Ambrov Keon Read online

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1986 by Jean Lorrah

  Copyright © 2011 by Sime~Gen, Inc.

  FIRST BORGO PRESS EDITION

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  DEDICATION AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  All my work in the Sime~Gen universe must first and foremost be dedicated to Jacqueline Lichtenberg, who many years ago invited me to come and play in the Sime~Gen universe. We have long since become business partners and best friends, and it is sheer delight to have the opportunity to continue these stories at last.

  Both of us must acknowledge the fans who kept the dream of Sime~Gen alive after all the books went out of print—I can do no more than sincerely agree with Jacqueline’s sentiments below, both about our fans and about Karen MacLeod and Patric Michael. Without their help, we would not have simegen.com, and without simegen.com it is highly doubtful that there would be the opportunity to write new Sime~Gen stories.

  Jacqueline and I believe in interaction between writers and readers, and invite comments on our work. Send them to [email protected] and we will both receive them. Jacqueline and I are incorporated as Sime~Gen Inc., bringing to the Internet free fiction, a free writing workshop, book reviews, e-zines, games, chats, newsletters, listservs—an entire virtual universe which you may find at www.simegen.com.

  You can always find out about my latest work and activities at www.jeanlorrah.com.

  I am grateful for the encouragement my readers have given me over the years, and sincerely hope those of you familiar with my work will enjoy both these reprints and the new Sime~Gen books. If you’ve never read anything else I’ve written, welcome! I hope you’ll find something new and exciting in Ambrov Keon. To old friends, welcome back! I hope you enjoy revisiting the Sime~Gen universe.

  Jean Lorrah

  Acknowledgments 2011

  We thank Robert Reginald at Borgo Press for unrelenting detail work, as well as John Betancourt at Wildside Press for creating an amazing publishing house.

  We also thank Karen MacLeod for editing as well as Patric Michael and all the many people who have contributed to simegen.com.

  Jean Lorrah & Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  CHRONOLOGY OF THE SIME~GEN UNIVERSE

  The Sime~Gen Universe was originated by Jacqueline Lichtenberg who was then joined by a large number of Star Trek fans. Soon, Jean Lorrah, already a professional writer, began writing fanzine stories for one of the Sime~Gen ’zines. But Jean produced a novel about the moment when the first channel discovered he didn’t have to kill to live which Jacqueline sold to Doubleday.

  The chronology of stories in this fictional universe expanded to cover thousands of years of human history, and fans have been filling in the gaps between professionally published novels. The full official chronology is posted at

  http://www.simegen.com/CHRONO1.html

  Here is the chronology of the novels by Jacqueline Lichtenberg and Jean Lorrah by the Unity Calendar date in which they are set.

  -533—First Channel, by Jean Lorrah & Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  -518—Channel’s Destiny, by Jean Lorrah & Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  -468—The Farris Channel, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  -20—Ambrov Keon, by Jean Lorrah

  -15—House of Zeor, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  0—Zelerod’s Doom, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg & Jean Lorrah

  +1—To Kiss or to Kill, by Jean Lorrah

  +1—The Story Untold and Other Sime~Gen Stories, by Jean Lorrah

  +132—Unto Zeor, Forever, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  +152—Mahogany Trinrose, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  +224—“Operation High Time,” by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  +232—RenSime, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  +245—Personal Recognizance, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  Sime~Gen:

  where a mutation makes the evolutionary

  division into male and female

  pale by comparison.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE MIZIPI RIVER FLOWED SMOOTHLY in the late-summer stillness. No breeze stirred its calm surface. The heavily laden raft glided on the current with almost no guidance.

  The river swung around a bend and flowed south once more, the broad surface of the water reflecting unbroken blue sky for as far as the man and woman aboard the raft could see. They drifted straight down the middle of the river, and Morgan Tigue set his pole down. “We’ve got clear sailing now, Risa,” he said.

  Risa balanced her pole, twice as tall as she was, and laid it beside her father’s on the raft. “I’ll be glad to get home,” she said, seating herself on a canvas-covered chest. “I loved the trading, but getting our goods home is just plain boring.”

  Tigue laughed, the hearty laugh of a man who enjoys life despite its hardships. “Be glad of boredom, Reesey—you don’t really want to fight the Gen Border Patrol!”

  Risa didn’t protest the childhood nickname, although no one but her father could get away with calling her that. He was training her in the family business, and this had been her first trip out-Territory, their most successful trading venture yet. The raft was loaded with barrels of nails, coils of wire, plowshares, knives and axheads—perhaps raided from Gen Territory, but purchased at the huge East Market in Nivet Sime Territory. The only commodity more profitable than metal goods was Gens...but Morgan Tigue was no Genrunner, nor did he want his daughter to be one.

  Risa knew there was more to her father’s antipathy to Genrunning than its danger and quasi-legal status. He—and therefore she—had kin on the Gen side of the border. Lots of people did, of course, but not everyone had the strong family loyalties of the Tigues. Morgan Tigue had guided his own brother to the border when he established as a Gen. Risa would be expected to take her brother Kreg, if—

  No. She refused to consider it. Kreg must be Sime, like Risa and their father. Risa had changed over safely despite all their worry. So would Kreg!

  As if to reassure herself, Risa stretched her arms, extending her handling tentacles to touch her fingertips. The tentacles, developed at changeover, normally lay sheathed along her forearms. Now they emerged from the openings at her wrists, two over the back of each hand, two under the palm, relieving the growing pressure on the laterals still sheathed on either side of each forearm.

  “We’ll be home by tomorrow morning,” her father said, his selyn field—his life energy—meshing with hers as he used his Sime senses to gauge her state of Need. “You’re coming up short again,” he said, unable to hide his concern. Risa could hear the unspoken words, “Just like your mother.”

  “I’m all right, Dad,” she said firmly, deliberately hiding her discomfort. She was still in her first year after changeover; surely her Need cycle would normalize eventually. Besides, this had been an active trip—there was nothing surprising in her Needing more selyn than usual.

  To take her mind off Need, she examined her arms, freckled by the sun. Her bare feet were turning pink again; she pulled on socks and moccasins to protect the fair skin.

  A broad-brimmed straw hat shaded her face. She should put on a long-sleeved shirt against the noonday sun, but it was so dreadfully hot—

  In the far distance a small, ragged cloud scudded across the horizon, followed by two more. “Look, Dad—there’s a breeze blowing on downriver.”

  “Good,” he replied, leaning back against a crate. “I sure will be glad to get home.”

  “Kreg’s taking care of things.”

  “He’s a fine boy,” her father agreed. “Growing like a weed.”

  Again words remained unspoken; Risa knew her father was worried that Kreg might turn Gen—might even have done so while they were away, and had no one to warn him or to guide him
to the border—

  She shoved the thought aside again, then wondered if it was a premonition. “Both your mother’s brothers turned Gen,” Tigue said as if in answer to her thought. “So did my brother Jerro. Figure the odds, Risa—Kreg’ll change over. There’s two Simes to every Gen in Sime families.”

  On the average, Risa thought. But all sorts of odd things ran in families; what if large numbers of Gens ran in theirs? After all, Gens were Needed so Simes could live.

  “It wouldn’t be so bad if we knew, one way or the other,” said Risa. “Then we could prepare—”

  “Wait till you have children, Reesey. It’s better not to know. Just love your family—that’s important. You and Kreg grow up and find people to love, and give me lots of grandchildren. We’ll have a whole house full of kids, like the family I grew up in.”

  As a child, Risa had always loved her father’s stories of his four sisters and a brother—but now the stories took on new meaning. One of his sisters had died in changeover, another in childbirth. One had turned Gen and been caught and killed running for the border. His last sister, the only one of her aunts Risa could remember, had been murdered in a Gen raid...and his brother—even if he still lived—might as well be dead. Risa had known these facts for years, but since her changeover they weighed heavily on her heart.

  “What’s the good of family if you lose them all?” she asked—then was sorry she’d said it as through her Sime senses she zlinned the pain the question brought her father.

  “Not all,” he replied after a moment. “I’ve got you and Kreg—and I had ten good years with your mother. Loss is part of life, Risa...and you can’t refuse to love people because someday you might lose them.”

  The breeze reached them. The raft lifted and dropped over little wavelets. Risa stood, easily balancing, letting the air cool her sunburnt skin. Now that she was Sime, her body healed such minor damage while she slept. She would have a deeper tan—and more freckles—in the morning.

  She was grateful even for such minor advantages, for when she was a child exposure to the summer sun had meant pain, blistered skin, and peeling. At fifteen, still not changed over, she had sneaked away with others her age to swim in the river. Keeping up with her Sime friends, she had gotten such a severe sunburn that she suffered for days with raging fever. She could have died, she now knew—a stupid way to end a life. If she ever had children—

  She supposed she would someday, and yet she couldn’t imagine a man she could love the way her mother had loved her father, nor see herself with children of her own. So she changed the subject. “Maybe we’ll make enough profit this year to buy that house you want, Dad.”

  “We won’t live behind the store forever,” he replied. “But investments first—we’ll expand the business again now that you’re grown up. You and Kreg will be rich someday.”

  When they were growing up, Risa and Kreg had hardly realized they were not rich. Most parents taught their children to read, write, and do simple arithmetic—and that was that until a child changed over and might seek special training or an apprenticeship. But Risa and Kreg had been sent half-days to a small private school in Norlea, where they were taught history, geography, music, and etiquette.

  Morgan Tigue believed that acting rich was as important as being rich. Their store might stock trinkets and flashy wares for the general run of customers, but the apartment behind the store was sparsely furnished, in the finest of quiet taste. The family wore clothes of the best material, in conservative cut that would remain in style for years. Before her death, Risa’s mother had made all their clothes; now they were outfitted by a tailor who would trade services for first choice of Tigue imported goods at wholesale prices.

  The wealthy bought at Tigue’s, even though the store was on the waterfront, not in the fashionable high-rent district. Morgan Tigue carried the best of everything, from buttons to wagons—and boasted that if he didn’t have it, he could get it in a month. Risa had never known him to fail.

  He always talked about building a house, but always plunged his money back into the business. I guess I’ll have to buy that house for Dad someday, Risa thought.

  The river grew rougher. The scattered clouds thickened, and ragged-edged thunderheads followed from the south. “Storm brewing,” said Risa, glad now to put on her loose-sleeved shirt as the air cooled swiftly.

  “Let’s tie up till it’s over,” said her father.

  Risa agreed, for the raft, although sturdily built and adequate to its burden, was not very maneuverable.

  Along here the river had no distinct shoreline. Winding channels on either side of the main current were separated by marshes or hummocks. No islands—nothing to secure the raft to. If that storm blew as wickedly as it was threatening, they should unload their heavy cargo onto solid ground and drag the raft ashore. But where?

  Morgan Tigue scanned the east bank, part of their home Gulf Territory. The west shore was held by Gens.

  The wind whipped at the water, veering the raft off-course to the west.

  Risa and her father stood on the starboard side, their poles ready to push off from hummocks or sandbars. Balancing on the leading edge of the raft, they zlinned, Sime senses separating water from the obstructions they could not see.

  The river was wide and shallow here. The two Simes vectored the raft into a clumsy southward course, heaving in unison to keep it from veering farther west.

  They were augmenting, using selyn from their stored reserves for strength to fight the wind, but neither could go on that way for long. Southward progress slowed. Risa tried to peer ahead through the spray, longing to see an island, a bit of tree-lined shore—any shelter at all.

  The misting spray churned up by the wind was joined by fat drops of rain, thunking onto the raft like stones.

  The rain increased in force, driven sideways on the wind. Blinded, the Simes maneuvered by their special senses, toes gripping the raft through their moccasins.

  As Risa heaved the raft off a sandbar, the wind shifted. The raft swung in an arc around the pole, almost pulling her overboard.

  She lurched, staggered, let go of the pole and grabbed for it again. They dared not lose the ability to steer.

  The rain was no longer drops, but sheets—a waterfall roaring over them. It can’t go on like this for long, Risa thought. Such intensity had to blow itself out quickly.

  It was dark as night now. The water rose in waves, river mingling with rain on the howling wind.

  The river turned to mud as debris churned up from the bottom. The wind shifted again, now driving north, as if to push the mighty Mizipi backward!

  The river fought back. The raft tossed and shook, the two people on board clinging to the ropes. Their poles washed overboard. They were helpless.

  Risa could zlin her father’s selyn field. He was on the raft, not five paces away, and yet they dared not let go their precarious hold to reach for one another.

  The wind howled and shrieked about them. Risa knew now what the storm was: hurricane.

  Just the edge of a hurricane had hit Norlea when Risa was nine, tumbling trees and buildings, killing four people. Now she was being carried straight into the heart of such a storm. The only time she had ever felt so helpless before was at her changeover—but her father had been there to see her through. Now he was as helpless as she was.

  The raft spun on the surging river—rebounded off a hummock—heaved over a white-capped wave. There was a sickening lurch. Risa felt the sturdy timbers twist beneath her, straining the lashings.

  “Dad!” she shouted, the wind tearing the sound from her mouth.

  She could zlin her father’s steady field. Tigues were survivors!

  The ropes holding their cargo snapped. The heavy tarpaulin whirled off into the wind as crates and barrels of metal implements fell overboard.

  Another wave tossed them skyward. The remaining cargo flew up, landed with a slam—timbers split!

  Risa’s section of the raft dissolved beneath he
r hands and tentacles.

  The raft swung away from her and back—her father was clinging to remaining timbers with one hand, reaching for her with the other.

  Kicking madly, Risa reached toward him. His end of the timber broke free, pitching him into the water head-first.

  More items poured off the raft. Heavy iron implements whirled like corks on the current. A crate of plowshares spilled into the water—one struck Morgan Tigue in the side, and Risa zlinned the sickening pain of breaking ribs.

  “Dad! Daddy!”

  The air was suddenly full of flying nails. Risa’s father was maddeningly close, swimming despite his pain. But selyn flowed from a wound in his leg. Any wound losing selyn like that would be pumping life’s blood into the river—

  With all her augmented strength, Risa fought the waves. “Daddy!” she screamed, her mouth filling with muddy water. His field was fading!

  She came close enough to touch him with finger- and tentacle-tips. He was unconscious.

  The wind howled mockingly. The last of her father’s life force faded away. It was an empty body she clutched at. Then it was torn from her grip and swept away in the current. Dead, it provided no field for her to follow.

  Waves washed over Risa’s head. Survival instinct overcame her shocked grief, and she began to swim. A piece of raft bore down on her. Perhaps she could grab hold—

  The wind was playing games. Risa reached for the raft. It swung away from her as she sank in the trough of a wave. Behind her, the crest carried crates of nails and axheads—the wave broke, raining down iron. Risa was aware only of screeching pain in head and left shoulder—and then nothing.

  * * * * * * *

  RISA WOKE TO PAIN AND TERROR. She didn’t know where she was. When she opened her eyes she saw that she lay on solid ground, while her Sime senses told her she was being tossed violently, with waves of heat and cold beating over her.

  The conflict between her senses made her want to scream, but only a whimper emerged from between her chattering teeth.

  Some rational part of her mind recognized her symptoms: psychospatial disorientation. Unconscious, she had been flung ashore far from where the raft had disintegrated. The Sime orientation she had developed at changeover—the sense that told her where in the world she was—had been disrupted.