without them.
As he rode to the next group of workers, the fresh air revived Rimon’s spirits. There the supervisor was Sime, as were all the others th
at he checked that morning. The flat fields of the Gens and the undisturbing fields of the Simes were little problem compared to what Nerob had put him through. All was calm and normal. By the time he had circled the furthest field and started working his way back, Kadi met him under the trees by the reservoir, bringing a double-walled container of trin tea, fresh and hot. They sat down under a tree, where the shade was still cool in the late spring morning.
“You’re feeling better,” Kadi said after Rimon had had a long drink of tea.
“Yes, I’m fine for the moment but I’m having trouble controlling around the Gens.” Her nager remained unlinked to his, her body consuming selyn only at the almost imperceptible rate of a child.
She took his hand and laid it in her lap. Two fingers stroked along the ventral sheaths, causing the tentacles to emerge from the wrist orifices. They twined about her fingers, and she squeezed them gently, then began to play with them, trying to tie a bow. Rimon wriggled them just enough to frustrate her, laughing at her attempts. She could always make him laugh, even when he was feeling his worst.
Finally, she stopped teasing his tentacles, and twined her fingers with his. “What are you going to do, Rimon?”
“Ask for another Gen. Tonight.”
“What will your father say?”
“What can he say? He can see I’m in need. It happens to him sometimes, too—lots of times he can’t make it a full four weeks.”
“But not every month,” she pointed out. “I know how hard you’re trying, Rimon. I wish I could do something to help.”
“You can. Will you meet me tonight, after… ?” The image of Nerob, twisted in the rictus of fear, floated to the top of his mind again, and the world shimmered into pulsing selyn fields for an instant. No. It will be that big out-Territory buck. Not someone I know.
Kadi said, “I’ll be there, like always, Rimon.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “I just wish there was more I could do than sit it out with you.”
He wrapped his handling tentacles about their two hands, joining them. “Soon, Kadi. Soon you’ll grow up, and we’ll have each other forever.” Soon—one day soon, he would be there to help her after her first time.
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