As they examined the menu, Rimon pondered. What was it that made him so instantly recognizable as a Farris? His cousin, Lenara, had made many trips here with his father, before Rimon changed over and began working, too. Once the three of them had brought in the largest shipment of prime stock ever seen in the city and gone away—people averred—having cleaned out every bank in town. The next year, people had breathed exaggerated sighs of relief when only two Farrises had shown up, saying, “This town can stand up to two Farrises, but not three!” Did people still remember that? It had been over five years ago—just after Zeth died, Lenara died. He hadn’t thought of Lenara in years. Now he wondered why she’d died. Vaguely, he remembered something about a man—had she been pregnant?
Farris women die in childbirth, too? But Kadi has survived giving me a son. Dad ought to know—someday—he has a grandson by a living woman.
“Why are you looking at me like that, Rimon? I don’t know what half these things are. You’ll have to order,” Kadi said.
“Your order, N’vet Farris?” said the waiter, hovering.
Rimon pulled himself together, scanning the list of delicacies. A week from need, he wasn’t very hungry, but Kadi was, and that would spur his appetite. Of course, there was nothing on the menu that Simes couldn’t eat, but a good deal that was poisonous to Gens. Rimon selected foods he and Kadi could share, eliciting a supercilious reaction from the waiter. He surrendered the menu and relaxed, aware that he’d gotten through the ritual with as much ease as his father.
“Someday,” he said to Kadi softly, “they’ll have menus with Sime and Gen foods listed separately.”
“Someday,” said Kadi when their order arrived, “they’ll learn to double the portions of Gens.”
“You can have most of mine,” said Rimon. “I just wanted to taste some of my favorites.”
“Oh, Rimon! I should have thought—what a waste coming to such an expensive place when you can’t enjoy it.”
“I’m enjoying it, Kadi. I’m enjoying your enjoying it.”
He meant that sincerely. The last time he’d been here, it had meant nothing to him. Now, everything leaped at him with fresh sparkle, as if he were seeing it for the first time. But he was also enjoying forcing others to accept him and Kadi as a couple, and feeling pleased it was so easy. Of course, no one knew their true relationship—But it will come out. The name will identify me—no use ever trying to deny I’m a Farris. His father would come into town soon. Would anyone mention Rimon’s strange Gen to him?
They left the restaurant at twilight, as the nearby establishments were just opening for the evening’s entertainment.
But the street of shut-up shops that they had traversed earlier was now brightly lit, doors open, shiltpron music wafting out to them on the odor of stale porstan. Barkers shouted the delights to be had inside some places.
“A kill like no kill you’ve had before!”
“Yer ma would never let you torture ‘em? Come in here and try our techniques!”
“Wild Gens running the gauntlet! Biggest thrill in town!”
“Hey, friend!” A hand and tentacles wrapped around Rimon’s upper arm. “You wanna sell that one? Wha’d you pay for ‘er? I’ll give you a nice profit.”
“No thank you,” Rimon said, trying to pull away.
“Come on, friend—I’ll give you my choicest kill. That one shouldn’t be wasted on a single kill—zlin that nager! Whip her a little, and send up the whole shenned town!”
Rimon turned on him, grasping the arm that had stopped him. “This lady is not for sale! She happens to be my wife!” The man fell back in astonishment, allowing Rimon to stride away, Kadi sheltered in the crook of his arm, their fields blending solidly for the onlookers. Behind them, horror and revulsion quickly gave way to disbelief. One faint voice raised in laughter triggered a rising tide of forced mirth. “A fair-clown out of costume!” yelled one, and as he and Kadi moved out of earshot, Rimon realized it wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought.
At the very next place along the street the barker was shouting, “Wild Gens! Prime Farris stock! Come in for the kill, the thrill of a lifetime!”
Trapped in a nightmare, Rimon steered Kadi into the next side street, not knowing where he was going except away from that street of perverse appetites. There was no lighting; he had to guide Kadi along, zlinning by her field, but they were out of the crowd. Finally he stopped to let Kadi catch her breath, drawing her to lean on him, taking strength from her presence.
“I’m sorry!” he said. “I didn’t remember it that way! But it was—I used to think it was fun to come here! I used to be just like them!”
“No you weren’t, Rimon,” she reassured him. “You were never cruel. You never went into one of those places, did you?”
“No—never! Drunk on porstan and shiltpron, yes—but that—” he shuddered. But was it because I didn’t want to—or that I simply couldn’t face the memory of killing Zeth in First Need?
“You see? You were never like them. And now you’re even more different.”
He straightened. “And I’m glad! Kadi, I’ve been worried about what I’ve become—I thought it was unnatural. I wasn’t sure it was right to try to teach others. But now I know. I couldn’t go back to—that. Never again, Kadi– never again!”
The next morning, they made their way to the Territory Land Office. Though it was early in the morning, the crowds were already thick. Everybody who had business in the Capital waited until Summer Fair, making the trip an excuse for a vacation. The plaza in the center of the government complex was almost impassable, a cluster of people at the center creating an obstacle in the flow of traffic.
Clinging to Kadi’s hand, Rimon was swept inevitably toward that center point—a nageric sore that gave him a headache even from a distance. Everyone seemed to want at least a glimpse of—oh no! Through the throbbing miasma of fields, Rimon finally discerned what it was they were all gloating over: a Sime criminal, caged, exposed to die of attrition. The man was in torment, and other Simes were gathered around, drinking in his pain.
“Serves ‘im right.”
“Oughta deal with all Raiders that way—that’d teach ‘em to raid the Pens in a bad winter!”
“Zorg, let’s bring the kids to see—learn respect for the law.”
Rimon dragged Kadi away, hoping she didn’t realize what was happening. They practically ran up the steps of the Land Office, to find a long line of deed claimants. An hour later, they were ushered into one of the cubicles, where a bored clerk asked, “Name?”
“Farris. Rimon Farris.”
She looked up at that. “Oh—gettin’ yer own place, eh? I’ll get your file.” She paused at the door. “That Gen’s not drugged. It gonna behave?”
“I have no intention of causing a disturbance,” said Kadi.
“You Farrises. Some new experiment?”
“You might call it that,” Rimon replied.
The clerk soon returned with Rimon’s file. “You picked an out-of-the-way spot, but I guess that’s so you can expand, eh? Plannin’ to compete with your dad?”
“No.”
“You cleared any more land since this report?”
“No.”
The clerk checked her papers against Rimon’s. “Description of property all seems in order. Purpose of the homestead?”
“Farming,” said Rimon.
The woman looked up sharply. “Just—farming?” She leafed through a sheaf of forms showing taxes paid on Kadi, Willa, Jon—but then just two Gens after Willa married Jord—the spring assessment had been made a few days before Jon’s death had brought the other two Gens to live with Rimon, and another girl, Anni Suttin, had joined them since then. He would have a stiff Gen tax to pay in the office down the hall, but he had the funds ready, paid by their families.
“Seems in order. Now, how many people in your household?”
“Six,” replied Rimon.
“Adults or children?”
�
�Five adults, one child.”
“Names of all the adults?”
“Myself; my wife, Kadi Morcot Farris; Len Deevan; Sordal Kent; Anni Suttin.”
“Hmmm? Three hired hands? You’re doin’ pretty well– at farming?”
“No, they’re—more like boarders,” said Rimon.
“Oh-ho. Income property!” The woman reached for another form. “That’s different. What rent are you charging?”
“No rent.” Rimon was in a fine tangle now.
The woman looked up. “It’s not another of those communal things like that other place in your area—Fort Freedom? We figure that’s some kind of tax dodge, but so far we haven’t been able to prove they don’t hold the property in common.”
What would be the best thing to say? Rimon wanted his property in his own name and Kadi’s, not held in common by everyone who lived there. “No; the land is mine. The kids staying with us work in return for room and board.”
“Hmmm. You got a good deal till they wake up and start demanding a salary. Property to be listed in the name of?”
“My name and my wife’s.”
“Then you have to bring your wife in to sign the papers.”
“This is my wife.” This was the crux. He had to try to have Kadi recognized as a person. If anything happened to him before Zeth changed over, his wife and son could lose everything.
The woman stared blankly for a moment. Then, as she realized he meant Kadi, intense anger spread through her field. “What stunt are you trying to pull? You claim this Gen is your wife?”
“Yes. I claim it, she claims it, and she has borne me a child. Under the law, that fulfills all the requirements.”
“Under the law, you bred a Gen—no more.” She scratched Kadi’s name off the form and altered the section on Rimon’s marital status. He felt Kadi tense at that, but she remained quiet.
When the tax assessor ran her pen down the column and scratched out the notice of a child in the household, Rimon felt Kadi fight off tears combined with the desire to attack. Willing her to remain calm was the only thing that allowed him to retain his own control.
The woman finally balled up the form, pitched it into the wastebasket, and took a new one. “Now let’s start this right. I’m not reporting for you tax fraud this time, N’vet Farris, but we’ll be watching you from now on—believe me.” She hastily scratched in the basic information, through Rimon’s name. “Now—how many other adult Simes in your household?”
“None,” Rimon admitted.
“So. What it adds up to is four Gens and one pre-Gen– and you. A Genfarm.”
“No! I do not sell Gens!”
She rested one tentacle significantly on the tax forms for Jon and Willa, as if challenging him to explain their absence. “That is not the definition, as any Farris knows. You have more than three Gens per Sime on this property —and you’re breeding the Gens. You’ve admitted that. It adds up to Genfarm, and if you’d care to protest that to my supervisor, I’ll inform him that you tried to defraud the Nivet Territory of tax revenue by claiming Gens as adult humans.”
What could he do? He could be denied the deed, assessed fines—yet he couldn’t help protesting. “For all the taxes we pay, we get no protection out along the border.”
Intent on a column of figures, the woman muttered, “So move.”
“We might have to. A lot of our friends have been talking about trying another Territory, where the taxes aren’t so high.”
“You want government Pens, guaranteed kills, you got to support the tax system. You don’t like it, get out.” She finished the column of figures with a flourish and passed the paper to Rimon.
Looking over his shoulder, Kadi gasped, “We can’t afford that!”
“I won’t pay it,” Rimon said grimly. “You can just send your notice to our local dealer to cut off my Pen privileges.”
The woman snorted. “When you grow your own? And live where you can slip across the border anytime you want to? You pay up here and now—or we confiscate your Gens, starting with this one.”
Rimon could think of no further argument. He checked the figures; they were correct for a Genfarm, the highest assessment rate. After the way he’d fumbled the beginning of the interview, what could he do but pay? In order to come up with the entire fee, he had to use a part of Fort Freedom’s money. How will I ever pay it back? What will I do next year? Must I spend my whole life struggling just to stay alive?
Numbly, Rimon finished his business in the building, and walked with Kadi out into the bright sunshine. She remained silently at his side, trying to support him despite her own cold despair. He steered her away from the grim display at the center of the plaza and headed up one of the radiating streets in the direction of the Pens, wondering what good it did to avoid the sight of an execution while heading toward the Pens full of condemned—and innocent—people.
Their last order of business before they could leave town was the search for Henry Steers’ son. Rimon moved automatically through the streets, afraid to think.
“Rimon,” Kadi said at last, “there is a solution, you know.”
“Solution?”
“Suppose we invite Jord and Willa to build a house on our property. Then there will be two Simes and five Gens —we can even accept another Gen before the ration will be more than three-to-one again.”
Some of the tightness in Rimon’s chest melted. “Kadi, you’re right! We won’t get this year’s money back, but we can plan against next year. I’m glad somebody in this family is thinking straight!” And he kissed her, right there on the street, oblivious to the stares of the passers-by.
When they came out into the midway, Rimon looked around for a directory. The search took them along a row of tawdry displays, cheap thrills aping the permanent parlors they had passed last night. Instead of barkers, there were performances before tents, exhausted Gens goaded through obstacle courses, poorly proportioned paintings depicting luridly, “100 Kill Positions—All Demonstrated Inside! Improve Your Personal Satisfaction With the Secrets of the Mysterious East!”
One display, however, brought Rimon up short. In a cage was a very large male Wild Gen, ragged, dirty, bearded. He stared morosely out at the passers-by, not knowing why he had been placed there, and too tired to care. But both Rimon and Kadi stared incredulously at the freshly hand-lettered sign:
GIANT KILLER GEN
In smaller lettering, the gawking crowd was informed that the predatory Gen stalking the trails to the Summer Fair had been captured, and that for an exorbitant price they could buy one of the last few tickets left to see him killed the last day of the Fair.
“Is that the one?” someone asked. “Did you really kill five Freehand Raiders?”
“Nah—only three,” said someone else. “Besides, how do we know this is the one? I heard it was a female.”
“A female Gen? Killed three Simes?”
“Seven, I heard—sucked their blood right out!”
A little boy started to poke a stick at the Gen, when his mother pulled him back sharply. “Right you are, madame,” said the manager of the display, seizing the opportunity to gather a crowd. “Keep the children back, and stay away from him yourself. We’re not sure how many Simes he has killed—at least three, maybe eight or ten! He was captured last night in a life-or-death struggle. Step inside and see it re-enacted—Gen against Sime! Can you believe it? Is it real? You won’t believe your senses until you zlin it for yourself—the most realistic representation ever of a Real Live Event! Step right this way—”
As the gullible ones filed into the tent, Rimon turned to Kadi and said, “I didn’t know you’d grown a beard!”
“It’s not funny!” she protested, but he saw that it was indeed as much funny as horrifying to her. So that Raider had been so frightened he had actually dared brave the Summer Fair crowds—rather than be out there alone with a Giant Killer Gen on the loose.
“Maybe what we ought to do to make up the tax money is put you on
display for real. I could set up a tent, and—” She hit him in the shoulder, eliciting more curious stares, and still more as she dragged him away from the display.
They located the directory for Gen sales displays. Not all the spaces were filled in; the largest of all was empty, reserved, Rimon knew, for Farris stock. But they were in luck: the second largest was filled in with the name Varnst, Syrus Farris’ largest and most successful competition.
Undoubtedly, they would have the best of their pre-Gen children here already—stock one traded before the wild bidding sessions of the last week of the Fair. If Varnst had Henry Steers, Jr., unestablished, chances were he’d be there.
–and Rimon could ask the keeper if they’d brought along all children of establishment age. If they had, Rimon would be saved a trip to the other side of the Territory.
He and Kadi were striding along a row between the tents when they came to another major crossway, where the crowd was pushed back on either side to let some wagons pass. As he looked to see the length of the line of passing wagons, Rimon froze. Despite the accumulation of trail dust, he saw these wagons were in good repair and recently painted in bold black and white: the Farris. colors. Kadi’s field registered shock, and she stepped closer to Rimon. He could see no way to get around the oncoming line. They’d just have to wait it out.
As they waited, Rimon’s arm about Kadi’s waist, he slowly became aware of something—someone—off to his left. Just behind the first row of spectators stood Syrus Farris, watching his men as they brought in the wagons. Farris would tolerate no rudeness to the public, no cruelty to the Gens; Rimon had seen his father do this before, riding ahead to make arrangements, then mingling with the crowd to see how the Simes he hired did their job when they thought themselves unobserved.
Syrus Farris might be observing his crew, but Rimon was observing Syrus Farris. How good his father looked! This “was a bad year; Rimon and Kadi looked more prosperous than many people at the Fair because of Kadi’s skill with a needle, but while their clothes might be skillfully made, Syrus. Farris’ were of the finest materials, and styled in a slightly different way that Rimon realized must have come into fashion since he’d left the center of civilization. The comfortable boots Rimon and Kadi wore had been excellently made by the shoemaker at Fort Freedom—but they were not of that exquisite imported leather that would hold a shine even through the dusty ride Farris had just negotiated, and come up gleaming with the flick of a cloth.
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