First Channel s-3

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  “Out? Completely out?”

  “Well, whaddya want me to do?” she snapped. Then, pushing back a lock of hair with one tentacle, she said, “Shen, Rimon, they’re gonna raid, you know. And you know what’ll happen this summer.”

  “The Gens will raid us,” Rimon said heavily.

  “Organized Gens!” spat Slina. “With their bloody shen guns, killing right and left!”

  “We’ve got to save enough Gens to get along until you get some more,” said Rimon. “I’m here to help.”

  “Go spell Jord Veritt—he’s about ready to drop. I never used to like the boy—the old man’s a good sort, but Jord was a real lorsh. You done something to him, Rimon, or maybe Willa did—he’s been going day and night for a week. Shidoni—who’d think I’d be beholden to them Fort Freedom characters?”

  Rimon found Jord and Abel, both haggard and bleary-eyed, in one of the larger rooms. Willa, pale and exhausted, had fallen asleep in a chair. She was high-field, however, a support to Jord even though she was not consciously doing anything.

  High-field? Rimon zlinned Jord. He was approaching need, and something in his pattern had changed. So Jord was almost in need, and Rimon past turnover—neither one of them in the best shape for this work. Rimon told Jord, “Willa’s asleep. Take her with you, and get some sleep.”

  “Can’t sleep now,” Jord murmured.

  “You can with Willa, Give yourself two hours.” He took over support of the Gen Jord had been concentrating on, alert to the others, apparently the most critical cases.

  Abel said, “Go ahead, Jord. Rest. Thank God Rimon is here now.”

  “How about you, Abel?” asked Rimon.

  “I’m fine; I haven’t been doing anything but physical work. It’s healing mode that’s so exhausting.”

  Rimon smiled. “Then I’d be glad if you stayed. When you’re meditating—praying—your nager is almost as soothing as a Gen’s.”

  The moment he could take his concentration off the worst patient, Rimon zlinned the other Gens. Two were slowly rallying. The three others were all critical. And one of them was Henry Steers. Rimon said to Abel, “Slina was keeping Steers isolated; he shouldn’t be down with pneumonia.”

  “Isolated indeed!” replied Abel, his nager flaring more fury than Rimon had ever seen in the gentle old man. “Do you know what she was doing to him?”

  Rimon sighed. “I knew, but I didn’t know you did, and I was hoping he’d never find out.”

  “You knew?”

  “Abel—I tried to talk her out of it. It’s dangerous to try to breed the Wild males. But he was strong, and healthy after he got over the fever. She was just trying to recoup her losses.”

  “Rimon—I’m glad Jord isn’t here right now. I find it hard to recognize you, and I’ve seen more of the world than my son has. I think I could understand if it were simply that Slina tried to use Henry—for breeding. It’s how she used him I He would have refused, but still, she didn’t ask, or tell him what she was doing—and don’t say it’s because she doesn’t speak English, because we’d have translated for her.”

  “Would you have?” asked Rimon.

  “If I couldn’t have persuaded her to give up the attempt. He had a right to know—but she drugged him! You remember his telling of memory lapses? God forgive me, I had no idea there were such drugs—but you did, Rimon. How could you have hidden it from us?”

  “What would you have done if I’d told you?”

  Shaking his head, Veritt ran all his tentacles through his hair, looking very much like Rimon’s father. But then he sheathed his tentacles self-consciously and met Rimon’s gaze.

  “If we’d known, we’d have gone to Mr. Erick. He’s been very generous, but no one can give outright the huge price Slina has set. Yet I think Mr. Erick would have lent us the money—if you’d only spoken out! You concealed the truth, and because of that, Mr. Steers has lost his will to live.”

  “Oh, now, wait a minute, Abel! If you found out and told him, and that made him give up, don’t blame me. I know you believe in telling the truth, but this time I can’t see he’s any better off knowing!”

  “I didn’t tell him,” Abel protested. “He told us. The last time Slina drugged him—he remembered. Whatever she gave him—it turned him into an animal, unable to control his own desires; but that time he knew what he did, even though he couldn’t stop himself. Afterward, he didn’t want to talk to Jord or me. And in a few days he came down with pneumonia, and now all he’ll say is that he’d rather die than be used as an animal, by Slina or by us.”

  “Abel, I’m sorry!” said Rimon. “I didn’t think Slina’d ever get the dose right! It’s tricky—”

  “Oh, God help us, Rimon—how could you know that a human being was being used like that and keep silent?”

  Abel’s tone said clearly that Rimon, the first nonkilling Sime, had no right to be less than perfect. It was the same tone his father had often used to him.

  “Abel,” he said, suddenly angry, “this whole Pen uses human beings against their will, drugs them, buys and sells them for the kill. I don’t see much difference between Mr. Steers and the nameless creatures grown in Pens. They’re all people.”

  They’re all people.

  The words echoed in the room. The older man crumpled, head in his hands, defeated. Instantly, Rimon was on his knees before Veritt. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it that way– Abel, listen to me; it’s not your fault. Abel?”

  Something crystallized in the old man. He raised his head, sheathed his tentacles tightly, and gazed up over Rimon’s head. “I’ve vowed I’ll not die a killer. One day, I will be able to look at the world as you do, Rimon—as my son does. I yearn for that day. I pray for it.”

  Rimon, kneeling at Abel’s feet, realized something about himself. Veritt had made Rimon into an image to be worshiped. Rimon had resented that, yet the moment Veritt’s image wavered, Rimon hastily rebuilt it. They’re all people, and I’m better than you are because I don’t kill them.

  He turned from Abel, back to the patients. Something good might yet come of this night. Perhaps Abel would turn to Jord, now that Rimon had shown a flaw. Jord was maturing rapidly; he deserved his father’s trust and faith, especially since he’d soon be through his “period of adjustment.” If they could pull Steers through the pneumonia, surely things would straighten out, and they could get on with training another Gen.

  Rimon set to work with Steers, barely noticing when Jord returned an hour later, a sleepy but determined Willa by his side. “I can’t rest until Henry’s out of danger. How is he?”

  “About the same,” Rimon replied. Jord zlinned the Gen in silence.

  Abel helped Slina remove the two recovering Gens, then returned to aid in dosing the others with another round of fosebine. Steers muttered incoherently and tried to push them away.

  “Henry!” said Jord, “you must take your medicine. We’ll take you home with us as soon as you’re well enough to be moved.” The Gen opened feverish eyes, numb despair in his nager.

  “Better off dead,” he muttered, and tried weakly to turn away from Jord. He wheezed helplessly, and then his breathing became more labored as he fell into unconsciousness.

  “Did Father tell you what Slina did to him?”

  “I know,” replied Rimon.

  “I’m not here for her sake,” said Jord. “It’s to keep my friends alive, to help Henry—and to keep those foul creatures in town from raiding across the border. As for Slina—I hope she rots in hell!”

  “Jord!” said Abel sharply. “Slina’s not inherently evil. May God forgive me for thinking the poor creatures she raises were not people—and may He forgive Slina for thinking the same about Henry Steers.”

  “God may forgive her,” said Jord, “but it will be a long time before I do.”

  A few hours later, Margid Veritt came and sent her husband home to rest. It was the first time Rimon had ever seen Abel defer to his wife. He was back at dawn, looking rested. By that time
, Rimon was feeling a slight, nagging strain, and Jord was on the thin edge of exhaustion.

  Willa said, “Jord, come on. You’re in need. Let’s go home and—” ,

  “Not until Henry is out of danger.”

  “He’s just the same,” she protested. “He will sleep. Please, let me give you transfer, make you feel better.”

  “Willa, I will decide when we have transfer.”

  As Jord’s parents eased out of the room, Rimon realized that the situation was not new. He hadn’t been around Jord in need for several months; thus he hadn’t seen this resentment in Jord, toward Willa. He recalled his own resentment of Kadi’s control—but he had decided that was due to her attempts to hide her true feelings—his sense that she was lying nagerically. Willa was completely open– her concern was genuine and loving, and still Jord responded with resentment.

  He decided to let Jord cool off, then try tactfully to send him home with Willa. Jord went to the foot of Steers’ bed, staring at him, brooding. Willa tried again. “Look, he is sleeping. Sleep is good, Jord. He will be well soon.”

  “You don’t know anything about it!” Jord snapped. “You don’t know anything!” Then he pulled himself together, genuinely sorry. “Forgive me, Willa,” he said with the tone of habit. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “You are’ in need. Come home and have transfer—then you won’t say things you shouldn’t.”

  “Will you stop pestering me?! I said I’m staying here!”

  Steers moaned, wheezed, and began to breathe stertorously. Rimon moved to where he could zlin him without Willa’s field interfering. It was bad—his nager was fading. Apparently he had the strength of will to let himself die. Rimon moved in, one eye on Jord’s reaction, and tried to support the Gen’s field. Even unconscious, Steers resisted. Perhaps the best thing was to leave him in peace. Rimon zlinned Jord lightly, and knew that the Sime knew his friend was dying. Yet Jord was determined to stay with him until the end.

  Rimon withdrew to check the other Gens. They had lost another one during the night, but the other two would survive. Survive to be killed, he thought with a shudder, the first time the thought had gotten through his carefully laid defenses. I am getting tired.

  He was vaguely aware of murmuring between Jord and Willa. Suddenly a flare of anguished fury reached him, and he turned as Willa said, “But Jord—”

  “Leave me alone!” he cried. “You don’t understand anything about it! Just let me go pray for my friend in peace.” And shaking Willa off, Jord ran out, leaving her staring after him.

  Rimon hurried to her. Steers was dead. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. The man died. So I told Jord we could go have transfer now. I wanted to make him feel better—”

  “Why didn’t you go with him?” he asked, pulling her toward the door.

  “He told me not to.”

  “But he’s in need! Come on, Willa! We’ve got to catch him.”

  To pray, Jord had said. The chapel. Rimon took off after Jord at a run, Willa following. Foreboding weighed in the pit of Rimon’s stomach. Jon would be in the chapel at this hour. Rimon speeded up, seeing Jord augmenting now, dashing for home and whatever solace he found in that chapel.

  As they pounded toward the opera gates of Fort Freedom, Rimon zlinned a Gen nager crossing the square. He was still minutes behind Jord, Willa fallen so far behind he could hardly sense her. As Jord neared the gates, Rimon zlinned the Gen directly in Jord’s path, but couldn’t tell who it was.

  My fault! Why did I let anyone keep their children here?

  Zlinning Jord, Rimon saw that he was not interested in anything but escape. It would be all right. All right—

  Jord was through the gate now—practically on top of the oncoming Gen. It wasn’t that Jord failed to sense him—it was that he didn’t care. He would have gone straight past, but for the sudden nageric screech of startlement as Jord almost ran the Gen down—and at that moment Rimon recognized Jon Forester.

  The twinge of fear stopped Jord in his tracks.

  Oh, Jon, hold it in this once—just this once! Rimon willed. Jord had taken Jon’s field down three times—maybe he wouldn’t fear. If he held steady for just a moment, Rimon could catch up and hold Jord until Willa got there.

  For a moment he thought it was going to be all right Jon’s startlement dissolved into anger—no augmenting inside the gates was the rule in Fort Freedom, where people let their children play on the green, and it was strictly enforced now that there were Gens likely to be startled by exactly what had just happened.

  Even as Rimon rounded the gates so that he could see what was happening, Jon turned on Jord, ready to snap at him, and saw—saw a Sime haggard with need, zlinning him…

  Thready fear pulsed through his field. Rimon shot forward, but Jord was reaching toward Jon already, sending the boy’s fear ‘flaring into a beacon that Rimon himself felt drawn to for a terrible moment.

  Rimon launched himself at the pair in a desperate leap. In midair, he saw Jord grasp Jon, felt the fear, the pain, the insane pleasure of killbliss, and as he hit Jord in the chest, knocking him away from his prey, it was a dead body that fell from Jord’s grip. Rimon rolled in a tangle of bodies, feeling Jord’s frustration, not because the kill was interrupted, but because he had drawn all the life-force from Jon and still it was not enough.

  Still in desperate need, Jord groped toward Rimon. With terror and guilt coursing through his nerves, Rimon didn’t care this time—he couldn’t shen Jord again, couldn’t kill him when Jon, and Henry Steers, and God knew how many others had already died—killed by Rimon’s own hand as surely as if he’d done it himself—because he had to try to live without killing Gens.

  When Jord grasped him, lateral to lateral, he didn’t resist. He didn’t care. He was better off dead. Everyone would be better off if he were dead. As Jord made lip contact the pain began—aching, searing pain like the pain when he had driven selyn into Kadi, but worse—going on and on until blessed blackness blotted out his guilt, his pain, everything.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  SELF-DEFENSE

  Rimon woke. He felt fine. He was in bed, and Kadi was in his arms, asleep, her head on his chest, the fragrance of her hair sweet in his nostrils. But it was not their bed.

  Memory came back in a rush of impressions, all overlaid by overpowering need. Coming to in need and pain, being pulled from a tangle of bodies. Jon dead. Jord in shock. Hands moving him gently—Abel Veritt. Willa pounding up, breathless, taking in the scene and turning on Jord, hitting him on the face and shoulders while she made wordless cries of anger and frustration, Jord never lifting a hand to defend himself until Margid Veritt pulled Willa off him. And finally Kadi seeming to materialize out of nowhere, the anguish in “her field disappearing at once when she saw Rimon was alive, dissolving into concern, her nager an instant, soothing support.

  Through it all, the deep, aching, terrible need, the worst he had ever known. Somehow, the Veritts had gotten them all out of the street and into their house, where Abel had thrust Rimon and Kadi into—yes, that’s where they were: Abel and Margid Veritt’s bedroom. He’d never been in here before.

  All Rimon had meant to do was shunt selyn from his reservoir into his own system, just enough to last the few days until his next transfer was due. Need impelling, raw nerves crying out for selyn, he faltered and suddenly Kadi took command, pouring life into him, completing the transfer on a wave of bliss that led them mindlessly to the inevitably physical conclusion.

  But now he remembered. Henry Steers. Jord. Jon. All of Abel’s hopes smashed at once.

  Rimon gently extricated himself from Kadi’s arms.

  “Rimon?” she asked, sitting up to focus on him vaguely.

  “Go back to sleep, Kadi. I’ve got to talk to Abel.” He began sorting through the tangled heap of clothing.

  Kadi got up to dress. “I couldn’t sleep now. I’ll go with you. Jord will be the biggest problem.”

  “P
roblem!” laughed Rimon bitterly. “Oh, Kadidid, how am I going to live with this?”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Rimon.” It seemed she had been saying that to him all his life. No, she didn’t understand. So far, she had survived her association with him, but sooner or later, she would become his victim, just like all the others.

  Rimon’s brief post-syndrome had evaporated. Jord was deep in the post-kill depression he had known in himself, in Del, in everyone he touched. Jord didn’t look up when Rimon and Kadi entered, but Abel rose from his chair before the fire, and came to them anxiously. “Are you all right?”

  Rimon brushed that aside. “Where’s Willa?”

  “We finally got her to sleep. Jord—”

  Jord said dully, “My life should be forfeit to you, Rimon.”

  “You were driven beyond endurance,” Rimon replied. “I never should have tried to teach others to be like me. I’m unnatural, abnormal—”

  “No!” interrupted Abel. “It’s not unnatural to refuse to kill.”

  “But I kill anyhow!” said Rimon. “Billy, Vee and Drust, now Jon—and look at my friends, eaten up by the same disease that devours me! Abel, I’m not what you think I am!” He pointed to the bedroom. “In there—I lost control just the way Jord did.”

  “No,” said Abel. “You may have allowed Kadi to control you, but you would never have hurt her. I’ve seen it, zlinned you, Rimon—if you’d taken a frightened Gen, at the first pain you’d have gone to healing mode. You don’t crave pain. Think about that! You say you are unnatural? How can the desire to feel pain be natural? No, Rimon, it was a test.”

  “A—test—I—failed!”

  “No, a test Jon failed, and even Jord failed. But Rimon,

  God does not put tests on us to make us give up. My son has to start over, to face the test again. Are you going to refuse to help him? Can you refuse to help?”

  “Father,” said Jord, a worn whisper. “I can’t ask—”