First Channel s-3

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  Slina returned with a large bottle of pale gray liquid and a wooden drinking bowl. “For whatever good it’ll do!”

  Rimon took the bottle, examining the liquid. He could see right through it “This isn’t concentrated enough,” he said. “Put in about four times as much powder to this amount of water.”

  “Rimon, it already tastes so foul they won’t touch it!”

  Rimon shoved a lock of hair off his forehead with one tentacle and poured some of the liquid into the bowl. “Come on, now—if you don’t drink this down, Slina is likely to sell you to the next customer for immediate kill before you just die anyway.”

  “Rimon!” said Jord.

  “What’d he say?” Slina asked Abel, who motioned her to silence.

  Rimon offered the drinking bowl, his tentacles carefully retracted. “Show her you’re intelligent, and she’ll keep you alive long enough for us to get you out of here.”

  Warily, the Gen took the bowl and tasted the concoction with curled lip, and then drank it all down. He flung the bowl away at random and slid back onto the mattress, muttering something about hoping it was poison.

  Rimon fielded the bowl in midair with two tentacles and flipped it into his hand. “There, Slina, see? Zlin that.”

  As the medicine took effect, the Gen relaxed, his aches and pains quieting, his fever leveling off. Rimon said, “Go prepare some of the stronger mixture, Slina, while we take a look at the two women.”

  Rimon and Jord with Willa beside him went to the next room, where two female Gens occupied the beds, one coughing spasmodically, the other watching and whimpering in fear. Again, Rimon realized just how unique Slina was among Penkeepers for not selling these two breeders when they first showed symptoms—certainly there were customers in town who’d relish a pregnant Gen. Intense disgust rose in Rimon, surprising him.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jord, one tentacle around Willa’s wrist.

  “Nothing,” answered Rimon, shaking off the mood and zlinning the two women. Immediately, he saw that the one coughing was about two and a half months pregnant. Her fever was skyrocketing.

  Jord, too, was zlinning. “Rimon, Slina said the two females were infected after the males. But look at them– is Reloc fever always so fast?”

  “I’ve dealt with it only once or twice before. Pregnancy weakens a Gen—any disease is serious then.” Rimon found an empty basin on a side table and handed it to Willa. “Go fill this with water and get some rags. We’re going to have to sponge down that fever.”

  The rest of the night, they nursed the five patients along, while Slina searched for new victims, and then returned to the infirmary with hot trin tea and a few biscuits.

  Jord said, “I got the man to take concentrated fosebine by showing him how Willa would drink it if I told her to. Now she’s fallen asleep!”

  “Let her sleep,” said Rimon. “She can’t keep up with a Sime, you know.”

  Jord gave Rimon a wry grin. “You should have taught her that from the first!”

  “Kadi hasn’t learned it yet!”

  In a moment of camaraderie, Jord said, “I rather doubt Henry ever will, either.”

  “Henry?”

  “Steers. Henry Steers. I asked him his name. It was as if I’d given him his identity back—he said no one on this side of the border ever cared enough to ask even his name.”

  “You know why, Jord.”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied. “It’s only after you don’t have to kill that you start to see your defenses. But did you notice that he isn’t scared of any of us? I don’t know if he assumes that no one would take a sick Gen, or if he’s just naturally like Willa.”

  “More likely he’s just emotionally wrung out. Slina’s had him a while, and we don’t know what he went through before that. If Fort Freedom does buy him, you’ll probably end up sending him across the border. He’s got a life out there somewhere.”

  “We’ll get the money,” said Abel. He turned to Slina. “We’ll pay what you were asking—but it’s going to take us a while. It’s been a bad year, but things are getting better now.”

  “You’ve been good customers all these years, never making any trouble. But I can’t let you have him on credit—

  Rimon is right. He’s a troublemaker and probably will get himself killed trying to escape. I’m doubling my security on this wing as soon as he’s well enough to stand on his feet.”

  “Just don’t sell him to anyone else,” Abel said.

  Rimon wondered if Abel was following Slina’s thoughts as she nodded. “It’s a deal, Veritt. I’ll keep him for you until midsummer. But that’s as long as I can guarantee you—then I may have to send him to auction to recoup some of my losses.” She hadn’t really wanted to sell Steers right away—she had other plans in mind.

  All three males were out of danger before the next morning. The two females were another matter. Near midnight, Slina called Rimon in to support the field of one of them as she miscarried—not such a painful experience as Carlana’s, since, the pregnancy was so little advanced, but racking coughs added to the misery of her cramping, and she could not seem to get enough air. Rimon had to concentrate on bolstering her selyn production, alternating with Jord, who still could not hold very long in healing mode.

  Willa was upset at the loss of another baby, although she was not frightened. When the worst was over, Rimon collapsed into a chair, letting Jord take over seeing that nothing went wrong after the fact. Willa asked Jord, “Why do so many babies die?”

  “Not many, Willa. I know this is the second time you’ve seen it, but most women” have their babies without even as much trouble as Kadi had.”

  “When can we have a baby?”

  “Maybe next year.”

  “That’s what you said last year. It’s next year now. The Year’s Turning is over.”

  “You know I don’t want to wait, Willa, but we have to, for your sake.”

  It was obviously an old argument. Rimon lost track of their murmurings and drifted into a light doze.

  He woke with the sound of a strangled wheeze dying in the air about him, a Gen field fading to nageric silence. He was on his feet with a start before he realized it was too late. One of the women had died. On the other bed, the one who had miscarried was having a coughing fit while Slina tried to coax her to drink some fosebine.

  His’ knees suddenly weak, Rimon sank back into his chair. Jord and Slina hurried to his side, but he fended them off. “I’ll be all right if I can just sit a few minutes.” There was a weak, fluttery sensation somewhere inside him that he’d thought he’d never have to cope with again. “Jord, you’d better check out the other Gen.”

  “She drank some fosebine,” said Slina. “She’s asleep.” She moved to look down at the dead girl. “Shidoni! A good, healthy breeder, and the kid, too—and the other one’s kid. What am I gonna do?” Then she straightened. “Listen, I’m sorry—without your help, I’da lost the bunch of ‘em. I owe you.”

  “All Fort Freedom asks is the right to buy Mr. Steers.”

  “You got that—my word on it.” She turned to Rimon. “You look all dragged out. Come on—I got an empty bed in my office. You stretch out there for a while.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Willa. It was a simple, selfless impulse, typical of the girl’s character. Jord was in no difficulty at the moment, and Willa had learned long ago how to ease Rimon’s strain—but even as she moved from Jord’s side toward Rimon’s, her husband reached out in a sudden flare of blazing anger to thrust her away from Rimon.

  “You leave my wife alone!” exclaimed Jord, reaching for Rimon.

  “I didn’t touch her!” Rimon gasped in astonishment that faded before the familiarity of Jord’s reaction. “Abel—”

  But the older man was impeded by Willa, who was trying to get back to Jord, as Jord reached for Rimon’s throat. Rimon raised his arms to fend Jord off, only to find Jord’s tentacles whipping about his forearms, laterals extended for contact. Jord’s
grip put pressure on Rimon’s lateral extensor nodes, twining their laterals together. What is he doing?

  Hideous familiarity told Rimon at once what Jord was in fact doing—what Rimon had done to Zeth, instinctively, on that far-off day of his First Kill. Nol NO! Raw panic surged through Rimon, feeding Jord’s attack. But Jord was jerking Rimon into lip contact at that very instant, and all Rimon could do was refuse—refuse! He felt the pain of Jord’s denied draw, the shock of shen, and then Jord collapsed, unconscious, pulling Rimon down on top of him.

  Chapter Twenty

  FAILURE

  Ignoring his own spinning head, Rimon scrambled to his knees, zlinning Jord. I’ve killed him! He’ll die of shock! Willa dropped down beside Jord, grabbing for his arms.

  “Jord, Jord! Wake up! Let me help you!” She looked up at Rimon in fury. “Why did you do that?!”

  Jord was pre-turnover. Zlinning him, Rimon said, “I think he’ll be all right, Willa. Just hold him and try to make him calm.”

  As Abel zlinned Jord, profound relief spread out from him. “Are you all right, Rimon?”

  “Me? Sure. It’s your son I nearly killed.”

  “Not this time,” said Abel, with a flash of smugness.

  Jord stirred. “Willa!” He hugged her close, then looked over her shoulder at Rimon to say, “God forgive me! I’m sorry, Rimon. I don’t know what made me do that.”

  “Why did you hurt him?” demanded Willa. “Jord never hurt you.”

  “Willa,” said Jord, tightly controlling agonized guilt, “I tried to kill Rimon!”

  “You can’t kill Rimon that way any more than you can kill me,” she said.

  Now there’s a thought. There was so much they didn’t know. “Jord,” said Rimon, “I shouldn’t have shenned you. I panicked. If you’d actually been in need, it could have killed you.”

  His head hurt suddenly—sympathetic reaction to Jord’s pain, plus that great, looming burden that seemed to grow ever heavier on his shoulders. I know I can kill a Sime in transfer. I know I never want to kill another Gen. But now I find out I can kill merely by defending my own life.

  I don’t want that kind of power—power that can get out of control so easily.

  Jord held out a hand to Rimon, tentacles neatly retracted. “I’d have deserved it if you’d killed me. I don’t blame you, Rimon.” His gaze strayed to Willa, then back to Rimon. “I should trust you, of all people—and Willa. In a sense, you gave her to me, like a father giving his daughter in marriage.”

  “That you don’t trust him is a good sign,” Abel said. “It’s useless to try to make sense of your motives now. We just have to see that such a situation never occurs again. Willa, you must not approach any Sime except Jord, in any way, until he learns to deal with this, as Rimon did. Do you remember how jealous Rimon was of Kadi last year?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, Jord is going through the same thing, and you must be very understanding, and very careful, until he reaches the stage Rimon is in now.”

  “It feels like changeover all over again,” said Jord. “I never know what to expect next. I’ve become something uncontrolled and dangerous.”

  “Jord,” said Abel, “that’s the right way to think of it– but as we now see changeover, not the hell I put you through. Look to the future. Look at Rimon. You’re going to come through this unwilling, perhaps unable to kill. Then you’ll teach others. My son, I’m relying on you to teach us all—to teach me.”

  As Rimon listened to Abel calming his son, a part of his bleak burden lifted. If Abel would just place his hope of salvation on Jord’s shoulders, if Rimon could have responsibility only for Kadi and Zeth—that was enough. That much, he thought, he could handle.

  Rimon felt good that early spring, with relief in sight from his burdens. He began to think that perhaps he could handle anything life decided to throw at him.

  Willa was gone, but Jon continued to live with them for days at a time, helping with the chores and even taking care of Zeth as he grew more active. But Jon also spent a great deal of time in Fort Freedom, with his parents, with Jord and Willa, and talking to Abel Veritt.

  Abel put Jon on a regimen of prayer and meditation to end on the first day of summer with Jon’s first real transfer. With a target date now set, Abel hoped Jon would gain command of his nerves. Rimon wasn’t too sure about that, but he conceded Abel knew more of Gen psychology than anyone raised in-Territory. And, with the date set, Jon did seem to settle down securely.

  One difficulty refused to resolve itself. Fort Freedom was still struggling under the combination of the bad year, people’s continuing guilt at the kill, and the financial burden of saving enough to purchase Henry Steers. Every time Rimon mentioned that to Abel, he would be put off sharply with one or another statement that added up to “Fort Freedom does not borrow money!”

  Yet knowing what Slina was doing to Steers in her attempts to emulate the more elaborate breeding operations, Rimon felt more and more urgency to get the Gen out of there.

  Jord Veritt spent a great deal of time at Slina’s. The few times Rimon went with him, he observed a growing respect between the two men. Religion seemed to be as important to Steers as to Fort Freedom, and Rimon noticed a kind of nageric link between the two men when they were on that subject—even when they were arguing some point of theological disagreement. But then, each time Jord came back to the subject of Simes and Gens living together, the link would shatter under Steers’ uncontrollable anxiety. “How do I know you’d treat me any more as a person than that woman does?” Steers demanded one day. “Can’t you convince her that I am not going to run away?”

  “I don’t think anything will convince Slina not to lock you in,” said Rimon.

  “That’s not so bad,” said Steers. “It’s the drugs. I never know if I dare eat or drink—every few days I lose time to crazy dreams, and I know she put something in my food again. Afterward, I always feel I’ve been doing something, not just sleeping, but I can’t remember it.”

  Rimon knew, but hesitated to tell Jord. Wild Gens would not cooperate for breeding, but there were combinations of drugs that could produce compliance without impairing virility. It was a dangerous practice. The hallucinations could lead the Gen to harm himself or his partner, but nothing could stop the newest fashion in Gen-breeding.

  Jord was putting pressure on Abel to get Steers out of the Pens, privately explaining to Rimon, “My father has vowed not to die a killer. Steers has been sent to teach him, Rimon, I know it. I’ve got to see them work together.”

  Rimon could not ignore the vibrant hope in Jord, the carefully suppressed hope in Abel, the air of expectancy throughout Fort Freedom. But what if they fail? Yet he sensed that Jord was right; Steers no longer reacted hesitantly toward Jord, and he was losing his apprehension with Rimon, as well. If Slina entered, his nager shattered with resentment—but not fear.

  “The most hopeful sign,” said Rimon, “is that he reacts to us as individuals. But I’m afraid his first priority on getting out of here will be to go home. Mine would be.”

  “His wife was killed by the raiders that captured him. He doesn’t know what happened to his twelve-year-old son– but he thinks he’s probably on this side of the border. His only hope of finding him is staying here.”

  Rimon took a deep breath. “Jord—I don’t know if you’ll want to tell Steers this, but I do know the Trade. The boy’s probably dead, especially if he was established, or did so since capture. I don’t think it’s fair to get Henry’s hopes up—even if his son is alive, it would be a tremendous job to trace a single pre-Gen, even if I still had access to my father’s information network. If he was still a child, the raiders would have sold him cheap, because nine out of ten Wild Gen children are dead within the month. Especially in winter.”

  Jord reached for Willa’s hand. “I’ll have to tell Henry. We can’t give him false hopes. Still—we don’t know his son is dead.”

  “He’d be better off, Jord,” Ri
mon said softly.

  “No,” said Willa. “If he is alive, someday someone will take him from the Pens, the way you took me. When Simes don’t kill anymore, they’ll have to let all the Gens out. Then Henry and his son will find each other and be happy.”

  It was the longest speech Rimon had ever heard from Willa. Jord said, “I wish you spoke English, Willa. Henry would believe you—but he can’t understand you.”

  “Then we must teach him to talk like us,” said Willa.

  That plan, however, was delayed by a new problem– the very outgrowth of Reloc fever both Slina and Rimon had feared all winter: pneumonia. As spring approached, the sparse snows melted and an early warm spell encouraged tender shoots of new grass while the daffodils poked up a month early in the yards of Fort Freedom. Inevitably, freezing rain and hail soon destroyed the premature signs of life. Another warm spell turned the rutted roads to slushy mud, but Rimon and Kadi managed to get through on horseback to Fort Freedom, where they were told that Abel, Jord, and Willa were at Slina’s fighting a new illness.

  Rimon left Kadi and Zeth at Fort Freedom and rode quickly back into town. Even light cases of Reloc fever were debilitating. Gens might recover completely, but for about six months after they were susceptible to anything that came along—and the recent thaw-and-freeze pattern was exactly what Rimon’s father always called “pneumonia weather.”

  Slina’s infirmary was full, and she had set up cots in several holding rooms. When Rimon came in, Risko was carrying out one blanket-wrapped form. “Third one today,” he grunted.

  Slina, busy with the fosebine, didn’t look up when Rimon entered, but told him, “I’m out of healthy Gens. Everyone close enough to need to pick up his month’s choice has been in the last two days. Everyone else will get sick ones—and the way they’re dying, I may be out before I can get an emergency shipment.”