The Story Untold and Other Sime~Gen Stories Read online

  Tony tried to ease the tightness in his throat before launching into one of the songs they performed every night:

  “Taxes goin’ higher,

  Last month I sold my horse.

  Border’s too far for raiding—

  How could things get worse?

  Ol’ Mizipi rising—

  Flood and hurricane—”

  His voice cracked, and Zhag gasped.

  Tony remembered what Zhag had tried to teach him that morning: let his voice follow his field. But his “inner voice” was as agitated as the Sime he was trying to soothe.

  Zhag could zlin through the enforced calm Tony had pasted over his worry. He saw his anxiety reflected in the Sime’s pinched features...just as his anger and annoyance—the tone of his inner voice in the market today—had triggered anger and annoyance in surrounding Simes.

  With shocking clarity, he recognized his power and responsibility. He had started the fight in the marketplace... out of sheer ignorance. His stupid pride in being what Simes called a Giant Killer Gen. Did he want a Sime to die at his hands? That would make him...as junct as any Sime.

  His enemy was neither Sime nor Gen: it was ignorance. Ignorance had nearly killed him today, and badly hurt Zhag. Tony determined to end his ignorance as rapidly as possible.

  Putting his mind at ease set Tony’s field at ease. Zhag relaxed, tentacles loosing their frantic grip.

  Tony began to sing again, following his now-peaceful inner voice. Zhag’s frown melted, although Tony knew it was less from the clear notes than from the peace in his nager.

  When they pulled up at Carre’s infirmary, two women ran out, one Sime, one Gen.

  “Zhag!” gasped the Sime woman, jumping onto the wagon. To Tony she said, “Don’t move,” and extended her laterals to zlin the interaction between the two men.

  She turned a brilliant smile on Tony. “Oh, thank God! Zhag—where did you find him?”

  Zhag opened his eyes. “Thea,” he whispered.

  “What have you been doing, you fool?” she asked.

  “It’s my fault,” Tony replied. “Can you help Zhag? He’s awfully weak.”

  His Gen Territory accent once again drew that curious reaction. “You’re not a Companion?”

  “I’m a musician, like Zhag,” Tony replied. “Will he be all right?”

  “He will now. Can you relinquish him to me? We’ll take him into the infirmary. Janine will care for him while I do a deep contact on you—but I’m sure already.”

  Tony followed the channel’s instructions as they carefully moved Zhag inside. Thea deep-zlinned Zhag, then gave him more medicine and left him in Janine’s care. She took Tony into a treatment room, where she dealt with his cuts and bruises.

  “Zhag will be fine once he has transfer,” Thea told Tony. “He’s off-schedule by almost two days—his injuries aren’t enough to account for that much loss.”

  Tony told her about Zhag’s convulsions and voiding.

  “You shenned him?”

  “No—he did it to himself. I take full responsibility, though. Now that I’ve seen a kill, I’ll know better than to react if it happens again.”

  “Shen!” she swore. “How many Gens were killed? How many others saw and were traumatized?”

  “I only saw one kill, and I was the only other Gen there.”

  Thea frowned, her eyes unfocused as she zlinned Tony’s reaction when he remembered. “You were frightened.”

  “It was the first time I actually saw a Sime kill a Gen.”

  “How did Zhag react? To your fear?” Thea asked.

  “He...started to attack me,” Tony carefully recalled. “Before I got control of myself, he shenned out.”

  “You’re sure? You didn’t shen him?”

  “No.” He searched his memory, knowing details were important. “I wasn’t exactly afraid when I saw the kill. Not for myself. It was—a chill up the spine because what I’d only heard about was really happening.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Thea, “especially with a field like yours. Simple startlement can provoke killmode.”

  Tony nodded, looking down at the bruises on his arms. “I know now. But in the market I didn’t understand—I certainly wasn’t afraid of Zhag—I never have been.”

  “You have no reason to be—today Zhag proved our worst fears: he’ll suicide-abort before he’ll kill.”

  “Suicide? Is that why he was voiding selyn? Thea...what did I do to him?” Tony asked.

  The channel put a hand over his. “You provoked him—but if he were in good health, he could have handled it. Now, though, his systems are so fragile that aborting sent them into chaos.” She gently squeezed his hand. “What I zlinned in that wagon is that you are the only reason he survived.”

  “Yeah, but I’m also the reason he’s so sick. I didn’t know I shouldn’t move him.”

  “You didn’t know? Where are you from?”

  “Heartland Territory.”

  “How in the world did you get to Norlea? The Tecton is doing out-Territory Companion training in the Sime Centers.”

  “I’m not a Companion,” Tony repeated. “I know, I know—every channel that zlins me wants me to move into a Householding, but I came here looking for Zhag’s music.”

  Thea looked into his eyes. “Would you be willing to be Zhag’s Companion?”

  “What would I have to do?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Give him transfer. Otherwise, not much more than you’re already doing. Less, actually, as he will get well with the right transfer mate.”

  “Get well? You mean he doesn’t have to die of disjunction?” Tony asked eagerly.

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes!” Tony said at once. “I mean, we can work together? I don’t have to live in a Householding?”

  That smile again. “We’ll train you, but Zhag needs you with him. He’s a junct channel, so he will have occasional problems—but if you can bring him through psycho-spatial disorientation, you can handle just about anything. I know you can do the job. What concerns me is your commitment. What if you decide to go back to Heartland Territory?”

  “Hajene,” Tony said, using the term of respect for a channel that he had learned at Keon, “I’m young, but I know what I was meant to do with my life. Zhag is the music I came here for. I can’t think of anything to keep me from staying, but I have to be sure I understand. Why me? Why hasn’t Janine or another Companion already done what you say I can do?”

  “Because Zhag is a channel, like me. It’s much harder to find him a matchmate than it is for a renSime.” RenSimes were the majority of Simes, who were not channels.

  “And a matchmate,” he wanted to be sure, “can keep a junct Sime from dying if he’s too old to disjunct?”

  “Yes. Keon and Carre are trying to match as many Simes as we can before people begin dying. But we are at a huge disadvantage.”

  “Not enough Gens,” Tony realized.

  “Not enough Gens who are not frightened. The least fear, the least resistance, and there will be a kill.”

  Tony thought a moment. “And not necessarily of a Gen. I nearly killed Zhag today.”

  She didn’t correct his terminology. “It’s Zhag’s responsibility, not yours. But when you give him transfer, you are going to have to take some responsibility.”

  “Just tell me what to do.”

  “In transfer, Zhag has to be completely open to your feelings. It doesn’t matter if your fear is for him rather than of him. Fear will trigger killmode—and Zhag will abort. Weak as he is, he won’t survive shen a second time.”

  “I’m not afraid. Zlin the truth of it.”

  She nodded. “It’s hard to believe you didn’t grow up in a Householding. But can you handle the paradox? Zhag needs a killmode transfer—it’s the only way to satisfy him physically. But emotionally he will reject it—if you trigger killmode, he will abort,” she repeated.

  “Then what should I do?” Tony asked in frustration.


  She sighed. “How often have you given transfer?”

  “I’ve donated twice.”

  “Donated?” Thea asked. “Your field is in synch with mine, responding like an experienced Donor’s—and you’re telling me you’ve never given transfer?!”

  He shrugged. “I can do it. I met kids twelve or fourteen years old who are Companions in Keon. I’ll bet you’ve got some here, too. All the Companions say transfer’s the best thing—”

  But Thea shook her head vehemently, hands out, palms toward him, tentacles tightly retracted. “No, no—you can’t force killbliss on an injured channel in disjunction crisis as your First Transfer! Shen and shid! I was worried about convincing Sectuib when I thought you were experienced! We’ll find someone appropriate for you today, train you over the next four weeks, and next month you and Zhag can try it.”

  “What happens to Zhag this month?” Tony demanded.

  “We’ve brought him through crisis before. Janine is his closest match here, but we’ll probably want to overmatch him.” She sat back and looked Tony up and down, shaking her head as if what she saw contradicted what she zlinned. “You slightly overmatch him now, but we’ll give you a conservative match this month—no risk of knocking you out of synch with Zhag. But you’ve got to experience a channel’s draw without having to control the transfer at the same time.”

  “Thea—I’m young and strong and healthy. Zhag is old and weak and sick. He can’t hurt me.”

  “You may be right—but Sectuib won’t risk Zhag’s hurting you...and I won’t risk your hurting Zhag.”

  Tony remembered his decision on the way to Carre. There were too many things he had to learn. Thea continued, “Don’t go near Zhag before his transfer, so he won’t fix on you again—but I want you there, high-field, immediately afterward. Then we’ll tell him you’ll give him transfer next month.”

  “Why didn’t he ask me?” Tony wanted to know. Then he realized— “Oh, shit. I told him I didn’t want to be a Companion. I meant that I wouldn’t go off to a Householding, not that I wasn’t willing to give him my selyn.”

  This time Thea’s smile was wistful. “Self-destructive attitudes are typical of disjunction crisis. Zhag surely recognized a potential matchmate...you did, too, and just didn’t know what you were feeling. Well,” she shrugged, “we have to deal with the existing situation. Zhag is always terrified of hurting his Donor. You’ll have to seduce him—but I expect that will be easy enough. Sectuib should be back soon. He’ll verify my readings and schedule your training.”

  Thea gave Tony a clean shirt. “I’ll put your old one in the rag bin. Go wash up before you meet Sectuib. Can you read Simelan well enough to follow the signs to his office?”

  “Sure. My mom made sure that if I changed over and had to run to Gulf, I wouldn’t be illiterate.”

  “Smart mom,” Thea told him.

  He didn’t tell her how angry his father had been—or that his mother regretted making it easy for her son to leave home.

  Tony took advantage of hot water and soft towels, and felt much more ready to be presented to the head of Householding Carre. It wasn’t much of a presentation—the Sectuib in Carre stole a few minutes to deep-zlin Tony, confirm Thea’s diagnosis, and assign his first lesson after he had transfer with a channel named Sansee. Apparently he wouldn’t even meet Sansee until their appointment.

  “Now go over to the refectory and have something to eat!” Sectuib told him in dismissal. Tony suddenly remembered that he was still hungry.

  But he hardly noticed what he ate—his mind was on Zhag. The Sime musician was more than a skilled shiltpron player. There were others who played amazing music...but not the music of Tony’s soul, the rhythm and harmony always just beyond his reach...until he touched its reality in Zhag Paget.

  It was an hour till Zhag’s transfer. Tony wanted to see his friend, but understood that he would make matters worse. Still, he couldn’t help wandering back toward the infirmary.

  Simes were leaving, bandaged, provided with transfer if necessary. Householdings had first gained wary acceptance among juncts because of channels’ healing ability. Local Simes came to rely on them, got to know the Gen Companions, and some, like Zhag and the Halpern family, chose to leave the kill behind. But most of these Simes were junct, and in months or a few short years would be dead. But what could Tony do, other than save the one Sime he could?

  He entered the infirmary through the twisting corridor that served to buffer nageric fields. Nevertheless, he held his own field in tightly, not knowing whether he might encounter injured Simes around the corner.

  The lobby was empty except for two channels: Thea and the Sectuib in Carre. Their backs were to Tony as they bent over a chart—Zhag’s chart, he realized as he heard the Sectuib say, “He’s fixed on Tonyo. Neither you nor I can imitate that field of his, and it’s a sure bet Janine can’t.”

  “Then it has to be Tonyo,” said Thea.

  “No,” said the Sectuib. “We could lose both of them.” He raised a tentacle to forestall her protest. “You zlinned the potential in that boy. Zhag managed a clean abort this afternoon, but he has no strength left. A botched abort would surely kill him...and it could leave Tonyo crippled for life.”

  “Nerve damage,” Thea agreed with a sigh. “He might never regain nageric control.”

  I could lose my music! Tony realized, and clamped down hard lest the two channels zlin his reaction.

  But...if Zhag dies, I lose it anyway, he realized.

  Could he make the Sectuib understand that, or was the man a Sime version of Tony’s father, unable to comprehend music as a sacred vocation? Zhag understood. But Zhag was dying.

  Before he could gather courage to try to make his case to the stern Sectuib, though, a Gen came running from another corridor. “Sectuib—Hajene! That woman with the torn lateral is voiding—Jaramee can’t stop it!”

  The two channels disappeared down the corridor with the Gen. Tony went to the desk and picked up Zhag’s chart. The clipboard was thick with pages of hasty penmanship, but on the top sheet he made out a list of medications. He recognized only fosebine—and a note that “patient resists intil and trautholo,” whatever the hell that meant.

  And at the bottom, “Condition: critical.”

  There was a mark beside the word “Prognosis:” as if someone had started to write something. Terminal, Tony realized. Zhag’s life. My future. It all hinges on this moment.

  Nobody trusted his commitment—not even Zhag. Consciously, Zhag had been trying to train him so that he could go on after the musician was dead...but unconsciously...Thea had said Zhag recognized his matchmate, but dared not hope—

  Zhag has to trust me always to be there for him. That’s why he wants me to use the Simelan version of my name—to show I’m not some Wild Gen who will go running across the border at the first provocation. Zhag’s the other half of my creativity. Our lives are lived to the same rhythm, the same harmony. If I deny him...I deny myself.

  Tonyo put down the chart, and went to Zhag’s room. Janine still sat by the bed, concentrating. Zhag was asleep or unconscious, barely breathing.

  Janine looked up. “Go away!” she whispered sharply. “You’ll ruin the work we’ve done!”

  “Thea needs—uh, requires you, Janine. She and Sectuib are trying to help a patient with a torn lateral.”

  “She wouldn’t send you!”

  Tonyo looked into the Companion’s eyes. She had to understand. “Take your time finding her,” he said, “and then say you believed me.”

  “Tonyo—leave, please!”

  He stood his ground. “Tell me you can save his life, Janine. Swear you believe it, and I’ll go.”

  She bit her lip, and tried to stare him down...but she couldn’t. “And if you die?” she asked.

  “My conscience, not yours. But I won’t die, and neither will Zhag. You’re Gen. You understand what Simes can’t.”

  After a long moment, she nodded, and rose carefully from her c
hair beside the transfer couch. Tonyo ignored the chair and, relying on Janine’s experience to ease the transition for Zhag, sat in the channel’s position on the specially-constructed couch. He was supported in position to grasp Zhag’s forearms, and, when the time came—

  Janine bent and kissed Tonyo’s cheek. “Good luck!” she whispered, and was gone, leaving Tonyo once more where he belonged. It reminded him of sitting on the steps of Zhag’s house as they had that morning, but with their roles reversed. Now it was Tonyo who had to find the way to make Zhag understand, by that same instinct with which Zhag had taught him to follow his field with his voice.

  Before Tonyo even touched him, Zhag’s chest rose and fell in a deep breath. Yes, Tonyo willed, I have what you need, Zhag—I’ll share it with you, just as we share our music.

  He played their music in his mind. His joy when he heard new sounds from Zhag’s shiltpron, the lessons he had learned— What music they would make—new music they would compose together, the whole greater than the sum of its parts.

  Perhaps Zhag sensed the music in his field...Tonyo took heart when a small smile touched the corners of Zhag’s mouth.

  He slid his hands forward, aligning their arms in transfer position. Zhag’s tentacles lay under the skin along his forearms, sheaths visible because he had almost no flesh to hide them. But they did not emerge from the wrist openings, nor did his hands grip Tonyo’s forearms.

  Tonyo felt for the tentacle roots. Where was the reflex point—?

  He pressed gently around the root of each tentacle. The handling tentacles emerged and wrapped around his arms, but the laterals remained stubbornly sheathed. It seemed cruel to heighten Zhag’s need—worse, he’d been told, than any Gen hunger—but he was there to assuage it. Zhag should feel something like the pleasure of hunger just before a good meal.

  Tonyo conjured up his hunger of an hour ago, along with the music that always drew Zhag’s laterals forth. In his mind he played the sad and difficult songs that demanded all of Zhag’s virtuosity...the songs of need.

  The small, sensitive laterals licked out of their sheaths and settled on Tonyo’s arms. He smiled. Now—let’s do this!

  Zhag’s eyes opened, at first unfocused, then fixed on Tonyo. All his effort could not take his voice above a whisper. “Tonyo—no!” Weakly, he tried to pull his arms away—but his tentacles remained seated.