Mayor Don Buffington stopped in the doorway of the council chambers to look around before entering. He'd loved this room from the moment he'd seen it. The wooden walls and long, oval table gave it a solid feel which made the council members seem unified even during the most heated discussions. He smiled as he thought of a few of those 'discussions' then continued into the room.

The Mayor took his place at the table to scan his notes one final time while the council members drifted into the room. When the last one arrived, he ran his fingers through his silver and black hair, then tugged on the lapels of his dark gray suit to verify that all was in place. The material of the suit caught his attention. His wife had insisted that he wear it this morning because she loved the way the green thread accented his hazel eyes.

When all were seated, the Mayor stood at the podium and pounded his gavel.

"This meeting is called to order." He shuffled a couple of papers before continuing, "If there are no objections, I'm going to forego all business today and cut to the most important subject-namely, my trip to Latana."

A foot shuffled and Jim Patterly coughed as Buffington raised himself up on his toes. "I believe my trip was a complete success. Before the annual meetings began, the Regional government had us visit the local Sime Center on the Sime Territory side of the border."

Holly Harboro, the Mayor's long time friend and the only teacher among the group, looked up from the papers she had been studying. "You went to a Sime Center, Don?"

"Yes, I did. The Simes were very informative. They explained how a Sime Center could help to keep our community safe by providing a place we could bring our children who are unfortunate enough to go through changeover. Once the channels-that's what they call the Simes who can take selyn from the humans without killing-have given what they call First Transfer to the new Sime child, they send the youngster to one of their training facilities on their side of the border. The training is free."

Ivan Kevler rolled his eyes up. "You can't train a Sime not to kill, Don."

"The channels are instrumental in keeping the Sime community healthy and free from killing." Mayor Buffington's eyes darkened. "Gladia and I watched a transfer between a channel and a regular Sime in a special room with windows, very similar to ones our doctors use to learn surgical techniques. It's really quite amazing."

Patterly shook his head. "It was a trick. It had to be. We've seen the murdering monsters. Remember Giavilli's daughter last month. You shot her yourself!"

The Mayor brought out a white handkerchief from his inside pocket to wipe his forehead. "I know. But the point is, she didn't have to die. If we'd had a Sime Center, her father could've taken her there. She did not have to die. She could've lived and not killed."

Larryh Cappa's face mottled in anger. "I think they addled your brain, Buffington." He pointed his finger at the Mayor. "Are you sure you're not one of them already?"

"Don't be stupid!" Buffington threw out his arms in graphic display. "Do I look like I've changed over?"

Cappa's eyes flashed with hatred as nervous laughter filled the room.

Buffington ignored the younger man who had always objected to every project he had proposed. "The channels have methods which retrain those who have killed, not to kill. The youngsters who receive their selyn from a channel when they first changeover..." he leaned over the podium to emphasize his point, "NEVER KILL!"

"And you believe that!" Cappa sneered.

The Mayor banged his gavel. "Out of order! Cappa, you are out of order. Sit down."

Buffington's eyes rested on Holly. "The Simes train their kids in skills so that the 'person' can earn a living. After all, a Sime has to not only put food on the table like you and me but also pay for the selyn we humans donate."

Kelver shook his head. Patterly and Cappa banged their fists on the table as Harboro exclaimed, "And who's going to be foolish enough to do that!"

Buffington's eyes twinkled. "I am." He glanced at each councilman. "Gladia and I donated before we left Latana." The Mayor studied his hand. "I don't look dead. What we found out was that with the selyn they get from the human body, they can power devices that we've only heard about. By having a Sime Center in our city, we can have lights in our homes instead of candles. We can have cars like they have in the big cities.

"The transportation in Latana was incredible. Gladia and I rode in a van. We toured the whole Sime City with the windows rolled up. That way we could see the city and feel safe. Ah...but that's another story."

"At least you had some sense," Harboro snorted.

"Sense. Yes, Holly, that's right. It all makes perfect sense now. With a Sime Center in Sanger, we could have refrigerators instead of ice boxes. With refrigerators, we can store food for much longer than before and therefore have much less waste."

"Stop!" Cappa put a hand to the air. "I don't care what they say. It's a pack of lies and you know it. Simes kill." He pointed to himself. "I've seen it." He turned his finger towards his fellow council members. "You've seen it. And even you have seen it, Mr. Mayor. I don't want a Center in my city. I say we vote this proposition down." He punctuated his last word with a nod of his head.

Patterly chimed in with Cappa, "I agree. I don't want that place in my backyard." His hands gripped the edge of the table as his eyes bugged out to stare accusingly at the Mayor. "And that's where you're planning to put it, isn't it? In the empty lot behind my house."

"But what about the children?" Buffington pleaded with palms outstretched. "What about the children like my son who turn Sime? Do you still want to murder them, when they can live!"

"Your son!" Cappa exclaimed. "Timothy turned Sime?"

"While we were there. I saw it. They put him in the same room I mentioned before, the one with the window." Buffington's face lit up with wonder. "After my son's tentacles broke out, selyn was provided and no one was harmed. Timothy said it was one of the most wonderful experiences he'd ever had and he didn't kill. Don't you understand what that means?" The Mayor appealed to each one of them. "Humans and Simes can live together. Safely. Without fear."

Cappa rose as he faced the council, his young features contorted with anger. "You believe that."

His open palm included the others in the room. "When Timothy didn't come back, I assumed it was changeover but I was polite enough not to ask. Mayor Buffington, I don't believe that your son is still alive and neither do my colleagues.

"I'll not have a Sime Center," he reiterated, "in my city, and I'm sure the rest of us will agree." Cappa looked around to verify his support then smirked with satisfaction as he reseated himself.

Mayor Buffington wiped his brow and cleared his throat. "I want this city to be modernized. I want to read by lights during the night. I want our food to stay fresh longer. And, I want the lives of this fine city to be eased."

The cold, silent reception of the announcement made the room appear as if it were in the deepest, darkest cavern. "But most of all, I want the people of Sanger to be safe. I want the children of our city to live. All our children deserve the chance to live. A Sime Center will provide that chance. They'll be safe; and therefore, we'll be safe. That means that we can love them no matter what. We can love them-without guilt-without fear-we can love them."

Cla...ap. cla...ap. cla...ap. "Very good, Don," Patterly oozed. "But I don't think you've convinced us.

"I'd rather live with candles than die at the hands...er...tentacles of those snakes," he spat. "I vote no."

"Hear! Hear!" the council chanted.

In a last effort to regain control, Buffington appealed, "If you don't want to think about the children, think about the town. Our town lobbied long and hard to get a sliderail station so we could export our fruits and vegetables and we have grown because of it. But that growth has created a problem. The extra sliderail cars we have requested for our businesses to expand require extra fuel. Since the Tecton charges ten times more to recharge a selyn battery in towns without a local Sime Center, the Regional government has refused our request until one is built.

"Which brings me to the point of why the Regional government changed the site of the annual Mayors' conference from the capital to the border town of Latana. That was the site the two govern-mental bodies had been using for the negotiations of our request.

"After much deliberation between the Sime government and our own concerning selyn battery recharging, the Regional government has made a blanket declaration that any city requesting additional sliderail cars which refuses to have a Sime Center built by the end of the year will be assessed a 5% refueling tax for each parcel of land."

Harboro snapped the pencil she was holding in two. "I'd rather pay taxes than let those snakes come here."

"Maybe you can afford them, Holly, but what about the citizens who can't? Even with the growth we have experienced, we are still a poor community. With a Center in Sanger, we can expand our businesses. Our city can collect the property taxes plus the Sime Center Land Use Tax, which will be a substantial sum since the Center will be required to purchase a minimum of two acres of land.

"Don't you see, those taxes could go to the schools. We could get better teachers. We could get new band uniforms." Buffington's voice changed to a leer. "We could get new football equipment and beat the pants off Danata High."

Holly glared at the Mayor. "Is that all you think about, Don? Beating Danata? I believe that people would prefer to sell their souls than to have the snakes in their backyard even if our Sanger Tigers could finally beat those arrogant Danata High Demons."

Buffington's shoulders drooped. "It's too late," he said quietly. "I've already signed the papers. The construction workers will arrive in two days."

"What!" Larryh Cappa's indignant cry was heard above the others.

"It's too late, I said. I repeat, it's too late. There's nothing you..." the Mayor pointed to the four council members, "can do about it. My authority to approve the building of a Sime Center is clearly delineated in Regional Ordinance 336."

"No!" Larryh rose but a sharp look from Harboro made him sit down.

"Don," Holly addressed the Mayor, "that ordinance was ratified after Danata County refused to approve the release of our own funds to help us build a hospital even after a kid died due to the lack of one. It does not give you the authority to approve a Sime Center."

Buffington crossed to the book shelf to pull out a thick binder. At the podium, he leafed through the pages until he found the right one. "Regional Ordinance 336 states: The mayor of a city has the authority to override the approval or disapproval of funds controlled by the city or the county during a Regional governing council meeting as long as the approval or disapproval signed is of benefit to the children of the city or town. As I recall, every one of you applauded the action at the time.

"I signed the approval on the condition that our schools would receive the tax funds. We're getting a Center in our city. Our people will have the additional sliderail cars required to expand their businesses. Our children will get new equipment and new uniforms besides having a safe place to go in case of changeover."

The council members were alternately screaming at Buffington and each other until Harboro slowly rose, then the others fell silent. "As senior council-woman of the city of Sanger and as sanctioned by the city charter, I am hereby relieving you from duty."

"I know you have that authority," Buffington acknowledged, "but kicking me out will not negate the contract that I signed with the Simes. Only a Gen territory mandate would accomplish a reversal in decision and since the Gen Territory government has been encouraging cities to get Sime Centers, I don't think they will nullify the contract I made."

Harboro's cold, hard voice added to the spite which showed in her face. "Maybe not, but I intend to let it be known that the Center is not welcome. I'll encour-age the people not to associate with that place or anyone who deals with it." She glanced around the room to verify her support. "I think the rest of the council will back me up."

Buffington stared at her for a long moment before leaving the podium and taking his seat at the council table. He put his head in his hands, then looked up. "It's too late. Sanger will have a Sime Center."

"Go home, Don," Harboro pronounced. "Go home and stay there. I'd have you impeached, but it's not worth the effort. Elections are in ten days. You're to withdraw from the race. If you leave your house before the elections are over, I can guarantee you'll be shot the same as if you were Sime, and may the All-Mighty forgive you for what you have done to this city."

The Mayor closed his eyes in pain as he heard the vote of approval from each member.

The councilwoman's opinion of him was clear.

"You'll have your Center, but no one will donate. I'm sure that our people will never go near that place. I wonder what your Sime friends will say about that."

Don Buffington was saddened by the realization that these people were no longer his friends. He looked around the room to try to recapture the feeling of warmth and security the oaken walls had given him when he had arrived but the feeling did not return. It was over. In his enthusiasm to get a better life for his people, he had lost his friends, his job, and his city. In return, he had won the lives of the children and that was a more important victory.

He placed his hands on the table to push himself up and to feel the wooden table one last time.

"Buffington," Kevler called to the Mayor, "my wife will stop by for a shopping list every day." The local grocer looked like he was smelling the odors from an outhouse. "Just leave it in the mail box. I don't want her near you or your wife."

Mayor Buffington nodded, started to leave, then squared his shoulders. "One day, Larryh," he pointed to the young man, "or you," he pointed to Ivan, "may have to face the question of whether to shoot your child or take that child to a Center where he or she will be given the chance to live without killing. Then, you'll realize that without the Center nearby, you would've had no choice in the matter. Your child would be dead, and that death would be by your own hand. On that day, you will thank me for what I have done."

"As for you, Jim..." Buffington pointed to the man who looked to be in his mid-thirties. "You and your missis may never have children, but what would happen to your wife if you were killed by a ber-serker? What would happen to you if she were the victim? There are very few single women in Sanger who're your age."

"And as for you, Holly Harboro." He turned his attention to his longtime friend. "Your first grand-daughter is old enough to change over at any time."

Before he could say another word, Holly began screaming at him, "Get out! Leave! Don't you ever speak to me again. Get OUT!!!!!!!!"

He left.

#

The ancient pine trees Mark Cappa and Petir Zachary leaned against were two of the oldest that lined the Tinusa River. The boys sat facing each other with their legs stretched in front of them. Mark had dark-brown hair and a teenager's slim body with developing muscles, while Petir was tall with a gangly, thin build topped by a mass of flaming-red curls. Even though the boys were in the same grade at school, Petir looked younger.

As they watched their cork bobbers gently ride the waves, the rush of water cascading down the nearby waterfall added to the peace created by the tall trees that surrounded the river banks.

Mark yawned, then gazed over the water. "This is the life. Am I glad it's summer. I didn't think school would ever end this year. Mrs. Robenly had to be the meanest teacher we've ever had."

"Isn't that the truth?" Petir's curls bounced with his agreement. "We've only been out for three days and yet I feel as if three tons of weight have been lifted from my shoulders. I hope she moves away so we never have to see her again."

"Me too." Mark picked up a pebble and threw it in the river.

They sat for a few minutes listening to the birds screech and the leaves rustle in the light breeze.

Petir grabbed a twig, played with it for a moment, then turned to Mark and observed, "You're looking great. You seem to get bigger every day."

Mark shrugged. "One of my cousins told me to chop wood to build up my muscles. I guess it works. Why don't you try it?"

Petir groaned. "I have. I've been chopping wood for my mom and four neighbors for the past six months. Nothing seems to work."

There was a prolonged silence before Petir spoke again. "I'm scared! I'm getting older but no matter what I do and no matter how much I eat, I seem to stay skinny. I catch my parents looking at me as if I'm a monster. And..."

"And what?"

Water lapped at the river bank as the question lingered in the air.

"And what?" Mark repeated.

Frustration clear in his voice, Petir muttered, "Oh, never mind." He threw the tiny branch into the river, jumped up, and reeled in his line. The worm wasn't moving but its fat body was still intact on the hook. The spot near the dead branch seemed to be a better place for fish so he tossed the line in that direction.

Once Petir sat down again, Mark broached the forbidden subject but avoided the word Sime. "There's always the Center."

His friend grabbed another twig and single-handedly broke it in two. "Would you go there? I mean..." Petir tossed the pieces away in anger then picked up a larger branch and swished it in the air. "What if it's true, and in changeover you're given one of your neighbors? Or even worse, one of your rela-tives?" His eyes flashed. "I'd rather die first!"

The boys sat in silence as a light breeze blew through their hair.

To avoid meeting Petir's eyes, Mark studied the water. "Have you ever attended one of their meetings at school?"

"No. My parents wouldn't sign the consent even if I asked them to sign one. You know how it is. All Simes kill. Period. End of story. Why did you ask? Your parents are the same as mine."

"I know but..." Danielle's face danced in front of Mark's eyes. "Well, I was curious one day and asked someone I know who did attend what it was about."

Alarmed, Petir exclaimed, "Do you know what your dad would do to you if he ever found out?"

"Of course I know." Mark shrugged. "But I was curious."

Petir waited but Mark continued to stare at the flow-ing river. "Well, give," Petir said in exasperation. "What did you find out?"

"Do you really want to know?" Mark gently pulled on his line.

"Yes! Now give. What did you find out?"

Mark wriggled around to face his friend as Petir leaned forward so they could speak in whispers. "They said to come to the Center as soon as you suspect you're in changeover. They don't sleep as much as we do so the Center's open around the clock."

Touching his arms, Mark continued, "One of the early signs of changeover is tenderness on the forearms." He paused. "But the strangest thing I remember is..." He looked both ways. "If you're going to be a channel, you go through changeover very quickly. And something else. You know you're going to be one of them. You know you're going to be...Sime." He mouthed the forbidden word, not even willing to risk saying it aloud in the isolation of the woods.

Petir paled. The thin boy leaned back on the tree as if it were the only thing that could support him. "That can't be. No one knows for certain. No one."

"That's what I thought, but my source was positive about that point." Mark wasn't sure why he wanted to add the last piece of information he had heard, but he did. "They said if you think you're going to be a channel, they'll give you a job so you can be near the Center. Some parents even sign a form to allow their kids to stay there until changeover."

Petir closed his eyes as if to ward off the rest of the information.

"Remember Cindy Ann?" Mark asked. "Her parents told everyone she'd gone to their cousins to live. The truth is, she stayed at the Center for six months. She changed over last year. She's a channel. They sent her to one of their schools."

"How do you know?"

"Her ex-best friend, Jenea, told me. So, on the day the snakes sent her away, I just happened to be at the sliderail station. Cindy Ann had on retainers and everything. Her parents just stood back and talked to her from a distance. I hid behind one of the barrels so I could hear part of the conversation without being seen."

"What did they say?"

"That they loved her. Can you believe that! They love her. She's Sime and they love her. Then her mother told her about an aunt who had changed over during a family vacation. Since the vacation was at a border town, the aunt had made it to a Sime Center before she was murdered. Cindy Ann's mother passed an envelope to one of the Center's humans to pass to Cindy Ann. My guess is that the letter was addressed to her Sime aunt. Afterwards, her father explained that in his family, there were stories passed down the generations of an ancestor who escaped from Sime Territory. He gave her a list of names which might give her possible family connections. Once Cindy Ann was on the train, the Center human told her parents not to worry. She'd be able to help many Simes avoid the kill." Mark snorted in disbelief. "If you can believe that."

He settled back against his tree. "What do you think? It's all so confusing. Who do you believe?"

Petir swished his branch thoughtfully. "I don't know. All I know is that I don't want to be a snake."

"Ahh, let's go." Mark reeled in his line. "The fish aren't biting and I'm hungry."

"I wish I were," Petir said under his breath.

Mark pretended not to hear.

----------------------------------------

Mark sat at the round patio table in the backyard. The large blue, flowered umbrella deflected the afternoon sun from his eyes. Nearby, a lemonade glass dripping with condensation made an ever widening ring on its napkin while Mark read.

'Did ya hear?' Berin told his wife. 'Nancy Doler's eldest son, Dabney, established last week. Instead of it escapin' to out-Territory, the Gen defected to a householdin'. I wish I had've killed it myself. Better'n it goin' to them perverts.'

Mark was so absorbed in reading the forbidden book Mr. Buffington had loaned him that he didn't hear his mom shout his name even though a squirm of his body indicated that part of his mind must have.

J'oani Cappa leaned out the back door to try again. "Mark!...Mark! Did you hear me?"

He looked up, blinking his eyes until he under-stood that someone had called his name. Finally realizing who it was, he smiled then said, "Hi, Mom."

As she walked towards him, he quickly but calmly closed the prohibited book, placing it face down so she couldn't see the cover. He then turned on his most impish smile to dispel the anger he had heard in her voice.

"Hi, yourself," she laughed. "Good book?"

"Yeah!" Mark enthused. To bring his mom's attention to his growing body, he stretched out his arms and flexed his developing muscles. Mark glanced down to assure himself the muscles were really there and not something he'd imagined. They were a good sign. A sign that he might become human. Not a killer Sime.

Mark looked back at her in time to see her eyes widen in recognition of his maturing body. She noticed, he thrilled.

The chair creaked as he leaned back in it. "What's up?"

His mom brought out the envelope she'd hidden behind her back. "I delivered all of the invitations to the annual Mayor's Barbecue weeks ago." She looked forlornly at the envelope in her hand. "Except this one. It goes to the Buffingtons on Riverdale Drive." Her body shuddered from head to toe. "I just can't bring myself to take it to them. I know I have to invite them but you know how your father is."

Mark nodded in agreement.

"He just hates them." She shuddered again. "Sime-lovers." She rubbed her arms to calm the fear that was clearly present. "I just wish Mr. Buffington weren't a former Mayor. Sanger would've been a much better place to live if he'd never been elected."

She waved the invitation in the air in a fit of exasperation. "I thought Larryh would behave differ-ently after he was elected Mayor, but he hasn't. If the Buffingtons come to the party, your dad will cause trouble just like he does every year." Her eyes got a far away look. "Maybe the Buffingtons will decline the offer this year."

Afraid to give his opinion, Mark remained silent.

His mom looked back at him. "I know I shouldn't ask, but could you take it to them?"

Mark firmly clamped down on his delight at having an excuse to go there. "Sure. I'll do it." The afternoon sun had just begun to fade to evening. "Time's about right. Can I go fishing afterwards?"

Tension released, she laughed. "That's fine. But don't forget to take your stringer to keep the fish on. Throw them back if you don't get enough. You know how I hate it when you only bring one or two home."

He enthusiastically grabbed the book and got up. Since he stood at least three inches taller than his mom, he leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, then plucked the envelope from her hand before running into the house.

Mark stopped to look around his room. The bright blue bedspread covered his freshly made bed while his rod and reel and tackle box were in the corner near the window where they belonged. His mom had cleaned his room. A momentary glow warmed him. She usually wasn't so kind.

The invitation and book were carelessly thrown on the bed so he could check that the stringer was still in the box. Satisfied, he stuffed the book in the back of his pants before retrieving the envelope and fishing gear. The door banged shut behind him as he left.

His mom was standing in the kitchen, potato and knife in hand, staring into nothing as he rushed pass her and out the door. Halfway across the yard, he stopped and trudged slowly back to the house. I wonder if Mom thinks that I've passed the age of changeover. I'm growing bigger and more muscular every day. I eat as much as my dad. Sometimes more. Surely by now, I'm human.

His shoulders sagged with a sigh. When will my dad ever trust me again? Maybe he'd trust me if he knew for certain that I was already human. I bet Mr. B would know if there's a test to find out if I'm human. I'll ask him.

Mark ran up the porch stairs to pop his head in the kitchen. "Thanks, Mom!" he yelled.

Using the hand with the potato, she waved him good-bye. With his mom's laughter still echoing in his head, he headed towards his favorite short-cut to the Buffingtons'.

Mark had been eight the first time he'd met Mr. B. At that age, he'd been very distressed when he had caught his fishing line on a low-lying branch at one of the local fishing holes. Mr. B had helped him un-tangle it by demonstrating how to unknot each twist as the line was carefully straightened. Mark had been amazed when the man started teaching him how to properly cast the line so as to avoid the problem in the future, since no other adult in town would bother to help a child.

Afterwards, Mark had gone home with Mr. B to meet Mrs. B. He had known he shouldn't go with strangers but he couldn't help himself. Mark would never forget that day.

Only later did he find out that the Buffingtons were Sime-lovers. By that time, it was too late. Mark knew them as kind and gentle people. The Buffing-tons offered him the care he craved.

His home life was difficult. Although his mom could be kind like she was today, she usually sided with his dad, who was very opinionated and violent. So whenever possible, Mark would sneak to his friends' home to drink trin tea, talk about fishing, and relax in the atmosphere of love and caring.

One day, he asked Mr. B why he liked Simes and got the most surprising answer. "We have a son." The gray-haired man's eyes asked Mrs. B for consent before he continued the story. Seeing her nodding approval, he told Mark about his son's changeover.

Mr. B's forehead creased in thought. Speaking slowly to emphasize each word, he related, "My son didn't kill the Gen who was given to him. I saw my boy and the Gen put in a room together. When they came out, the Gen was grinning from ear to ear. The man walked right up to me, stuck out his hand and said, 'Congratulations.'

"Congratulations! Can you believe that?" He shook his head. "The man said that my son had provided him with one of the most satisfying transfers he'd ever had."

Mr. B looked down, touched his fingers to his forehead then waved them off in dismissal as he looked back up. "I'm sorry. You don't know that lingo. Transfer means that the Sime has been provided with selyn." He saw Mark's confused expression and added, "That's the stuff they take from our bodies. I don't understand exactly what it is myself and I've had the opportunity, not only to read about it but also to donate it. The closest word in our language is energy. Whatever it is, it gives them life.

"But, Mark. The best part of this story is that my son became a channel. A healer. A Sime who can pro-vide the selyn to other Simes so those Simes, renSimes they call them, don't have to kill. My boy is a healer," he repeated thoughtfully. "Had we been in Sanger, I would've had to shoot my own son to save myself and my family."

Mark widened his eyes at the shock of the news. "Your son never killed? Are you positive it was the same human who went into that room with him?"

"I'm sure." The old man smiled a bit. "I'm sure."

He had a hard time believing Mr. B on this point. After all, channels were Simes. His dad had told him often enough that the Sime Territory propaganda was nothing but a pack of lies. All Simes killed.

He'd accepted what his dad had told him without reservation until his tenth birthday. That day-Mark still got a lump in his throat whenever he remembered it-he'd become afraid of growing up. His dad had rummaged through the hall closet for the rifle he used to hunt down and kill changeover victims.

The man who was his father had suddenly become a stranger. As his dad had oiled the gun, he had occasionally looked up to glare at Mark with a frightening combination of hate and fear.

Mark had always known his friends in town would kill him if he turned Sime but it was disheartening to think that his dad would be so eager to kill him as well. After that, his dad never had the rifle far from his side. The picture was clear. There was no room for a son who turned out to be Sime. The only good Sime is a dead one, Mark's mind recited in his dad's tone of voice.

He closed off the confusing thoughts when he realized he had approached the Buffingtons' house from the back by habit. Mark smiled. This time he had a legitimate reason for coming here so he skirted the house to approach from the front. Placing his fishing gear next to the stairs, he fearlessly mounted the wooden steps of the freshly painted white house to knock at the door.

While he waited for someone to respond, Mark inspected the sign that was boldly displayed on the door. SIME TERRITORY, it read above a weird scratching he assumed was in the Sime language.

Mr. B had explained about the sign when he had asked. "Many changeover victims can't make it to the Sime Center before being shot. Our house is on the other side of town from the Center. The missis and I put anyone who requests help in a locked room until a channel can rescue them. Since we've had the sign up, only two children who've come to us haven't survived. A girl's father shot her before she could make it to our home. She bled to death on our doorstep while we held her. The other was a boy who arrived in the last stages of changeover. Since he was a channel, his changeover progressed rapidly. He died before the Center could pick him up."

Although Mark had seen the sign attached to the door countless times, a shiver still passed through him every time he read it. Simes! Those mutants with the snakes on their arms.

Even after reading the Sime Territory books the Buffingtons had allowed him to read for years, it still made his skin crawl to think about them. How could anyone like Simes? Mark thought. The Buffingtons said that Simes could take their selyn from channels. They no longer had a need to kill humans as long as there were humans who were willing to donate to them. And yet, his dad told him that the Simes were natural liars. All Simes kill. Who's telling the truth? It was so confusing.

No matter how he felt about Simes, he continued to read the forbidden books. His favorite ones were those which had mini-cities called householdings where adults and children were safe. Sometimes, he would dream he was in a householding then wake up crying for a society which was some writer's fantasy.

Finally, Mark saw Mrs. B through the blue trimmed window wiping her hands on her green pinafore apron as she approached the door. She was dismayed at the sight of him in plain view and attempted to rush him inside, whispering, "Come in quickly, boy! What are you doing coming to the front door like that? Mrs. Harding's coming up the road. If she recognizes you and tells your dad, he'll skin you alive."

He stepped back to elude her grasp then spoke in a voice loud enough for the lady passing by to hear. "Mrs. Buffington." Mark used her full name instead of the shortened version he preferred. "My mom sent me to deliver this." He held out the envelope. "It's the invitation to the annual Mayor's Barbecue on Saturday. She'd like a response by Thursday."

Leaning in close to her, he lowered his voice as he giggled. "Mom really did send me," he explained. "She said I could go fishing afterwards. Where is 'he'?"

The gray-haired lady's eyes twinkled as she played along with his charade. "Why! Thank you, Mark. And you can tell your mother that we would be delighted to be there on Saturday. Is there anything we can bring?"

Lowering her voice before he had the chance to reply, she suggested, "Try the old West Bend Road site."

Mark answered for the world to hear, "Mom didn't say." A grin spread across his maturing face. "Thank you," he mouthed.

"Could you drop by tomorrow to tell me what she'd like me to bring?" Mrs. B continued in a louder than normal voice.

"Sure, I'll ask Mom."

She pointed to his things by the stairs. "I see you're going fishing. Good luck."

"Thanks, Mrs. Buffington." He waved good-bye as he ran down the steps, then turned towards the fishing hole he knew Mr. B would be trying.

At the end of West Bend Road, Mark headed down the trail which led to the Tinusa River. As he walked in the forest, he felt the calming effect of the cathedral-high trees wash over him. He stopped at the river to look upstream. The roaring white water rushed over huge green slime-covered rocks before it plunged into the pool before him. Eyes closed, he listened for a moment to the peace the place provided before following the trail downstream to Mr. B's favorite fishing hole. Once he had rounded the bend, Mark saw his friend sitting against a tree.

Mr. B had a red and white checkered handkerchief clenched in one hand while he held his rod and reel in the other. His legs were stretched out in front of him. His favorite hat, which was full of colorful fishing lures, covered his eyes.

Without saying a word, Mark paused a moment to watch Mr. B's bobber before he threw his own line farther downstream. He chose a nearby tree and settled down to companionable silence.

After a while, Mr. B sat up and removed his hat to mop his brow. "How're you doing?"

"Fine." Mark's distracted thoughts made his reply come out in a whisper.

The old man replaced his hat then looked over to ask, "Why so solemn?"

"I just came from your house. My mom asked me to deliver your invitation to Saturday's barbecue. Of course, when I appeared at the front door, Mrs. B was alarmed until she knew I had a legitimate reason for being there.

"Mr. B," Mark's voice rose an octave higher as he remembered the sign on the door. "Aren't you afraid to donate?"

The older man scrutinized him for a moment before speaking. "The first time I was but I felt that it was something I had to do. I thought that it would furnish my son selyn for a month.

"As it turned out," Mr. B continued with a far away look in his eye, "since my son is a channel, he has to take selyn from a special kind of Gen called a Donor. A Donor likes to give his selyn to a channel in a way that would kill another Gen. And because they like it, they don't get hurt. Donors are very rare. They're highly respected and well paid in Sime Territory. I envy them. Had I been younger when I ended my fear of Simes, perhaps I could've been one of those special few."

Coming back from his fantasy, Mr. B refocused his eyes on Mark. "The Donors keep the channels sane so the channels can keep the rest of the Simes sane. Anyway, after that first time, I wasn't afraid because I knew what to expect."

Mark gripped his fishing rod tighter, curiosity forcing him to ask, "And what do you expect?"

"Well." Mr. B's eyes twinkled in delight at the question. "I expect to feel tentacles on my arms, the channel's lips touching my own, and then the channel letting me go. I've never felt anything in-between. So you see...there's nothing to fear."

Mark gritted his teeth as he imagined each step Mr. B described. In a whirlwind of thought, he tried to sort everything out. But Simes kill. Or, at least, he knew the berserkers killed. His dad said they all did while Mr. B claimed that they didn't have to with the help of the channels. And then, to add to his confusion, the book he was reading said only the householding Simes didn't kill. Who was right?

And what about the Donors mentioned in Mr. B's book? I wonder what it would be like to be a Donor to a channel. A secret smile crossed over his face as he remembered a scene involving the newly established Gen, Dabney, from his book. Putting himself in Dabney's position, Mark fantasized.

Arms open in the sign of welcome. He watched as they were suddenly wrapped in a steely vise of corded strength. After being pulled forward, Mark felt hard lips touching his...

The tug of a fish waging a desperate battle at the end of his line ended his dream. Mark jumped up to reel in what felt like a big one.

"Bring him in gently," the older man told him. "That's right. Re...el him in ni...ce and slo...ow."

As Mark backed away from the shoreline, Mr. B knelt down to grab the line. The huge rainbow trout was lifted from his watery haven then the hook was carefully removed. Mark retrieved the stringer from his box and handed it to Mr. B. The fish was secured and slid into the water without delay. They watched it try to get away as Mark thrust the other end of the stringer into the soft ground.

"One or two more like that," Mr. B said as he reached down to wash his hands in the icy cold water, "and you could have a meal."

"True. But I always suspected Mom would still get angry even if I brought four or five home." He threw up his hands. "I don't think she likes to clean them."

Patting Mark on the shoulder, the older man laughed, "My Gladia is the same way. She's perfectly happy to cook them, as long as I clean them myself."

"If I get enough fish today, maybe you could teach me how." Mark beamed as he cast out his line.

He'd started to sit down when he heard a tree being deliberately rustled down the trail. Two men appeared. A sun ray which had filtered through the trees glinted off a retainer. With a sharp intake of breath, Mark realized that one wasn't a man but a Sime. An instant later, he relaxed. The retainer meant that the Sime wasn't a berserker. The two must be from the Center.

He looked at the tranquil face of the human who accompanied the Sime. How could any human be so near a freak and yet be so calm?

Mr. B noticed his tense young friend. "Relax, Mark. Simes have a difficult time dealing with frightened people."

With a nod, he took a deep breath and slowly let it out. As the men approached, Mark observed the mutant. The Sime wore black pants with a clinician's jacket covering a white shirt. If the jacket had been long sleeved instead of short, he would've looked like a human doctor just coming from the hospital.

The short, thin man came close enough to talk without shouting. His nose wrinkled. "Smells like you had luck in your barbaric undertakings. I could smell the foul scent on you from far away."

Mr. B frowned. "I'm sorry you're seeing me this way, Luigi. I'm always careful to clean up before we meet. What's wrong? You must want to see me urgently to come this far into the woods."

The Sime smirked. "There's nothing wrong, Don. I have some news which I thought you should know right away. We're getting a new first order channel assigned to the Center." He paused only long enough to take a breath before continuing, "It's Timothy, your son."

Joy spread over Mr. B's face and Mark could see him shaking with excitement. Barely able to speak, he said in a disbelieving whisper, "My son. He's coming here. When?"

Mark watched the Sime soften with the warmth of the radiating love which emanated from Mr. B as he spoke of the older man's son. "Tomorrow on the noon train. I understand he requested this assignment. It took him a year to convince the Controller that he truly wanted to move here. I'd like to stop by tonight to talk with Gladia and you. I know that you're comfortable around Simes; however, I think we should discuss the subtler courtesies."

"Yes! Please come."

Gathering up his gear, Mr. B turned to rush home but Luigi stopped him cold by saying, "Don, what about the fish?"

Mr. B blinked up to stare at the Sime. "That's right. And where are my manners?" Mark was pulled forward. "Luigi. Paul. This is Mark."

Mark automatically held out his hand until he realized what he was doing, then he pulled it back. "I...I'm sorry but..."

The look of relief on the Sime's face spoke volumes. The fish, Mark remembered. He doesn't like fish.

"It's quite all right," Luigi assured him. "I'm very glad to meet you. Don has told me many good things about you." He redirected his attention to Mr. B. "The Center's probably half crazy right now with my absence. I came as soon as I heard the news. I'll see you tonight at eight." And with that, he left. Paul went after him but the Sime had already disap-peared down the path.

"Wh...Where?" Mark stuttered.

"They ran," Mr. B mused.

"Ran! But I didn't even see the Sime go."

His friend smiled at him. "Simes can run very fast when they want to. I admire the Donors who have to keep up with them. Paul's one of the best sprinters I've ever known. He won all the first place trophies in track when he was in school, but even he can't run as fast as a Sime."

Mr. B put his gear down then turned to the river bank to check the fish that was captured there. "It's time that we both got back to town."

Mark looked forlornly at the fish. "I can't take it back. Mom'll shoot me if I only bring one home. It's big enough for the two of you. Why don't you take it?"

"I would, but Luigi's coming over tonight and I don't want the fish smell in the house when he gets there."

Mr. B reached down to lift the trout from the water. "You, my pretty fat friend, are the luckiest trout in the river." Once the stringer was gently removed he placed the fish back in the water. The creature floated for a brief moment before it felt its freedom. Twisting its entire body to create a noisy splash, the fish sped away in a silvery streak. Mr. B handed the stringer back to him then stooped to rinse his hands. After he was done, he dried them on his pants and picked up his gear. "You look like you have something on your mind, young man?" he asked Mark when he saw a frown of consternation on his face.

Mark didn't acknowledge his friend's question. Instead, he gathered his belongings then headed down the trail with Mr. B beside him. Just before they reached the road, he asked, "Why would the fish smell bother a Sime?"

"They don't eat meat. Something about," Mr. B gestured with his free hand, "they can feel living flesh die. It's in a book I read."

They walked a short distance before Mark said, "The book you gave me mentions Simes eating soup. I guess I just assumed it had meat in it. Simes have a strange way of living, don't they?"

"Maybe strange to the way you and I live but it's not strange to them-just normal. If you're curious, the next time you're at the house I'll show you a pamphlet which explains the lifestyle of Simes and channels. Here we are. You go on ahead to town and I'll follow in a couple of minutes. Don't want anyone to see us together, you know."

"No, you go on. I know you want to tell Mrs. B about your son's arrival. I'm not late this time. I'll sit over by that tree and read a few minutes. I won't be late. Promise!"

The excited man hugged him. "Thanks. Don't lose track of time or your mom'll be angry."

"I won't!" Mark chuckled.

For a moment, he watched his friend's rapidly receding back disappear down the path then he turned towards the tree.

Mark placed the tackle box next to the tree trunk then propped his fishing rod against it before sitting down. Instead of reading, he closed his eyes. This was the first time he'd seen a Sime outside the school or the Center grounds. Dad's right. If you can't shoot them, they should be confined to their Territory. His heart raced at the thought of a Sime so close. What if he became one? He'd have to leave and he couldn't eat fish. I love fish.

He thought of how close the human stood to the Sime and the look on his face when the Sime was talking. Was it adoration or was it longing? Why does he like to be near one? Why! What's so special about the Sime that a human would seek out his company? That man's suicidal. He should go to a mental institution.

Enough! The book was retrieved from his pants pocket and opened. After reading the first sentence, he stopped and flipped to the last chapter.

Dabney had been dogging Lonie for days and now it was finally time. Time to give his first transfer.

Installing the channel on the contour couch, Dabney went to the kitchen to lay out the makings of trin tea. He was so excited. He'd been looking forward to this ever since Sectuib Keven had given him the assignment. He noticed that the channel's body seemed too tense. Chastising himself, he quickly used the relaxation technique of thinking about himself as a rag doll and was rewarded by the grateful look on the channel's face.

Sectuib Keven and his Companion en-tered the room.

"Good work. You have him in perfect condition. We'll be monitoring you during the transfer but I anticipate no problems. Are you ready?"

"I'm ready," he assured them.

"Come on, then."

Dabney watched as Lonie's handling ten-tacles wrapped themselves into position. His heart beat in anticipation of what was to come.

The Sectuib instructed. "When you're ready, initiate the fifth contact point."

Dabney leaned over and pressed his lips to the channel's.

The feeling was sensational until he felt a slight frustration coming from Lonie. Speed. Lonie wants more speed. He began to push the selyn towards the channel. The speed in-creased. He pushed it faster and faster. It was fabulous. His body sang to the outpouring of his being and then-it was over. He was released and everybody was congratulating him.

Mark closed the book then stuffed it back into his pants. He took his equipment and headed for home.

What an imagination the writer had. A human who likes being around a killer. Who gives himself to be killed and doesn't die. And on top of that, a safe place for children to live where love and under-standing are given freely no matter whether you're destined to change over or to become human. I wish it were true. I wish my parents could love me no matter what.

Mark refused to think about it any longer. Instead, he thought of Petir. He wondered if his friend was enjoying his vacation at his grandmother's.

----------------------------------------

The next day, Mark returned to the Buffingtons' house to request that they bring a potato salad.

"Mark," Mr. B called as he entered the familiar back entryway. "How about a cup of trin? Gladia is making some now."

"Thanks. I'd like that." He sat at the kitchen table. "Have you seen your son?"

"Yes. And except for being Sime, he looks healthy and happy. He asked me if he could go to the party on Saturday. How about it? Is it too late to change our reservations from two to four?"

Mark waited until Mrs. B had poured the trin and everyone had had the opportunity to add sugar before he answered, "Do you think that's a good idea? My dad..."

"...is the Mayor and should behave himself," Mr. B retorted.

"Why would Timothy want to go to a party where everyone would hate him?" Mark asked.

His friend stopped his cup halfway to his mouth before he replied, "He said he wanted the people of the town to get used to him."

The older man slurped the hot tea. "Some of his childhood friends will be at the party. He'd like to see them. Besides, if they can come to accept him maybe they'll send their children who go into changeover to the Center. This party could be the first step towards the trust this town should have always had in the channels."

"So, Mark," Mrs. B took over. "Is it too late to change the number of our reservations?"

He looked from one to the other. "I'll add two more to the guest list. No one will know the difference since I'm in charge of it."

----------------------------------------

It was Saturday. The sun was bright and the air was clean from the light rain which had fallen the night before. A breeze whisked from the back screen door to the front entryway where Mark stood. He could hear the babble coming from the backyard where people were enjoying themselves. Occasionally, the air carried a whiff of barbecued meat that made his stomach growl with anticipation.

Mark studied the new screen door for a moment. His mom had been very proud when his dad had hung the two doors yesterday afternoon. She'd told him that it was made from the same stuff that was used to make the sliderail. What she didn't say was that it was also the same material the Simes used to make the ten-foot fence which surrounded the Center. He felt the slick surface. I doubt that even a Sime could climb a fence made from this.

He rubbed his stomach to stay the growl that threatened. Mark frowned. I'm starved! When are the Buffingtons going to come? He looked over the guest list again to verify that everyone had arrived. Everyone except the Buffingtons.

Mark shivered. His father would cause trouble when he found out that the channel was coming. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it, since traditionally, all of Sanger's past mayors and their families were invited to the annual event.

Mark pushed away the unsettling thoughts on the pending trouble to search his feelings. He should've been terrified that a Sime was coming to his house. Instead, he was anticipating it. He swallowed. What if Dad were right and all Simes killed! But what if Mr. B's book was right and some Simes didn't kill? I want to live! He decided that if he became Sime, he wouldn't kill. He'd go to one of the channels-maybe even Mr. B's son.

A devious smile lit Mark's face. He'd shake the channel's hand. If he were to be Sime, he'd have to learn to touch one. And if he were human-Mr. B and the book had said that the channels were dedicated to the safety of their Gens. It was risky, but the Sime would have on retainers. He should be safe enough. Decision made, a peace descended over him.

The loud sound of a throat being purposefully cleared came from the other side of the screen door. Brought back to reality, Mark greeted the Buffingtons. Mrs. B was delighted that he noticed her new pink sun dress matched Mr. B's wine-colored shirt and gray pants. Finally, Mark turned to the Sime and the stranger who stood beside his friends.

The Sime, who he assumed was the Buffington's son, wore a short-sleeved dark blue shirt with a symbol embroidered in red over the left breast. His forearms were covered by the heavy looking retainers which confined his tentacles.

The human, who stood protectively close to the Sime, wore a matching shirt with the colors reversed. The bright shirt and the sun accented the red in his brown hair.

Mr. B made the introductions. "Mark," he an-nounced "this is my son, Timothy, and his Donor, Viktor."

Determined not to be afraid of the Sime's touch, Mark steeled himself as he offered his hand to the brown-haired animal with crystal blue eyes. He watched Timothy stare at the outstretched member for a second before glancing at his Donor in silent communication. Hand suspended in air, Mark noticed the Donor step closer to Timothy as the Sime seemed to brace himself for something exceedingly unpleasant.

At the same moment, Mr. B interceded by taking the hand. "Mark," he began nervously, "it's not polite to touch a Sime unless the Sime offers to be touched."

Disappointment plainly written across his face, Mark withdrew his hand in a clenched ball as he looked past the older man, stammering, "I...I'm sorry...I didn't realize...I didn't mean...I mean...I won't..."

In almost a whisper, the Sime said, "Mark, I sense your sincerity." He waved a hand to indicate to his Donor that the crisis was over. Mr. B stepped to his wife's side.

"Viktor," the channel commanded in a terse voice.

Mark barely heard Timothy's next words as he watched the Donor place his hand on the Sime's left shoulder. Timothy then offered his hand but Mark only saw the retainer wrapped around the channel's wrist. He stared at it until the metal glinted in the morning sun to remind him why the hand was there. Finally, Mark reached out slowly. When the Sime's hot skin touched his palm, Mark screwed up his face in concern. "Are you sick?"

Tension broken, Timothy smiled. "No, Mark. I'm Sime. My normal body temperature is higher than yours."

With weary concern, Mark looked into the crystalline eyes. "You must suffer a lot with a day as hot as this one." I'm doing it. I'm touching a Sime. I'm actually carrying on a normal conversation with him and nothing is happening. He's just standing there calmly looking at me.

Mark withdrew his hand as Timothy said, "Sime normal. If you were this temperature, you'd be very sick."

"You're right. By the way, I understand you don't eat meat. I'm sorry but you do know this is a barbecue. I hope you're not too offended."

"No, I won't be. I used to love barbecues before I changed over, and Viktor," indicating the man who stood by his side, "who also grew up in Gen Ter-ritory, loved them as well." He peered into the house. "I'll be fine."

"Oh!..." Mark exclaimed. The Buffingtons were still standing at the door. "Won't you come in? The party's in the backyard."

"Would you take the potato salad?" Mrs. B handed the bowl to him.

"Sure." Mark led the way to the back door. After departing their company, he headed straight for a long table filled with every variety of food you could imagine. He was relieved to find that the other guests had already had the opportunity to eat.

Great, he thought. I can eat as much as I want.

He put the salad bowl in an empty spot then took a plate. He piled on barbecued chicken and ribs, baked beans, Mrs. B's potato salad, and bread.

"Want some tea, Mark?" Mrs. Bernard held out a glass.

"Thanks." He took it from her chubby hand then raised the glass to her before sipping it. She used to be so thin. She looks like her stomach is going to burst. I hope Mom's right about her losing the weight after the baby is born.

"There's some chocolate fudge cake and strawberry ice cream, Mark." Mrs. Bernard pointed out.

"Looks great," he said, drooling over the desserts, "but Mom'll have a fit if I take any until I've finished lunch."

She laughed. "You're right. I hope my baby will be as obedient as you are."

Mark snickered and was about to reply when they heard the sound of arguing voices close to the pecan tree.

"What's happening over there?" Mrs. Bernard wondered.

He grimaced. That's got to be where the Sime is.

"I'm not sure but it's probably my dad. The Buffingtons are here."

"Oh! In that case, you'd better go someplace else to eat. Rumor has it that you're more friendly with the Buffingtons than you're supposed to be. If you're smart, you won't go there."

Mark pressed his lips together. "Perhaps you're right." Pointing with his plate, he indicated the tree swings at the far end of the yard. "I'll go there."

He walked away, carefully balancing the food so the bread wouldn't fall. Maybe it wasn't so bad, since one of the nearby pine trees shaded the area, making it look cool and inviting.

The swings reminded him of the hours spent there as a young child. He and Petir would play all day. His mom would bring them lunch or milk and cookies because they never wanted to leave. As they grew older, they would just sit and talk.

But mostly he remembered the times his dad would push him. He would pretend he was a bird as he soared higher and higher, laughing with the joy of freedom the air gliding over his skin would invoke. That was when his dad knew he was a kid...before he was ten...before the rifle.

Mark sat down on the seat which had seemed so wide when his dad had made it and seemed so narrow now. He took a bite out of a succulent but gooey chicken leg. I wonder if Petir has returned from vacation. He said he would only be gone a week.

A groan came from beneath the trees. Mark wiped as much of the goo off his fingers as possible then settled his plate on the wooden swing before he investigated the sound he'd heard. A bush partially covered a curled up figure.

"Petir!" Mark ran over and knelt beside him. "What's going on?" He tried to straighten Petir's body by grabbing wrist and leg, but his friend screamed at his touch.

Petir fell back as Mark released him.

"What's wrong?"

His friend's response was to try crawling away but Mark grabbed an ankle.

"No. Stay with me. Tell me. What's wrong?" he repeated, his tone fearful.

"Got. Got to get away. Leave. Leave me, Mark." The boy feebly tried to push him away. "Go away. I knew... Should have left before... Have always known... Just like you said at the fishing hole that time... Always knew. That makes me a channel. Oh...it hurts...it hurts so bad!" His voice faded from exhaustion. "Leave me. Get your dad. Hurry!!"

Mark gazed into the pain-stricken brown eyes as he contemplated his friend.

"It's changeover?" he shouted. "You're saying you're in changeover! My god. You're in change-over!" He backed away in panic.

"Nooo!" Petir cried. "I don't want to be a killer. Please! I don't want to be a killer. Help me. Go get your dad. He can shoot me before I kill."

"No!" Mark wailed. He thought a moment. "A channel!" he exclaimed. "Petir, a channel! You can use a channel! There's one at the party. He won't let you kill." That is, if Mr. B is right. I have to believe. I have to... It has to be true. "I can get him. Stay here. And try not to moan too loudly or someone will find you!"

"No. I don't want to kill. Your dad...get your dad," the boy pleaded. "I don't want to be Sime. Hurry!"

"Don't worry." Mark disregarded his friend's pleas for death. "I'll get help." Not waiting for an answer, he ran to the pecan tree where he had last thought the channel to be.

Mark's dad had his rifle aimed at the unwanted guest when he arrived. The angry man screamed at the Sime, "What're you doing here?"

Mr. B indicated with a shaky hand. "Mayor, you remember my son. This is Timothy."

"He's not your son. He's a Sime and he's loose," Mark's dad shouted at Mr. B.

Mark ignored his dad and stepped close to the Sime. "Come meet my friend, Petir!" He pleaded in such a way that the crowd would think he was only trying to defuse the situation. "Come to meet Petir!"

Apparently trying to make sense of what Mark was telling him, Timothy asked, "Who?"

"Petir!" Mark panted. "My best friend! He wants your hel..."

The channel cut him off before he could complete the sentence and frighten the already fearful crowd. "Where?"

Mark pointed. "There. Behind the large pine trees with the swings."

Timothy ignored the threat of the gun and sped away.

Mark ran to catch up to the channel and his Donor but was greatly outdistanced. Wow! Viktor must be used to chasing Simes. Look at him go!

Suddenly, he realized there were pounding foot-steps close behind.

Fear welled in him. These people wanted to mur-der his friend.

His father. His mother. The other former mayors and their wives. All wanted Petir dead. But what if it's true? What if Timothy can save him?

When he arrived, he noticed that the Donor was in the same position he had used when Timothy had shaken hands. The channel was probing behind Petir's neck.

Petir cried out in pain or fear, Mark didn't know which.

His father's angry voice growled, "Move out of the way, Sime! Maybe I can't shoot you, but that one," he waved his gun toward Petir, "is fair game and I want him."

Mark shouted, "No, Dad! Petir's my friend. You can't!"

His dad turned on him. "What are you? A Sime-lover." He drilled his son with a hateful stare.

"No, Dad! Please! He's my friend! Let the channel help him! Then he won't kill!"

The Mayor fired his gun at Timothy's feet and shouted, "Move! Or I'll blow your head off next!"

The channel slowly stood up then backed away from Petir with an anguished look on his face which told Mark what was about to happen.

Mark looked to Viktor in an appeal for help but only found a suppressed panic directed at Timothy. The Donor stepped in front of the channel as if to shield him.

At that moment, Petir screamed.

Mark's breath caught.

Blood and fluids had gushed forth to splatter Petir in a gory mess but it couldn't hide the twelve tentacles which grossly extruded from his friend's two arms.

The berserker's face had grimaced into a twisted snarl. His teeth were bared. His hands and tentacles had stretched towards the nearest human. His eyes were blank, blind to everything but the need that drove him to survival.

His dad shouted, "Stand back. I've got him!" He aimed his gun.

Mark dove to Petir's side and screamed, "No!"

His dad fired.

The sound was deafening.

Mark felt nothing.

He heard his dad cry out in shock.

He couldn't move. He knew Petir was under him. "Petir," he tried to say, but his lips barely moved and no sound passed his throat.

He opened his eyes to see worry clearly written across his dad's face then closed them in total exhaustion.

Someone lifted him up. "The bullet went right through him and into the berserker's heart. The snake's dead."

No! Not Petir! It can't be. He can't be dead! Not my friend!

Something was pressed to his back before he was laid down. In the background, he heard Mr. B's son appealing to his dad, "Please Mayor Cappa. I can save him. There's no one here to save him but me. An ambulance can't get here before he bleeds to death. I can save your son but I'll require a room with a locked door so I can remove my retainers."

Retainers. Sime! The Sime wants to save me. Death. He said death. I'm dying. But if he touches me, won't I die anyway? I don't feel a thing. Maybe I am dying.

He concentrated hard but he was barely able to listen to what the people around him were saying until he heard his mother shouting, "You stubborn ol' man. That's your son! Don't you want him to live!?!"

"Of course I do, J'oani-but-a Sime-touching our son. A Sime will just kill him anyway. You know that!"

"Larryh...I don't like or trust Simes any more than you do. But maybe the channels really are different. There's no choice left! He's bleeding to death! What's the difference? Dead is dead. I want my son to live and that thing is the only hope our son has."

Reluctantly, she added, "I'll be in the room to make sure he doesn't kill him." She reiterated, "I want my son to live."

"It'll be on your head then!" Mark heard his dad bellow.

He felt himself being picked up by strong arms. A sharp pain jabbed his right shoulder. He moaned.

Next thing he knew he heard a lock click and Timothy instructing his mom, "I know you want to be present to assure that nothing happens to Mark but by just being here you're threatening his safety. Go to that corner and stay as far away as possible... And whatever you do, stay calm. Do Not Interfere!"

"It's lucky I never go anywhere without my field kit," Timothy told Viktor in English. "Put a demurin wafer under his tongue. Then we can remove his shirt."

Mark sensed his mouth being opened and shut but if something were placed inside, he hadn't felt it.

"Viktor." He heard the urgent appeal. "Help me remove my retainers."

The Sime's going to remove his retainers. Let me out of here, Mark thought, but he couldn't move.

A few indecipherable words were exchanged before the human's voice lowered to an under-standable whisper. "Drink this. I hope you know what you're doing. Even through your retainers, my high field wasn't able to shield you entirely from the deathshock. Are you sure you'll be able to do this functional? After all, we're scheduled for transfer in less than two hours."

"Yuck! This fosebine is too strong," Timothy protested.

"Finish it!-then maybe you can get through this," Viktor insisted.

After a brief pause, Timothy said, "Our transfer will clear the rest of the deathshock from my system. That's not the major problem."

"Then what is?"

In a normal voice, Viktor said, "Hold still. The catch is jammed. There!"

Mark's mother's panicked intake of breath echoed through the room as a groan of relief followed the snap pop of each released retainer.

Mark couldn't move or say anything but he heard the channel whisper, "I zlinned the beginnings of establishment when I picked him up."

"You what!"

"Keep it quiet, will you? You'll just panic her more. Besides, you heard me."

"Do you know what you're about to do to him?" Viktor hissed.

"Induction" was the heavy reply.

"Induction is right. And that's the Mayor's son. If he ever finds out, he'll run the Center out of town."

I don't understand. Induction? What does that mean?

"But he's not going to find out, is he?" Timothy's voice threatened. "Besides, there's nothing I can do about it. The changeover victim was a channel. The boys were best friends so Mark tried to help him. His system must've been activated by the victim's own rapidly developing system, and since his only two options are to die or for me to heal him, there is no choice. I'll heal him and he'll learn to live with the consequences."

The human's voice changed to soothing tones. "Calm down. I know you have no choice. I'm sorry. Better get on with it. I'm looking forward to our transfer. It's been a long time since I've been assigned to a channel of your capacity and I intend to enjoy it to the fullest."

The Sime laughed and gabbled something incom-prehensible which made the human groan and reply in a hopeful tone of voice.

Mark heard the bed creak as if someone had just sat on it.

Strange, I can hear the Sime and his Donor but I don't feel anything. It's as if this were happening to someone else. Wait. What is happening? The Sime. He's going to touch me. No.

Suddenly, Mark felt that it was extremely important to look at his arms. He used all the energy he had to crack open his eyes. There, wrapped around his forearms in snake-like cords were tentacles. Tentacles! He wanted to struggle. He tried to struggle, but his body just lay there. Finally, Mark peered into the Sime's eyes. The look Timothy gave him was one he knew he would never forget. It was a look of caring but more. He couldn't gave it a name, but he knew it was special. He tried to smile but couldn't. He knew he'd be well soon. Someone cared about him.

Mark heard Timothy tell his mom, "Mrs. Cappa, your son's very fortunate. I feel a faint trace of selyn production. He must've just established. Since he's Gen, I'll have a better chance of repairing the damage, and he'll have a better chance of surviving."

I'm Gen, he thrilled. What did he mean that I'd have a better chance of surviving since I'm Gen?

He was confused by the statement. The wafer must be doing its trick, I can't think anymo...

----------------------------------------

A month after he'd been released from the hospital, Mark lay in bed thinking. Mom seems to love me again. Is she like this because dad shot me, because I've been sick, or because I'm Gen? Did it matter? Yes, it mattered. What happened to the unconditional love she had promised him when he was younger? Every time he got in trouble she'd always say, 'You know I have to punish you but just remember, no matter what happens, I'll always love you.' Since he'd been shot, his mom had been that way again but only when they were alone. As soon as his dad came home, her attitude would change. Whatever his dad said, she would do or think.

And his dad...he didn't want to think about him. The only difference in his behavior was that the rifle was back in the closet. Everything else was the same. He still seemed to hate Mark and to look at him with suspicion. Mark knew that look. It was the same one he used every time they'd passed Mr. B on the street. It said, Sime-lover.

But, he wasn't a Sime-lover. Just knowing and talking to the Buffingtons wouldn't make him a Sime-lover. So why did his dad think he was one? I don't care. I don't care what he thinks or does or says. I know I'm not a Sime-lover, I'm just curious about Simes. That's all.

He began to drag himself out of bed and dress. It took every effort he could muster but he did it. It was time to beg his mother to let him go fishing. She'd refused him so far, but each day he could see her softening. She's got to let me go. It's the only way I'll ever get to see the Buffingtons.

Mark, dressed in old pants and his favorite gray fishing shirt, swaggered into the living room where his mom was sitting. He felt stronger and was deter-mined that today was going to be the day.

"Hi! What cha doing?" he asked as lightly as he could.

"Knitting a sweater for your father," she answered automatically. His mom furrowed her brows as she fretted, "What are you doing out of bed?"

"I'm fine, Mom. I've been telling you that I'm fine for the last two weeks. Isn't it time that you believe me? I want to go fishing." I want to go the Buffingtons. "The summer is almost over, and I've only been a few times.

"Come on, Mom," he grumbled. "Pleeease."

"I don't know, Mark. I don't think you should be out of bed. You still seem pretty weak."

"I'm fine," he reiterated. "After breakfast, I'll go for a couple of hours. It's peaceful by the river. If I get tired, I'll sleep for awhile. It wouldn't be the first time that the roaring river soothed me to sleep." He headed for the kitchen with her at his heels. "You can even make me a cup of that herbal tea that Mrs. Wilkinson said was good for healing." I can't believe I asked her to make that tea. It's the worst tasting stuff I've ever had.

The table was a welcome sight. His smiling face bespoke normality as he carefully slid into a chair and watched her fill the blue enameled kettle with water before setting it on the stove.

A groan almost escaped his lips when a wave of fatigue hit him. She won't let me out of the house if I show any sign of weakness. He sat up a little straighter.

Eggs and toast were prepared. Butter, strawberry jam, a napkin, and utensils were laid out while the food was cooking. The kettle whistled for the begin-ning of his torture. The tea was too hot to drink immediately so he decided to let it cool off. Once the meal was set before him, his mother poured herself some coffee and sat down opposite.

His appetite was beginning to return so he ate the food with gusto.

She scrutinized him over her tilted cup. "At least you're eating better."

Judging this to be the right moment to make his point, Mark gulped down the dreadful tasting tea, then took a bite of the toast with jam to cover the flavor.

"All right, Mark," his mom laughed. "You've convinced me."

He started to get up.

"Stop!" she yelled. "Sit back down." She pointed to his chair. After he sat, she began listing conditions as she counted on her fingers. "First, you have to finish all your breakfast. Second, I want you back before lunch and third," she paused to make sure he was listening, "you will promise to take a nap after you eat lunch. Promise all that and you may go."

"I promise." He took a huge bite of eggs. "Thanks, Mom. It'll be great. You'll see. I may even bring home enough fish for tonight's meal."

"I hope not!" she said under her breath, but he heard and just laughed.

"Don't worry. I'll take the stringer."

The last bite hadn't been swallowed when he got up. "I'll see you at noon."

He retrieved the fishing gear from his room, then paused briefly at the front door to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright morning sun. As he descended the wooden stairs, the window curtain moved. His mom was watching his progress. He had no choice but to continue down the street towards City Park. He would have to pick a route from there.

Mark had barely walked one block when his body began to tremble. Refusing to give in, he squared his shoulders and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

As he approached the park, he considered his options. The best paths he'd used in the past to fake a fishing trip so he could visit his friends in their home were too long and too strenuous for his present physical condition.

So, he thought. I'll have to use the South Main Street path. It's the shortest distance.

His shoulder throbbed as he rested against the large trunk of an old pine tree. Rays of sunlight filtered through the branches to warm parts of his face. Once he found a position which was totally shaded, he closed his eyes and dreamt of his soft bed for a moment. The Buffingtons. The name gave him strength to peer through heavy branches. The tree on the other side of Parkway Circle appeared to be distressingly far away. No. It's not that far away.

After long, agonizing minutes, the last person in sight disappeared into the police station. Mark ran, each step jarring his pain-racked body.

Just before he threw his fishing equipment under the branches and scrambled in after it, he saw the door to City Hall open. My dad. His heart pounded. The Mayor looked in his direction as if he'd seen something then shrugged and continued on his way.

Petrified of being caught, Mark praised himself for having had enough sense to wear gray instead of his bright red shirt he had come close to selecting this morning.

When the pain eased and no one was in sight, Mark took his fishing gear and scurried from one tree to the next until he was at the corner of Main and Baker. He looked at his dad's empty corner office and breathed a sign of relief. All clear, he thought as he sprinted to the tree in back of the first house of the block. His heart pounded with fright and exhaustion as he threw himself against the trunk just in time to see a woman opening a burgundy trimmed window.

Mrs. Febriana hated Simes and Sime-lovers as much as his dad. Ever since she had seen him talking to Mr. B, she had hated Mark. The embittered lady would be delighted to turn him over to his dad for whatever sadistic punishment the man decided to dish out.

"Mommy!" a little girl called from inside the house. "Can you help me?"

Distracted from her original task, Mrs. Febriana said, "What is it, dear?"

No matter how much he required rest, he ran. The tree at the corner house of Main and Riverdale was young and spindly so he barely stopped there before crossing the street to the block of empty houses which surrounded the Buffingtons'.

The overgrown path down the back alley covered him from the family of screaming kids who were walking towards the park. Once they were past, Mark forced himself to move.

Without knowing how he did it, he found himself hiding the fishing gear under the porch and climbing the stairs to the back door. He was about to knock when someone came rushing out the back door, picked him up and deposited him in a chair at the kitchen table before he had time to react. It was Timothy, the channel who had saved his life.

Mark's body tingled from contact with the hot Sime flesh. Timothy. Mr. B's son. He picked me up. What's happening to me?

Simes kill, he heard his dad's voice say. But, he thought, I want him to touch me again. His whole body ached with the desire. He's Sime. Don't be a fool. He'll kill you.

That's what Dad always said. I can't trust what he says. He tried to murder me. Timothy saved me. He's touched me twice and I'm still alive. Mr. B must be right.

He looked up at the Sime. I want you to touch me again. I really want...

----------------------------------------

Timothy settled the young Gen into a chair at the kitchen table just as his parents came rushing into the room.

"What's wrong?" his mother asked before she noticed that Mark was there. "Mar..."

Timothy interrupted, "I'll make some trin. Mark looks like he could use some."

He winced at the faint fish smell emanating from the Gen's hands. Mark must have brought his fishing tackle to cover his intentions of coming here.

At the ancient stove, Timothy zlinned the young man as he put water in the kettle and set it to boil. His field seemed to grow stronger with every pulse of selyn he produced. Induction. I feel his desire beating through me. That's what I did to him. And he doesn't know or understand what's happening.

Timothy sighed.

Mark's desire flared again. Selyur nager. He hadn't touched the Gen for more than a couple of seconds but it was enough. Enough for his nager to lock onto the only Sime here.

Timothy flicked his senses down to hypocon-sciousness as he leaned against the counter. That young Gen is dangerous, he thought as he switched back to duoconsciousness, but with such a nager he could be trained to rival an in-Territory Donor. He soaked up the induced nager. And the Tecton has given me permission to have First Transfer with him if... no, when Mark asks for it.

"What are you doing here?" his mother asked Mark as she sat opposite the sick young man. "You look as pale as a ghost."

"I..."

Timothy turned around in time to see Mark's look of worship for his father. "I wanted to see you, Mr. B." Mark said, resting his head in the palm of his hand.

I wish I'd kept my Donor with me. I thought I wouldn't require one since I'd just be at my parents' house. I guess Sectuib Clarinda was right. He heard her voice as he thought her words. No matter where you are in your cycle, when you're in Gen Territory, always have a Donor with you. The one time you don't will be the one time you'll want one. Since his last transfer was three days ago, Timothy hadn't thought he'd require one but he hadn't counted on the untrained high-field Gen showing up on his parents' doorstep.

"Thank you for saving my life, Mr. Buffington," the young Gen man addressed him.

On impulse, Timothy waved a hand in the air, exposing a tentacle-coiled arm to judge the Gen's reaction. "It's Timothy and you're welcome. I'm just glad I was there for you."

Mark's eyes widened at the sight but he said nothing. His field, however, gave a pulse of fright then settled down to open curiosity. A wave of dizziness emanated from the sick man.

"You don't feel so good, do you?"

"No. I don't," Mark muttered, a grimace crossing his face.

His father sat next to the young Gen. "What were you thinking of to come here when you hadn't recovered yet?"

Love colored Mark's fields. "I missed you all summer long, Mr. B. I wanted to see you. Talk to you."

His father leaned over to embrace Mark like a long-lost son. "I missed you too, but you should've waited until you were better."

Timothy realized that the Gen had won the hearts of his parents. Since he couldn't be the Gen son they'd hoped to have, he was glad they'd found Mark. He could tell that the young man was im-portant to them.

I wish things had been different. If Mark hadn't been induced, he could've lived with my parents after he became a Gen society adult. That would've made Mom and Dad very happy. But now, I just hope my parents will forgive me when they find out that they've probably lost him to the Tecton also.

Timothy continued to zlin Mark's field patterns. They were fascinating. The touch of love and com-passion had made the young Gen literally glow. The channel pulled his eyes away from the scene to take four mugs out of the cabinet using only the tentacles on his right arm.

This time the ambient shattered as Mark cried out.

Determined to stay duo, Timothy stopped with the mugs suspended in the air and zlinned Mark as the Gen passed through terror, wonder, and finally curiosity.

Once he'd adjusted to the sight, Mark asked, "How do you do that?"

Timothy was pleased by the question. "The ten-tacles have a stronger grip than my hands." He didn't say it, but he knew that Mark understood 'They're strong enough to keep a Gen from escaping'.

Timothy walked over to Mark and offered, "Try to take one of the mugs. Don't worry. I'm only holding the handle, you can take the cup part."

Mark's eyes bulged at the sight of tentacles so close but his fascination overcame his fear. He tried to take the mug but gave up after a couple of tugs. "I can't," he said. "My left hand isn't strong enough, and it'd hurt if I tried to use my right." However, the spectacle of suspended mugs continued to fascinate him so he asked, "Why don't they slip out of your grasp? Aren't tentacles slimy?"

Good! Healthy curiosity. Maybe he can overcome his childhood background. Timothy started to laugh. "No. They're not. Only the laterals become slightly wet during transfer and even then they're not what I'd call slimy."

Mark indicated his desire to touch a tentacle by pointing to one of them. "May I?"

Timothy didn't want this untrained Gen to touch him but if he could get Mark to overcome his fear, he might eventually ask for training. The Tecton could use a Donor with his potential. Shen. I could use a Donor with his potential. He steeled himself before he answered, "Yes. Of course you can."

One finger lightly rubbed a steely gray dorsal. He almost didn't hear Mark say in awe, "It's soft." The Gen bravely cupped the appendage. Timothy reacted to the breath-taking sensations which throbbed through his body. Take me. Take me. Take me. He withdrew the member and stepped back.

"Ah...yes...ah...it is." Timothy forced himself to turn and place the mugs on the counter. The kettle had begun to whistle. "The tea'll be ready as soon as it steeps." He was sure Mark heard his voice shake.

To break the tension, his father shook Mark's hand, "I'm so proud of you, Son. Didn't I tell you there was nothing to worry about?"

Mark smiled weakly. "I guess so."

"You did great!" His father hugged his mother. "I'm so proud of him," he repeated then kissed her.

As Timothy's parents continued to talk to Mark, he focussed on the love which permeated the ambient like a soothing balm to help shake the desire Mark's field had evoked in him when the young man had touched his tentacle.

"Mark," his father's sympathetic understanding was clear, "I'm sure your parents didn't tell you but-Petir had a proper funeral. I arranged for it myself. Gladia, Timothy, Viktor and I were the only ones to attend it. We explained to Petir that you would say your farewells when you were well again. Before we left, we said a prayer. May he rest in peace."

The news caused Mark's nager to shatter for a split second then it solidified and molded around Timothy's field in a protective cocoon. Once the shield was in place Mark began to cry.

Timothy rested on the solid shield. How did Mark know to do that before he cried? Induction, he painfully reminded himself.

His mother and father arose from the table, walked over to Mark, and hugged him. "When you're up to it," his father promised the young Gen, "I'll take you to the grave site."

Mesmerized by the sight, Timothy zlinned and watched as Mark constantly shifted his body so that the migrating fields his parents caused by moving around the room were always in harmonic unison. It was fascinating. Mark seemed to instinctively know the exact place to be for a channel's maximum comfort. Only Donors who've worked in the Tecton for many years know how to handle the fields to such perfection. What a priceless gift he has. But will he thank me when he finds out? Timothy wondered.

Mark looked at Timothy curiously as if he'd spoken then turned back to listen to his father.

It's amazing. No training and he's behaving like an ol' pro. Shen! What would it be like to have transfer with him? Timothy dreamed. Please ask for the training. For all the Tecton. For all the 4+ channels who've been shorted because there are so few qualified high level Donors. Please, Timothy silently begged Mark, please ask for the training.

He placed a hand on Mark's uninjured shoulder. "I'm sorry. Petir would've been a great channel had he lived." And you will be a great Donor. No. You are a great Donor. I hope that one day you'll forgive me for forcing this career on you.

Another tear rolled down Mark's cheek. Timothy's mother handed the young man a clean handkerchief. "Thank you, Mrs. B," Mark auto-matically replied.

Mark blew his nose then met Timothy's eyes. "A channel. Petir was a channel." He paused, wiped his nose once more, then answered his own question, "Yes. He was. Just before I came after you, Petir told me that he always knew he'd be Sime. He was my best friend. I would've been Sime for him if it'd been possible. He was so afraid of becoming one."

"And you weren't?" asked Timothy. Mark's nager flared fear then dissipated into neutrality.

"Sure, I was afraid, but ...," a wave of fatigue washed over Mark as the young man played with his handkerchief. "Did you know that your father lent me books from Sime Territory which were written in English?"

Timothy looked over to his father. His elder grinned sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. "I would imagine that's why he asked me to send him a new one every month. I always thought the type of book he wanted was a bit juvenile for him but I never said everything about it."

Mark looked at the two of them. "Mr. B gave me the impression that he'd read all of them before he loaned them to me. From what I read, I felt that the different stages of changeover symptoms had to be true since every book described them in the same way. I was constantly on the lookout for my own symptoms in case I had to run to the Sime Center. So, in a way, I wasn't scared. But Petir. He was scared all the time. I should've told him about the books. He was my best friend, and I never told him." Mark buried his face in his hands and cried again, "If only I'd told him. But I was afraid I'd lose him. And now I've lost him anyway. He's gone, and I murdered him."

"No!" Timothy protested. "You didn't. I did." If I hadn't been at that party, Mark would've tried to get Petir to the Center. It would've been close, but with Mark's support, Petir probably would've made it in time. "The Tecton would've rejoiced to have another native born out-Territory channel of my strength."

Upset with all the 'could have beens', Timothy withdrew his tentacles further into their sheaths. "I zlinned Petir's strength only momentarily. Your friend would've made a great channel. If only," he despaired, "he'd had the same opportunity I'd had when I changed over.

"I was lucky. I was in the right place at the right time. After changeover, my parents encouraged me to become the best channel I could be. Whereas, Petir was in the wrong place at the wrong time. In this society, there was no hope for him. You did the best you could. Besides, I'm responsible for all the Simes in the area; therefore, I'm to blame. I didn't save him. Petir was my responsibility, and I couldn't save him."

"Stop!" Timothy's father admonished, "What are you two trying to do? Make a 'who's the guiltiest person' fraternity? Neither one of you murdered Petir. Mark's father, the Mayor, did the shooting. He's the one responsible."

"You're right, Mr. B. It was my dad." Mark stared at the kitchen table in defeat.

"And there's nothing you could've done about it. Remember, it almost got you murdered as well," Timothy's father reminded Mark.

As his father rebuilt Mark's courage, Timothy turned to the stove. Upon inspection, he decided the trin was ready, and began to fill the mugs. Suddenly, he zlinned the sick Gen faint. By augmenting, he was able to set the tea kettle down then dash to Mark before the Gen's body had time to tilt.

"Ah!" his parents cried at the blur he made when he passed them.

Holding Mark like a baby, he apologized, "Sorry I startled you. Mark fainted." Timothy gently pushed a lock of Mark's hair out of the way with a tentacle. "He's so weak. He shouldn't have tried to come here."

"Is he going to be all right?" His mother reached over to feel Mark's forehead. "He's got fever."

"Can you help him, Son?" his father worried. "Like you did before?"

"Let me zlin him before he wakes up, then I'll know more."

Timothy carried Mark to the living room and waited while his mother brought out a pillow and a blanket from the hall closet. After she'd put the pillow down, he placed Mark on the couch.

He covered the sick man with his mother's favorite green and white afghan then turned to his hovering parents. "Mom. Dad. I know you'd like to help; but, just by being in the same room, you're disturbing the fields. Please wait in the kitchen. When I call you, bring a mug of trin tea for Mark. He'll require it."

Timothy sat on the couch next to Mark. As he removed the Gen's arms from under the blanket, he caught another whiff of fish smell. Closing his mind to it, he wrapped his tentacles around the frail arms. If it weren't for the Sime Territory sign his parents had nailed to the door, he wouldn't be able to do this. As it was, if Mark's dad, the Mayor, found out what he was about to do, there'd be hell to pay. I just hope Mark has learned to keep a secret.

When Timothy made the fifth contact point, he was surprised at how much fatigue Mark had been shielding from him. He zlinned all parts of Mark's body before zeroing in on the gun shot wound. The site was very irritated with particles of gun powder, dirt, and cloth. With each pulse of selyn production, the massive infection grew.

As soon as he engaged the fields, the wound began to respond. He was able to wash away a thin layer of contaminants by increasing Mark's blood supply to the area. It wasn't enough to eliminate the young Gen's pain entirely, but he wasn't willing to remove more until Mark could give his consent.

----------------------------------------

When Mark awakened, he found himself on the couch in the living room with Timothy's tentacles wrapped around his arms. "No!" he screamed as he struggled against the Sime who wouldn't release him.

The book he'd read at the beginning of the summer became vivid in his mind.

I had him. No matter how much he struggled, he was mine. I leaned over to give him the kiss of death. I drank of his essence until his mental scream had ended and his body had gone limp.

The Sime talked to him but he couldn't make out the words.

"No! Please! No!" he begged. Blind with fear, Mark continued to twist and turn to try to free himself.

"Mark. Listen to me," the calm voice spoke to him. "I'll release you when you relax. I'm a channel, Mark! I will not harm you. Please, Mark. Stop. Stop struggling and I'll release you." The channel repeated the words over and over again.

Something finally penetrated. Channel. This Sime is a channel. The book! He recalled one of the later chapters.

The channel sensed the beginning of the Gen's pain and anguish. He remembered the oath he took. I pledge the safety of all Gens. I will die before I harm one. Without another thought, he released him. The backlash from the transfer gone wrong hit him and the channel died instantly.

The channel could die. No! Mr. B's son! Mark heard the plea, 'Stop struggling and I'll release you.' How to relax?! Be a rag doll, he remembered. His body went limp. The tentacles were withdrawn.

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"No!" the young Gen screamed while his field shrieked. Timothy gasped as he knocked himself down to hypoconsciousness for the second time that day. I've learned my lesson, he chastised himself. I'll never go anywhere in Gen Territory without a Donor again. I could easily handle these wild oscillations with even a Third Order Donor.

His parents rushed into the room just as Mark's body relaxed.

"Timothy?"

He watched his mother take a step toward him and stop. He was grateful she held herself back.

"Timothy? What's wrong?"

It must have been her mothering instincts which told her that he was experiencing some kind of stress because he was sure that he was showing no outward signs.

After a couple of deep breaths, he got up. "I'll be fine, mother." Two tentacles brushed back his hair. "I'll get the tea. I think I could use some."

Shen. What a field. An induced field. His guilt pounded him. If only I hadn't let him shake my hand. If only Petir hadn't been a channel or been in changeover. If only I hadn't touched him. If only...if only...

Timothy was in and out of the kitchen in an instant. As he handed mugs to his parents, he zlinned their shock then noticed the looks on their faces. "Sorry I startled you." He blew on the steaming liquid in his own mug. "Augmenting helps after a healing session."

"That's quite all right, Son," his father grinned, "but next time, it might help if you warned us in advance."

"I promise," Timothy told him as he thought of Mark's field which had been so wildly out of control one minute and so protectively soothing in the other.

Timothy started to say more to his father but he saw one of Mark's shaky hands raise to his forehead.

"What happened?" the sick man asked.

"You fainted." Timothy put Mark's mug on one of the red crocheted coasters placed there to protect the polished wood of the end table. After he sat down, he took another drink from his own mug before placing it on a coaster next to Mark's.

To distract him from further questioning, Timothy helped Mark to sit up as he asked, "Why did your mother allow you out of the house in this condition?" then put the mug to his patient's lips for a sip of tea before he had a chance to answer.

After a tiny sip, Mark pushed the mug away. Timothy almost gasped with relief when the Gen flicked his field into a protective cocoon around him. Induction, the pang of guilt hit him again. Mark's fully manifested talent was stupendous.

He was relieved that his distraction had worked when the young Gen lay back and closed his eyes to gain strength. "I've been telling her that I'm fine for the last two weeks. I wanted to come here. I wanted to see your parents. I wanted to tell them to thank you for saving my life." He frowned. "I feel so bad. I guess it wasn't such a great idea after all."

What am I going to do with him? His body's been turned into a massive selyn producing machine and he doesn't have a clue. An in-T Gen who'd always wanted to be a Donor would love to be in Mark's condition. But him. He's just confused by what his body's telling him.

He'd have to be very careful around this young Gen, or he could set history back a few hundred years. There are only two paths for Mark because of me. One is to request training and the other is to move so far out-Territory that the only Simes he would see would be berserkers. The question was how to get him to want what the Tecton offered.

Timothy put down Mark's mug and picked up his own. "No, it wasn't a great idea. You're not in good shape. You still have a lot of healing to do. Had you been under my care, you'd have been well by now."

"What do you mean? I could've been well by now? The doctors said that only time would heal me."

"Channels are healers, Mark. We can-sense-what's wrong and encourage your body to mend. After I did the initial healing to save your life, the Gen doctors arrived and I was sent away."

"Could you help the pain right now?" Mark's hope was clear.

"I could, but I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"Please help me. I don't think I can make it back home like this. I won't tell. Promise," he begged. "My mom thinks I went fishing. I swore I'd be home by lunch. If you don't help me, I won't make it home. If she finds out I came here," his nager radiated fear, "she'll tell dad. She tells him everything."

Timothy sat back in his chair, sipped his tea, and contemplated the legal situation as he studied the young man. "Technically, we're in Sime Territory. I'm obligated to help any Gen who requests my help." He put his mug on the table. "All right. But you must know, I have to touch you with my tentacles again. Look at me," he commanded. "Do you trust me enough to stay still while I'm touching you? You won't feel a thing. You can even sleep if you want." And not be so afraid of me?

"Sleep," Mark said drowsily. "I'm so tired." The deep breath he took made him wince from the pain. "So tired. I trust you, Timothy. So tired." He slept.

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Timothy took a deep breath after he had retracted his tentacles. He looked at the sleeping Gen for a moment, zlinning the improvement, then silently walked to the kitchen.

He went to the stove in search of another cup of trin. "Mom. Dad."

"How is he, Son?" His father's field held concern.

Timothy sat down before answering him. "Better. Now that I've cleared away most of the infection, Mark should start to recover."

"That's wonderful." His mother glowed with affection.

Timothy took a long soothing drink of the tea. "Tell Mark that he'll require a few more treatments before he'll be completely recovered. If he agrees to the additional treatments then you must come for me as soon as he has arrived. Tell the front desk that it's a Code Three. That Code will pull me out of ninety percent of all situations."

"Code Three," his father repeated.

His mother's eyes glistened with tears while her nager stroked him with love. "I'm glad you care this much about your patients. Your father and I are so proud of you, Son."

He smiled at her. "Don't make me so noble. My body has given me no choice about a career. Lucky for me, I happen to love being a channel. I love to heal, and I love to give transfer."

Timothy stopped the mug in the middle of the air and frowned. "You don't have a clue about Mark."

His father shrugged his shoulders. "What about him?"

"He has Donor potential." Because of what I did. "His nager is untrained and out of control. It was extremely difficult to work with him today. Next time, I'll have my Donor with me. That is, if there's going to be a next time. Do you think he can overcome his childhood background to ask for training?"

"He might. Mark's read every book you sent me. Which means, his childhood background includes those stories. I didn't give the books to him to be malicious, it's just ... You know, Son. I want all children to have a chance to live and the awful propaganda his dad filled him with gave him no hope."

His father started to say something more but Timothy looked towards the door. "A Donor's here. They must want me back at the Center."

Timothy finished his tea as he arose. "Stay here. If you go in there, you'll wake Mark. Make sure that he's up in time to get home by noon." He kissed his fingers, blew the kiss to his mother, then winked at his father. "Bye, Mom. Dad."

Timothy zlinned Mark with satisfaction as he passed him. After putting on his retainers, he silently left.

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"Mark?" the voice belonged to Mrs. B. "Mark? Wake up, honey. It's time to go home. It's almost noon. Remember what your mother said."

"Mom?" He moved his head from side to side. "Oh!" He woke up and threw off the blanket. As he got up, he said, "Timothy." Tentacles. Touching. Healing. "Timothy!" His right shoulder moved freely with almost no pain. "How?"

Mr. B's eyes twinkled with amusement. "He's a channel. And he's gone. He had to get back to the Center. He said to tell you that you'd require several more treatments before the shoulder is completely healed. He wants you to think about it. If you decide to get more then I'll arrange a time for the two of you to meet." He held up a hand to stay Mark's immediate response. "Don't decide now. Think about it. Really think."

"Of course I want the treatments. I feel so much better." Mark gingerly moved his shoulder again. "How fast do you think that he could heal me?"

"I'm not sure, but if your dad finds out why you've healed so fast, he might run the Center out of town. If that occurs, what will happen to those children who'll change over? You know they'll all be shot."

Mark's face fell. "You're right."

After a moment, the older man said, "I believe Timothy can heal you slowly. That way, your dad'll think that it's the normal healing process."

"Can he do it like that?"

"I think so. After all, Timothy's as interested in keeping the Center open as I am."

"That would be great," Mark enthused. "Tell Timothy I won't talk to anybody about this. Promise."

Mark slipped out the back door and gathered his fishing equipment. This time he could take the safest and most direct route back home which was the Riverdale back alley located directly behind the Buffingtons' house.

Although he was slightly late, he didn't care. There was much to think about. Timothy. Tentacles. I wish I could remember what it felt like. Why did I have to fall asleep? his thoughts echoed back to him. Because you were tired.

Next time, I'll stay awake. Next time. Will there be a next time? "I hope so," he spoke aloud.

When no one was in sight, he crossed Jef'rson. From now on, the pines would have to cover his movements from the people inside the houses. After he'd passed the second one in the alley, he cut through its side yard to cross Riverdale. Once across, no one would challenge his right to be in his own neighborhood.

As he continued through the yards, all the dogs came to greet him with wagging tails and a desire to lick his face. Andrea was the most frantic of the bunch since she was the one from the house directly behind his own. At the first sight of him, she came barking over. The big, red dog whined and jumped until he stooped down to pet her. She'd missed the loving Mark lavished on her while he'd been ill. He hugged her neck as he rubbed her back which helped him to avoid as many licks as possible. When he released her, he allowed her to have one final kiss before he arose.

The dog continued to jump but he ignored her as he rotated his arm while he watched his mom through the black-trimmed kitchen window. She was washing something in the sink.

The pain still jabbed him with the movement but was greatly reduced. My shoulder feels so much better than this morning. I have to find a way to return to the Buffingtons. With Timothy's help, I may be able to go to school in two weeks. I'll do anything to be able to go away to college and get away from my dad.

After opening the door, he yelled, "Mom! I'm home!"

"There you are. I was going to call out the cavalry if you didn't get back soon."

"I fell asleep under the tree. Didn't even get a nibble." He sounded disappointed. "Guess it was the wrong time of day for fish. Maybe I can go later?" he asked with just the right amount of hope in his voice.

"Not a chance. Food, then bed. You promised." She shook a finger at him. "Any other outings you might have planned, we'll talk about after your nap."

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After Mark had gone to bed that night, J'oani sat next to her husband on the couch. "Larryh, I let Mark go fishing today."

The dark-haired man put down his paper. "You what!"

"I let him out of the house. He's been begging me for the past two weeks."

"You shouldn't have done it, J'oani. He's still too weak. You know the doctors said he may not be well enough to attend school this year. That boy is going to be the death of me yet. He probably found his way to those Sime-lovers again."

"I don't think so. Mrs. Hellcat said she saw him at the park. She thought he might've gone to the Tuckersville site. It's the closest one. When Mark came home, he mentioned that he'd slept under an old pine tree. I just assumed it was there. And frankly, I think it did him some good. I made him take a nap this afternoon but when he woke up, he seemed happier, healthier."

"Well, if you think it'll do him some good, it's fine by me. Anything, to get him through school and out of my hair. If it weren't for the law about minor children, he would've been gone by now. I don't want anything to do with anyone who allows themselves to be touched or influenced by Simes. The only good Sime is a dead one and that goes for Sime-lovers as well." He looked at her suspiciously.

"I wanted our boy to live," the brown-haired lady said in quiet defense of her actions.

"I know, but was it worth it? Our neighbors can't tell their children all Simes kill. Mark's living proof that a Sime can touch a human without killing. We should've let him die."

"No. Don't say that. He's our son." Her hazel eyes pleaded for understanding.

"I can say it because ... well, think about it. How many people will die now because they think that they won't get killed? We're losing. We're losing our battle to clean the land of these heinous creatures."

The angry man looked disgusted. "I received the statistics from the school this morning. A higher percentage of parents have consented to changeover classes for their children than ever before." He rubbed his face with both hands. "It's my fault. If I'd been brave enough or strong enough to let Mark die then perhaps we could've rid ourselves of these animals."

"No, Larryh." She put a hand on his knee. "It was my fault. I couldn't bear to let our only child die."

"I know, but at what cost to our community? As Mayor," he pointed to himself, "people look to me for guidance. Look at what they've received." He threw his hands in the air. "A coward. I can give the changeover monsters a quick, dignified death but I couldn't give my son the same. And before you say it, I believe he would've been better off dead than to be branded Sime-lover.

"At least I was able to get the new tax laws passed." He smiled with the thought. "If we can't run them out of town, perhaps we can tax them out."

"What are you going to do with the new revenue?" J'oani asked.

"I'd like to buy better lawyers, but the council voted me hands down. They'd like the money to go to the lobby specialists called the Wagner Group. The Group would be working towards an agreement for the second sliderail line which would come from Clear Springs and connect with our Tinusa River line. Peg and Neal think that the people who live here now will become wealthy with very little effort if the connection is approved. I don't really care as long as we're bleeding the Simes dry."

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"Come on, Mom. I'm fine. It's been more than a week since you let me go. Please," Mark begged.

Hands on her hips, his mom looked at him sternly. "You were so tired the day you came home that you slept for eight hours straight. Then you ate a small bite and slept another twelve. And now you want to do it again? I don't think so."

"But Mom. I've only slept eight hours a day since then and even you admitted yesterday that I looked stronger. Come on. I'm going crazy cooped up in this house. No fishing. No playing around." Almost under his breath, he added, "No Petir."

She stiffened slightly at the mention of the dead Sime's name. "Oh, all right. You can go after lunch if you lay on the couch or in your room the rest of the morning. School starts soon. I want you to be well enough to attend."

"Great!" The couch shifted under his growing bulk.

She laughed at him. "Even if that Sime hadn't said you were human, I would know it. You're getting bigger every day." She ruffled his hair. "I don't think I've said it, Mark, but I sure am glad you're human."

"Thanks, Mom." He hadn't meant for his voice to come out cold but it did.

She straightened up and quietly walked back to the kitchen.

Maybe he should regret the way he said it, but he didn't. She would've killed me if I'd turned Sime. She only loves me because I'm human. Because I'm Gen. He forced himself to think. She didn't care that I could've lived without killing. She only cared that another Sime would be dead.

To stop any further thought, Mark picked up the paperback book his mom had brought home from the library. The adventure story was similar to all the ones she had selected previously. They were even similar to the ones Mr. B had loaned him with one huge exception. They were told from the human-Gen-point of view.

He was too bored to even throw the book across the room because reading was the only source of entertainment he was allowed.

The problem was that all of the books she brought him were the same. Simes attack humans. Humans-Gens-he forced himself to think the word again-murder Simes. They live happily ever after. The end.

Dad used to read me children's versions of this kind of book. Together we would say, 'The only good Simes are dead ones,' and laugh. Sometimes, we played Simes and Humans. He always let me be the human so I could pretend to shoot the nasty animals. As I reveled in watching the Sime die, he'd praise me for a job well done.

Animal. Who was really the animal? Timothy or my dad. How could Timothy be an animal when he makes me feel so good to be near him? How could my dad murder? Who was right? I want Timothy to be right. I want the Buffingtons to be right. But... What if dad's right? He closed his mind. He didn't want to think about it. Instead, he opened the dreadful book and began to read.

The satisfying bang of the gun followed by the scream from the dying Sime made my heart glow with pride. My first one. The community will honor me tonight as an adult. Perhaps they'll consent to my request to marry Dora Lee.

Shaking his head, Mark thought, Dad would love this book. He loves murdering Simes.

He continued to hold the book as if he were reading. The words blurred on the page as he began to daydream about the last book Mr. B had loaned him where Simes and Gens lived together peacefully. All of the children felt wonderfully safe. All the children felt loved. When they changed over or -what was the word they used? - established, they were simply sent to school for training.

He woke up suddenly with the book on his chest and his mother calling him to lunch.

Food. I'm hungry.

----------------------------------------

"Mark!" Mrs. B exclaimed as she ushered him inside. "How do you feel?"

He sat down. "Better than before." The bright morning sun filtered through the lacy kitchen window curtain to display intricate patterns on the table in front of him. "Where's Mr. B?" he asked as he watched the beams of light dance over the back of his hand.

"As soon as Don saw it was you, he left through the front door to go to the Center. I'll make some trin while we're waiting for him to return with Timothy and his Donor."

"Thanks, Mrs. Buffington. I really like your tea. I'm sorry I haven't been here before but it took me forever to convince my mother to let me out again."

She filled the kettle and set it on the stove. "Oh, we understand, Mark."

He watched her dig in the pig-shaped cookie jar then place some fresh cookies on a small white plate. "As I recall, you like peanut butter." He nodded enthusiastically. "You may have some after I've taught you how to properly clean up. Come to the sink."

"Isn't washing my hands enough?"

"A Sime can smell the fish odor on your hands from the fishing gear you've been touching. What you have to do is wash your hands and your forearms with this green bar of soap. Here. Give me an arm and I'll show you how to do it," she said as she started to scrub, "then you can try it with the other."

She help him dry off using a big towel she had taken off the rack.

The kettle began to whistle. "Perfect timing. Let's have some refreshments, shall we?"

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Timothy closed the front door behind his father and his Donor, Alex.

Suddenly, Alex stopped to smell the aroma of freshly brewed trin. "I know you promised me good trin tea but I just didn't believe an out-Territory Gen could accomplish it until now. The smell of this house reminds me of my mother's."

Timothy snapped open a retainer. "My parents have it imported from in-Territory." He slid the offending thing off and put it on the round table his mother had placed there for his convenience.

Mark and his mother joined them in the living room at the same time as the tall, black-haired Donor said in his heavily accented English, "You shouldn't be doing that. Let me help you with the other one." The retainer was gently removed and laid next to the first.

Timothy laughed, "Mom, this bossy Gen is my Donor, Alexdro ambrov Slader."

"Nice to meet..."

Mark's field flickered with surprise and curiosity.

"What is it?" Timothy interrupted.

"Ah...ah...ambrov?" Mark's nager was doing the strangest oscillations. Alex stepped over to block Mark's field in time for Timothy to hear the young Gen say, "Doesn't that mean...?"

"...that I belong to Householding Slader," Alex completed.

Mark turned to his father. "But I thought that was only in the books you lent me, Mr. B?"

"No," Timothy answered Mark's question. "Alex and I are both in householdings. My name is Timothy ambrov Tien. And before you say it, yes, I get teased constantly about it. One of my best friends thinks it's so funny that he calls me TAT."

Almost under his breath, he said in Simelan, "Back off a little, Alex."

Hope and desire wove an intricate pattern through Mark's field. It was fascinating to zlin. It was almost mesmerizing. He was completely caught up in it when Alex's field lightly brushed him. Shen, his Donor was good. His time sense told him that the others hadn't noticed the momentary lapse so he continued with his introductions. "Alex, this is Mark, the young Gen who requires my help."

"Pleased to meet you." Timothy zlinned Alex's awkwardness at having to shake hands in the out-Territory tradition.

"Likewise," Mark replied.

Before the young Gen could say another word, Timothy turned to Alex, "I'll bring you a cup of trin. I have the feeling that you work best with one in hand."

His Donor blushed deep red.

Just as he was about to enter the kitchen, Timothy heard Mark ask why the channel always made the tea when he was around. He didn't hear Alex's reply but he zlinned Mark's surprise. Alex must have told him how terribly Simes hurt when a Gen is in pain.

As Timothy reentered the room with the tea in tentacles and hands, he heard Alex say, "So most Simes won't allow Gens to pour tea for fear that we'll spill it on ourselves."

"And what wicked things have you been telling this young man?" Timothy asked playfully.

"Oh, nothing much. I just explained to Mark why Simes have a phobia about Gens hurting themselves."

"Phobia? I don't know about that. We just like to feel safe, and we definitely don't like to feel pain. Here's your tea. But be careful," he admonished. "It's very hot."

Alex laughed. "See what I mean? But you know...," his Donor looked at him. "It's kind of nice. The way they take care of us Gens. It makes us feel special. Loved. I like it."

The young Gen's field swirled blue at the mention of love. Mark turned to Timothy's father. "When you gave me the books to read, I didn't realize that they were true, that Simes were so vulnerable."

"They're not unless they're exposed to the field of an untrained Gen with Donor's potential," Alex interjected.

Timothy turned to business. "When did you sprain your left ankle?"

The ambient pulsed with Mark's surprise.

"I did it on the way over. I tripped over a rock and fell on an old branch." Suspicion laced the Gen's field. "How'd you know? I don't feel it now unless I think about it."

"The pain in your ankle is very irritating to me. May I heal it at the same time I'm working on the other areas?"

"You can do that?" Mark asked. "That'd be great!" the young Gen enthused then stopped. A flicker of emotions crossed his face. "Will it hurt?"

"No. You may, however, feel the area I'm working on become slightly warm. "Are you ready?" Timothy only paused long enough to zlin Mark's acceptance before continuing. "If so, let's sit on the couch."

Once Timothy was certain of Mark's comfort, he asked again, "Are you sure you want this? Because if you're not absolutely positive, I won't touch you."

"I'm certain."

Timothy zlinned his sincerity.

"I want this."

Timothy nodded to Alex.

"Mom. Dad. I know you'd like to be here but it's better if you're not. I'll be able to accomplish more if I don't have to filter your fields out of the matrix. We'll join you when we're done."

"That's quite all right." His mother smiled. She walked over and hooked her arm around his father's then the two started for the kitchen, "Don, I've been meaning to talk to you about repainting..."

Timothy zlinned a shiver coming from Mark and perceived the Gen to be cool. He pulled a light blanket out of the closet along with a pillow, saying over his shoulder, "Lie down, Mark." After he put the pillow behind Mark's head, he placed the blanket over the lower half of the Gen's body.

His Donor would require a place to sit nearby so he moved the love seat next to the couch.

Timothy indicated the Donor should join him as he sat next to Mark. "I have to clarify a few things before I do this."

Fear gripped Mark's nager, but instead of saying anything, he just nodded his consent.

"As I explained before, there'll be no pain while I'm healing you. You may, however, start to itch. That's a good sign. It means you're healing. If you do itch, don't scratch. Simply relax. You did an excellent job of relaxing a while ago. Whatever you did, do that."

"I pretended I was a rag doll. I read it in one of the books Mr. B lent me." Mark looked at the Donor. "This is just like what's in the Zeor Learning books, isn't it? It's not just fiction. It's real."

"Yes, it is," Alex confirmed.

Timothy brushed a lock of hair off Mark's forehead. "It won't hurt. I'll wrap my handling tentacles around your arms, then my laterals will be added, and finally I'll complete the fifth contact point which is lip to lip. The last contact point is the reason the Gens call transfer the kiss of death, only you won't die. What I'll be doing is 'zlinning'-scanning your body-in an initial examination. This zlinning will allow me to explore every part of your body. Once the examination has been completed, I'll retract all of my tentacles.

"The next step of the process is the easiest. Sometimes, I'll just sit next to you, and we'll talk, while other times, I'll position my tentacles close to the areas which require healing. And that's all there is to it. Do you have any questions?"

"Why is it called the fifth contact point?"

"There are two lateral tentacles on each arm. The laterals are smaller than the handling tentacles and more delicate. Unlike the handling tentacles, the laterals are always slightly moist with a substance called ronaplin. They, along with the lip to lip contact, complete a circuit, which makes a system. With this circuit, I can look at your internal organs. For instance, the last time I healed you I found a large amount of debris around the old gunshot wound area causing a low-grade chronic infection. When I have encouraged your body to clear all of the debris and fight off the infection, you'll be well."

"And all I have to do is lie still?" Mark asked in disbelief.

"That's right." Timothy smiled. "Are you ready?"

With a slight squeak to his voice, Mark asked Alex, "Have you had this done?"

"Many times. It's wonderful. The channels love to heal. While they treat you, they find places to heal you don't realize are sore. Every time it's done to me I feel like a kid again."

Mark wriggled one last time to get completely comfortable.

Timothy zlinned the young Gen's confidence. "When you're ready, give me your arms."

Without hesitation, Mark gave them to him.

As Timothy slowly extended his tentacles, Mark's eyes widened to saucer size. His nager shrieked into red fragments which striated into pink tips. The young Gen took a deep breath. His field suddenly settled into the dull, non-provoking gray haze of acceptance. What a display! Timothy decided he should request all the files the Tecton had available, concerning how an induction could affect a Gen's nager. He looked at Mark. "Tell me when you're ready for me to make the fifth contact point."

After Mark nodded, he leaned forward to begin the examination.

As soon as the lip contact was made, the young Gen struggled, but before it really started, Mark relaxed.

Timothy zlinned the sore ankle then the gunshot area. Upon consideration, he decided to clear only half of the gunshot wound's debris. After all, he didn't want Mark's dad to get suspicious. He relinquished lip contact. "Hold still for just a moment longer while I retract my tentacles, and this part will be complete."

Tentacles safely sheathed, Timothy breathed a sigh of relief. "You did a great job. That was perfect. You stayed still, without fear, and allowed me to do what had to be done."

Mark beamed with pride.

Timothy sat back, took a big breath, and slowly released it. Since he w