"I don't understand."
"Other Simes say we are unnatural. Surely the purity of the nager of Simes who have never killed is the natural state. The mark of the killer is the mark of corruption—it unites all those who bear it, from the most vicious of Freehand Raiders to those who struggle to kill only once or twice a year.
"To be a killer is to be joined to the kill. Junct. Each of us must break free of this bond, Zeth. We must become disjuncted! Yes, that's the right word for it."
"But why make up a new word?"
"The word is the symbol for the thing. Most Simes can't perceive the thing itself. I could not until my injury left me oversensitive for a while. I—" He glanced over at Zeth and seemed to come back from a far distance. "Zeth, what I want you to understand is that our faith doesn't claim to make life easy. But by putting our trust in God, we find the effort of living becomes tremendously worthwhile. Owen is a treasure in our community. Thanks to your efforts, he has found a purpose in life. You did this for him, and for our whole community, when you put your trust in God."
They were crossing the wooden bridge to the road through the small town, riding toward Slina's pen with the crisp green flag flying above its buildings.
The town had changed, even in Zeth's lifetime. There was still a saloon, but it was no longer part of a ramshackle row of buildings. Now there were neat shops, a bank, and the magistrate's office at Slina's pen. Three years ago they had succeeded in getting this end of the Territory declared a county, so there was now at least nominal law and order. The transients who used to gamble and carouse here, and raid across the border, had been driven to find a new stamping ground.
Nonetheless, it was a community of killer Simes. Feelings toward Fort Freedom ranged from sympathy to grudging respect. Either community would rally to support the other, but the feeling here, even to a child, was entirely different from the easy give-and-take of life at home.
For these Simes had no Gens living with them in day-today camaraderie. Slina's Gens were all drugged into complacency, their nagers neither irritating nor soothing.
Slina was irritated anyway, nervous and edgy even though Zeth could not see any symptoms of actual need in her. "Well, I'm glad you finally got here!" she greeted them.
"Zlin me, Slina," said Veritt. "I'm now technically in need and can legally claim the boy. Yesterday—"
"Shen, I'd've fixed the papers! I wish you'd've took him yesterday. I don't want that sort of thing here!"
"What sort of thing?" Veritt asked.
"Come on—I'll show you."
Slina led them to a holding room where one boy sat alone on the bench. He jumped up with a smile when Slina entered.
The boy was twelve or thirteen, a head taller than Zeth and as sturdily built as Owen. He had curly dark brown hair and bright brown eyes—obviously undrugged and alert. He looked them all over curiously, but his engaging smile was for Slina. It was easy to see why she could not let him be killed.
"He seems completely recovered," Veritt observed, and Zeth realized this must be the boy the channels had cured of an intestinal infection.
"Yeah—he was tearing up the infirmary, so I put him in here till you came. This morning I thought I'd give him one last dose of fosebine. Watch." Slina filled a wooden bowl with cloudy fluid and approached the boy. He backed off, then tried to push the bowl away, screwing up his face.
"Come on, drink it," said Slina. "It's good for you." She grasped the boy's hands, twining tentacles about them.
"No!" exclaimed the boy, shaking his head. "No, no!"
Slina dropped his hands and backed away, trembling. "That's what he did this morning. Shen and shid! Ain't never seen one come to life right here! And I never want to see it again—take him out of here, all right?"
"God be praised!" said Mr. Veritt. "He's been undrugged only—how long?"
"Nigh three weeks now, but he was so sick the first week he was unconscious most of the time."
Zeth wasn't surprised. He'd seen a number of pen-grown Gens learn to talk once released from drugs. " 'No' is always their first word," he said.
"So it seems, Zeth," said Mr. Veritt, "but it's usually months before they speak. Has this boy had special treatment?"
"Not till he took sick," Slina replied. "Just get him out of here, will you, Abel?"
But the boy wanted to stay. "You've been kind to him," said Veritt as he pried the boy away from the Gendealer.
"Ain't kindness—just protectin' my property. Your property now, and your problem."
Zeth held the chain attached to the boy's collar while Slina made over his papers to Mr. Veritt. Ill establish, I'll have to come here for papers that say I'm someone's property. That say I'm not a person. Owen had such papers, sealed with Slina's dagger-shaped mark.
Such legalities meant nothing to the people of Fort Freedom—but they did to the Territory Government. So if I'm Sime, I'll be dependent on Gens. And if I'm Gen, I'll be someone's property unless I want to cross the border.
As they took the new boy out to the horses, Zeth remained buried in his own thoughts. But the words "Freehand Raiders" caught his attention.
"... over in the west part of the Territory," Slina was saying. "Militia chased 'em over the border—they come back across beyond Ardo Pass, but the Wild Gens, they don't know Freehand Raiders from any other Simes. They come swarmin' across 'long about where the Raiders first crossed. Word is, Farris was hit real hard.''
"Rimon's father—?"
"Oh, he's all right. We'd've heard if anything'd happened to Syrus Farris."
As they tried to get the Gen boy up onto a horse, he began to fight them. Slina and Mr. Veritt had to overpower him with sheer Sime strength.
"You don't know when you're well off, kid," Slina said, turning to go back inside. Suddenly, she froze, and Zeth saw Mr. Veritt stiffen at the same time.
Both Simes looked off beyond the western edge of town. Veritt's face crinkled into a delighted smile. "Owen!"
Sure enough, a large well-laden farm wagon came down the trail as fast as the big draft horses could pull it. Flash was
tied behind the wagon. Zeth let out a whoop of pure joy, kicked his horse, and galloped to meet his friend.
Owen hit the wagon brake with one foot, and hauled back on the reins. Zeth dived from his horse onto the wagon seat, hugging Owen and demanding, "Where've you been? I thought you weren't ever coming back!"
Owen wrapped the reins around the brake and hugged Zeth. "It took longer than I expected. At first nobody would listen to me, and then everyone wanted to send presents, and I went to see my uncle—" He broke off as Mr. Veritt rode up. "Abel! What're you all doing in town? Am I glad to see you! I've got to tell someone! You won't believe what those people think!"
Then he took in the Gen boy with Veritt, still wearing the plain gray pen smock, and the collar and chain. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd—but why'd you bring Zeth?"
Veritt smiled. "This is a new adoptee, Owen. Now come along home. Everyone is anxious to hear your adventures."
Owen was as full of news as the wagon was of presents. Stacks of letters answered the ones he had carried across the border. The Old Fort was full of tears that evening—many of joy, but some of sorrow to learn of deaths or disappearances. Some who had been sent from Fort Freedom in Farewell Ceremonies had never reached the Gen community on the other side of the border.
Later that evening, Zeth's family gathered with Owen's and the Veritts around the Veritt kitchen table. Owen sat beside Zeth, his fingers wrapped lovingly around a glass of trin tea. The talk swirled over Zeth's head while he reveled in his friend's return—the relief leaving him sleepy.
Owen had brought a book for Mr. Veritt from Mountain Chapel's spiritual leader, Mr. Bron. Abel held it between his hands, idly gazing at his tentacles gracing the cover. "Owen, I understand this Mr. Bron's problems very well. It took great courage for him to allow you to speak of Simes as human beings with souls capable of salvation."
"Well,
he did ask me not to talk about souls and salvation, but when I insisted I'd donated selyn, and Mrs. Carson told him she had, too, he said it was better to speak freely than to have it pass in whispers."
Mr. Veritt nodded. "A wise man."
Owen's eyes fixed on Veritt's tentacles. Zeth, too, was
fascinated by the old Sime's display. In Fort Freedom, it was impolite to unsheath tentacles except for work.
"Abel," said Owen shakily, "you're not going to teach from this book the way Mr. Bron does? I read some of it along the road—what it says about Simes– That's where they get all their sick ideas! It's all twisted!"
Mr. Veritt shook his head. "There is great wisdom in this book, Owen—along with much unintentional error. It belongs in our library. I'm pleased to have a copy again, after all these years. I wish I could thank Mr. Bron."
Zeth knew how precious books were to Mr. Veritt. Everyone who traveled away from Fort Freedom kept an eye out for volumes to add to the growing library—but how could Mr. Veritt be grateful for one such as Owen described?
Owen took a deep breath, and Zeth thought he would voice the protest. Instead, he said firmly, "I'll tell him—or you can write to him and I'll take the letter. Next time I go."
So bloodyshen independent! Owen's casual announcement sent chills up Zeth's spine, dispelling his contentment.
In the months that followed, Zeth experienced that same shock each time Owen left again for Gen Territory. He was the only boy anywhere near Zeth's age, so when he was gone there was just nobody to talk to. Life slid down into a slump; it wasn't worth getting out of bed in the morning.
Zeth's lackluster attitude did not escape notice for long. One day he was called to his father's office. Rimon was alone. "Sit down, Zeth. We've got to have a talk."
"Yes, sir," said Zeth, heart racing. He didn't have to hitch himself up onto the chair seat anymore, and for the first time he noticed his heels touched the floor.
"Your mother is upset—partly because you've been doing only a halfhearted job with your chores lately."
"I promise I'll do better."
"I rather expect so. But that's not what worries me. Your behavior has been erratic lately. I want to know why." The note of challenge faded from his father's manner as he added, "Might it have something to do with Owen?"
Zeth gasped. Was he that transparent? "I don't know."
"Look, Zeth, we're all proud of the job you did, helping Owen get back on his feet. Even if he can't work as a Companion, he's found himself a job only he could do for us. We couldn't spare a working Companion; we couldn't send a Sime, or a child. Only someone like Owen can do the courier's
job—and Abel and I agree it has to be done if our way of life is to have any meaning. We owe that to you, in a way."
"Yeah—I guess—"
"Zeth, you're on the verge of growing up. You may not have realized it, -but you're the heir not only to my position here but perhaps to all of Farris. We can only hope you'll be full-grown before you have to step into my shoes."
He reached to take both of Zeth's hands into his own. "I don't mean to frighten you, son, but you've surely heard the talk of the Gen raid on Farris in response to a huge swarm of Freehand Raiders that's moved into the Territory."
"Yeah, I heard about it."
"There's no telling where they'll strike next—or what the out-Territory Gens are going to do. If Owen can bring Mountain Chapel to understand the difference between Freeband Raiders and law-abiding citizens—that will be only your first contribution to the dream we're living here. Sometimes I'm so proud of you, I don't know how to express it!"
"I didn't do it to make you proud of me. I did it to make it up to Owen."
"Yes—and you have done so. But that is in the past. Recently, there are moments when I can't believe what I learn about Zeth Farris could concern any son of mine. Like yesterday, when you 'helped' feed the chickens at Fort Freedom, and left the gate open so they spent the rest of the afternoon chasing birds all over the common! Or last night, when I found Star hadn't been unsaddled. Or this morning, when—''
"Yes, sir, I know," said Zeth in his quietest voice.
"Zeth, one day lives will depend on you. If you're irresponsible in one thing, it will undermine your sense of responsibility in others. That's not the way Farrises behave."
"Yes, sir."
"I understand that you miss Owen. But that must not interfere with your responsibilities. If you're going to be a channel, Zeth, you've got to learn to put aside personal desires. Now is a good time to learn that lesson."
"Yes, sir. I'll try."
"Actually, it could turn out to be good that Owen is gone so much of the time. If he's not here when you go into changeover, it will be a lot easier on him. Since he's your friend, that should matter to you."
Stunned, Zeth said, "I'd never thought of that!"
"Well, think about it. Today ends this nonsense. Saddle Star and take a ride, think it through. Next time I see you, I don't want three people following you with complaints!"
The joy of a whole day free to ride was tarnished by the admonition. Zeth went to Fort Freedom, but Abel Veritt was busy in a meeting with most of the other men, making battle plans against the Raiders. All the children were in school, and everyone else was working.
He found Mrs. Veritt canning tomatoes. She gave him a new hat she'd knitted, saying, "It's getting chilly already. I'll warrant there'll be an early snow this year!"
He was on his horse and riding before he remembered he'd meant to apologize for the chickens.
Zeth took the back trail out of Fort Freedom, up around the hills and over by the Old Farris Homestead. They still grew mushrooms in the tunnels his parents had built, but there was nobody there today. Before long he found himself on the border overlook. The last time he'd been here, Abel Veritt had told him the adults' secret—and Marji had come.
Star grazed happily and Patches chased rabbits while Zeth climbed onto a rock and stared morosely out into Gen Territory. Somewhere out there Owen was adventuring, and here Zeth sat, tied to within an hour's ride of home in case he should go into changeover. Shen!
"Shen!" He said it aloud. He'd been such a silly child to think he was really that near changeover. He'd probably be Gen after all, and the Companion Owen could never be. Then how would Owen feel about him? Whether he became Sime or Gen, he was losing his only friend.
He let himself cry, until he felt Star's nose nudging his wet cheek. Reaching up, he buried his face in her warmth, apologizing over and over for leaving her saddled and uncombed. Patches came back from his rabbit chase and added his licking to Star's attentions. "I'm all right," Zeth assured them. "I won't forget my responsibilities again. Honest."
A few days later, news reached them that two of the largest bands of Raiders had joined forces with a band from some other Territory. The three bands had picked one section of the Territory clean, and were now heading this way.
Furious activity sprouted up—last-minute attempts to get in the late crops, hammers reinforcing the stockade at Fort Freedom, windows being boarded up, troops practicing battle formation on the green.
Zeth overheard his mother and father coming home late that night. "We'll just have to stand them off alone," said Rimon Farris grimly.
"I just don't see how they could refuse our request for troops," said his mother. "We're a county and we pay our taxes—it's got to be illegal, what they're doing to us."
"Probably, but that doesn't change anything. Tomorrow we move valuables and crucial supplies out to the Old Homestead, and prepare shelter for the children there. Everyone else is to meet at the Old Fort at the first sign of Raiders."
So Zeth found himself ignominiously herded with all the little kids into the tunnels that honeycombed the hill under the house in which he'd been born. Jana, Owen's sister, was the oldest child in the group, but ever since Zeth had thrown her out of Owen's room, he'd felt more grown up than she was. And he was finally as tall as Jana.
&
nbsp; Mrs. Veritt was lookout for the children—someone had to do it, and her love of children made it acceptable to her to be away from the fighting. Zeth knew she feared for her husband. So did he. His own parents, and the other channels and Companions, wouldn't be fighting—they'd be healing the wounded. Abel Veritt, though, would be right out in front, wielding his whip with that astonishing skill he'd learned in his days as a Freehand Raider. Old as he was, he'd never let younger men fight without him.
As Mrs. Veritt's tension communicated itself to Zeth, he thought for the first time of a future without Mr. Veritt. When Marji had almost killed her grandfather, Zeth had felt sheer terror, and then intense relief when Uel was able to revive him. The possibility of Fort Freedom without Abel Veritt had not been forced on him then, as it was now.
It wasn't that he had not known death, even among people close to him. The first time Zeth could remember was when Willa Veritt, Jord's wife, died. Then later, Owen and Jana's mother, Carlana Erick.
But some people seemed . . . immortal. His father would always be there, and his mother, and Abel Veritt. Without them, how could there be a Fort Freedom?
As tension mounted with waiting, Zeth felt more and more restless. Mrs. Veritt spent most of her time atop the hill above the old sod house, scanning the trails. In direct charge of the children was Wik, the Gen boy Mr. Veritt had taken from the
pens the day Owen returned from his first trip out-Territory. Wik was an astonishment to everyone. Only four months free of the drugs that inhibited the mental development of pen-grown Gens, he had already learned to talk and to ride, and just before being assigned this task he had given transfer for the first time. Therefore he had to stay inside the heavily insulated house, lest his strengthening field attract scouting Raiders.
Wik took his first leadership assignment seriously, scolding the children if they climbed the hill or wandered into the tunnels. He couldn't seem to understand childish energy and curiosity—well, he never had a childhood, Zeth told himself as he tried to be patient with Wik.
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