ONLY GOOD SIME

BY KERRY LINDEMANN-SCHAEFER

 

CHAPTER TEN

Back in his office, Frevven tossed his retainers disgustedly onto the shelf. He slumped into his chair, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes, trying to convince himself not to break down in front of Chaynek, who had followed him into the room.

"I'd swear I've seen that man's face before," the Gen said thoughtfully, standing before the fireplace and warming his hands, his nager holding a tentative offer of support.

"What man?" Frevven asked, only half his mind on Chaynek's words. The rest of it was running through the incident that had just occurred, wondering how he might have prevented Alek's murder.

"Richt. He looks like­-no, that's impossible. Darnay Tandessan ambrov...ambrov... Shen, I've even forgotten his Householding, it was so long ago." Chaynek placed another log on the fire then came over to perch on the edge of Frevven's desk. "Darnay was in Donors' training at the same time I was, but I didn't know him very well. He was involved in some kind of a disaster, and left shortly afterwards. Oh, yes, now I remember. His fiancee was attacked by a channel in disjunction crisis. Darnay tried to save her and ended up badly burned himself. The woman died, and the channel later committed suicide." Chaynek shrugged. "Couldn't possibly be the same man. The Church of the Purity would never ordain anyone who'd been involved with Simes."

"Richt is Salvation Church, not exactly the same as Church of the Purity," Frevven said absently, not really listening. He was sunk too deeply into his own misery and frustration. "Damn it to hell, how can out-Territory people do such things to innocent children?! What the bloody shen is the matter with them? Aren't they human? I just don't understand."

"What would you have them do?" Chaynek asked reasonably. "They're scared. And this is an improvement over what used to be. Ten years ago, there were very few out-Territory Centers. In a place like this, no one in changeover survived."

"All right, maybe it was necessary once, but things have changed! Why can't these people understand that? You're a Gen. Explain it to me. Why are they still murdering their children?"

"Is it so hard for you to comprehend, Frevven? Truly? Are you so very much more virtuous than they are?" Chaynek's lips quirked into an ironic smile as Frevven looked up at him.

"What do you mean?"

Chaynek leaned forward in his chair. He started to sing, his normally melodious voice turning fierce as the song progressed.

"So here's to the Elders of the Church, and

here's to Ma and Pa,

And here's to all the Gens who've died so I

could dodge the law.

And here's to the friend I lost last week on

the Border's other side­-

We just have time to drink to him, and then

we'll go and ride.

So I'll do as I please, and I'll live 'til I die;

And if you think you can stop me, go ahead

and try!"

Frevven's face went pale long before Chaynek finished singing. That was the last verse and chorus of the Freeband Raider Song. He knew that particular song as well as he knew most of the Church of the Purity hymns.

"Stop it, Chaynek! Please! That's not how I feel. Not anymore."

"I know that. But don't try to tell me you don't understand." The Gen smiled. "Before you can deal effectively with an obstacle, you've got to recognize its true nature. You ought to know that by now."

Yes, I suppose I should. You taught me that lesson a long time ago, Frevven thought bitterly. He glared at Chaynek, seeing a younger man, another place­-

"I'd like to talk to you, Frevven," Chaynek had said as he sat down next to the sullen young channel in Zeor's library.

Frevven hastily closed the book he was reading and pushed it aside with the others, trying to hide the titles by turning the entire stack to face away from the Gen. His ploy didn't work particularly well, as Chaynek simply reached across, picked up the books, and glanced over them, while Frevven sat nervously chewing on the end of one handling tentacle.

"Umh," Chaynek finally commented as he replaced the books on the table. Frevven didn't have to see his frown to know the Gen was displeased.

"You're interested in the Raiders, are you? The librarian told me you were asking for books on the subject. In fact, that's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about." He picked up a volume from the table. " A History of the House of Rymal," he read aloud. " Volume I: McNairn's Raiders." He set the book down and glanced at Frevven. "I guess I'm a little too late to tell you this isn't considered suitable reading for people who are trying to disjunct."

Frevven's embarrassment turned to anger. "Why not? It's history, isn't it? What's wrong with it?"

But Chaynek refused to rise to the bait. He examined the books once again. "I don't see anything here about the later history of Rymal. Deke McNairn ended his life as a semi-junct, doing everything in his power to avoid killing. How come you aren't studying that part of the story also?"

Frevven shrugged. "I didn't feel like reading about that. It sounded boring."

"Boring," Chaynek replied, nager deceptively calm. "Tell me, my young friend, what it is that you find so fascinating about the Raiders?"

"Well, it's­-it's interesting, that's all. Exciting. They were free to do what they wanted."

"Free? Exciting? A shendi-flamed bunch of juncts, killing any Gen they could get their hands on?" Chaynek's nager rang with distaste. "Is that what you consider a rewarding lifestyle?"

"I was just curious," Frevven replied petulantly. It was lucky the Gen couldn't zlin. If he knew the extent of Frevven's fascination with the Raiders, he'd have been extremely angry. But it was fun to imagine himself as one of them, whip in hand, riding across the border and wreaking havoc on a Gen village. No scruples, all the Kills they could take. No loathsome channels' transfer for them.

And no guilt over the deaths they'd caused.

"After all, I have a right to know about these things, don't I?" Frevven said reasonably, smiling to himself at his thoughts.

Chaynek seemed to hover between scathing exasperation and out-and-out rage. Frevven wondered if perhaps he'd pushed the man too far this time. When Chaynek spoke again, his voice was dangerously quiet and controlled. "You want to know about these things, Frevven? Truly?"

The young channel nodded.

"Very well, then. Be so good as to come along with me. I have something to show you that will doubtless be of great interest to you."

Chaynek got up and left the room, without waiting to find out whether Frevven was following him. He was, and he continued to follow the Gen across the grounds and over to the stables. As they rode out the gate and down a dusty road overhung by tall trees, Frevven debated the advisability of asking Chaynek where they were going.

When they reached the outskirts of a neighboring town and pulled up in front of a good-sized building, the young channel could contain himself no longer. "Shenshid, Chaynek, you could at least have the decency to tell me where you're taking me."

Chaynek got off his horse, looping the reins over the hitching post and motioning for Frevven to do the same. In grim silence, the Gen led the way up a couple of steps and into the building. Frevven searched the doorway for a sign which might give him some clue as to where he was, but there was nothing. Except for the tinge of anger Chaynek had been radiating all along, the Gen was closed and barricaded.

The entire situation was getting on Frevven's nerves. He'd far rather that Chaynek would yell and scream at him, instead of maintaining this irritating tight-lipped silence. He had to be up to something, but Frevven had no way of knowing what it was. He followed Chaynek down a deserted corridor, up a flight of stairs, and along a hallway, still wondering. When the Gen opened a door and went inside, Frevven obediently trotted after him. He was totally unprepared for what he found.

The room was hardly bigger than a closet, and the only light came through a thick pane of glass stretching along one wall, just about at eye level. The young channel frowned in puzzlement and stopped short, but Chaynek waved him over to the glass panel.

"It's a mirror on the other side," the Gen explained shortly. "Completely insulated. Go on."

Suspicious, Frevven moved closer to the glass and glanced through, only to discover that he was peering into another room. It looked somewhat like the transfer rooms he was accustomed to, but more bare and sparsely furnished. And there was no transfer lounge, only a bench along the far wall.

Frevven readjusted his eyeglasses on his nose and studied the two seated figures occupying that bench, one man and one woman. It was confusing to be able to see them but be unable to zlin their fields. They were both Sime, but the man gave the impression of being a channel, although Frevven couldn't really explain why it seemed that way. Maybe it was something about his gestures and expressions as he sought to calm the agitated woman.

As Frevven watched, the woman got up and paced rapidly across the room. She was speaking loudly and angrily, judging by the look on her face, but Frevven couldn't hear a thing through the heavy glass. Judging by the appearance of her forearms, the woman was in hard need.

Frevven cringed as she came closer to the other side of the transparent panel and glared into it for a moment, as if she realized it was not truly what it appeared. Her laterals flicked in and out of their sheaths and her eyes had the unseeing glaze of hyperconsciousness, but even so she was much more upset than the circumstances seemed to warrant. If she was in need, there was a channel right there to serve her, wasn't there? What was he waiting for?

The channel went over to the door, said something Frevven couldn't hear to whoever stood out in the hallway, and came back leading a gangly Gen adolescent. The Gen acted dazed­-drugged or just too stupid to realize where he was. He was almost Frevven's age and wore nothing but a white tunic that didn't even reach as far as his knobby knees. The channel left him standing in the center of the room and backed over against the wall.

The expression of raw agony on the Sime woman's face shifted into a stark mask of ravening ferocity and desire. In the split second it took for the Sime to turn from the mirror and seize her prey, the full truth of what he was witnessing dawned on Frevven.

This was a Kill­-the only sort of Kill that was legally permitted in this day and age. The woman was one of the many Simes who had been beyond First Year and therefore too old to disjunct when the in-Territory government had been taken over by the Tecton almost ten years ago.

Such semi-juncts took most of their transfers from channels, but they were allowed a real Kill every so often, in order to keep them alive. The boy had been bred and raised in a Pen, kept drugged and mindless and destined to be killed shortly after establishment. Before Unity, this had been the chief source of Gens for the Kill. Now, the Pens were diminishing, the huge Genfarms that once dominated the in-Territory landscape becoming a thing of the past. But they weren't entirely gone yet, nor would they be, so long as this generation of semi-junct Simes still lived.

Frevven wanted to turn away, but he was fascinated by the horror of what he watched. As the Sime's handling tentacles gripped the boy, the youngster seemed to revive enough to scream and try to struggle away. Frevven put his hands over his ears to shut out the terrified shriek, and then realized he couldn't possibly hear anything through the glass. The screaming he heard was inside his own head, and it was Jozanna's voice.

Pressing his hands against the glass, fingers and tentacles spread as if he could reach out to stop what was happening in the other room, Frevven watched helplessly as the Sime jerked the struggling boy close and made lip contact.

"No," Frevven moaned, barely realizing what he said, "no, no. Oh god, no."

It was over in the space of a few heartbeats, and the Gen sagged limply as the woman let him go, his body drained of selyn. The corpse would have fallen to the floor, except that the observing channel caught it and laid it on the bench along the wall.

The Sime stood where she was, unmoving and rigid. Her back was to the phony mirror. Frevven didn't want to see her face. He had a pretty good idea of what it would look like.

He turned around to confront Chaynek. The Gen just stood there in the semi-darkness, watching him. His nager was still unreadable and closed, as if he hadn't been affected in the least by the scene they had both witnessed. Sudden rage flamed in Frevven's heart at this person who had brought him here and just stood studying him. And the rage felt so much better than the guilt and horror it replaced that Frevven surrendered to it gratefully.

He sprang at Chaynek, grabbed fistfuls of his shirtfront, and pinned the Gen back against the wall, almost lifting him off his feet despite Chaynek's being nearly a head taller. "Why did you bring me here?" he hissed. "What are you trying to do to me, you miserable lorsh? Answer me, damn you!"

Chaynek's hands grabbed Frevven's elbows as he tried to keep his balance in the rather precarious position in which he found himself. His brown eyes regarded Frevven calmly, but they seemed veiled and opaque. "Truly, Frevven, I'm only showing you what you seem to want. Don't you like it?"

"What­-what are you talking about?" He lowered Chaynek to his feet, puzzled by the statement.

"What do you think I'm talking about? You don't want to disjunct. You've done your level best not to cooperate with us. You're fascinated by stories about Raiders and seem to fancy yourself somehow akin to them." Chaynek's voice was losing its enforced calm, and his carefully neutral nager quivered dangerously. He waved one hand toward the other room. "It would appear that this is what you want. So I thought you might like to see the way it looks in reality."

"I know how it looks in reality!" Still clutching Chaynek's shirt, he shook the Gen so hard his head hit the wall behind him, not even minding the reflected pain he couldn't help but zlin.

Chaynek slid his hands down Frevven's arms and closed his fingers very, very slightly on the exposed selyn transport nerves lying just beneath his laterals. Frevven froze, not feeling the expected pain because of Chaynek's barely existent pressure, but fully aware that in that position the Gen could press hard enough to do serious damage and condemn him to a gruesome death, if he so desired.

"That's better," Chaynek said evenly, as Frevven let go of his shirt. "No, I think you don't know how it looks. You know how it feels, all right, but that isn't necessarily the same." He edged Frevven around to where he could see through the glass again. The channel and the Sime were gone now, and a couple of attendants were wrapping the young Gen's body in a sheet and preparing to lift him onto a stretcher. "Look at it, Frevven. That's the reality behind the illusion of the Raiders' `exciting' lifestyle. Is that what you find so fascinating? Truly?"

Frevven choked on the words he wanted to say, hardly noticing the tears running down his cheeks. "No," he finally whispered. Chaynek let him go, and Frevven turned away, unable to look any longer, trying to fight off the emotions he didn't want to acknowledge. Chaynek came up behind him and rested his hands on Frevven's shoulders, not saying anything, but feeling awfully comforting.

"Why don't you hate us, Chaynek?" Frevven asked when he had regained control of his voice.

"Why should I?"

Frevven gestured at the window. "Because of that."

"Because of that is exactly why I don't dare to hate you. What you just saw is the ultimate result of the years of hatred between Sime and Gen. If I add to it, I am just as guilty as any junct. Do you understand?"

"No!" Frevven shrieked. He pulled away from Chaynek and ran from the room.

Once again back in the present, Frevven broke his eyes away from the Gen's, hoping he wasn't recalling the same thing.

"Recognize the true nature of the obstacle, huh?" he muttered. "All right. The obstacle is Clarendon Richt. Without him, none of this would be going on." He thought a moment. "No, wait. It's more than that." He pulled open a drawer, tossing Emerett's medallion onto the desk top. "It's this. The Salvation Church. The Church of the Purity. All this bloody-shen vicious nonsense! This is the obstacle." He looked at Chaynek with challenge in his eyes. "But what do I do about it?"

"Wait a minute." Chaynek ducked out of the room. Frevven could zlin him going up the stairs to his assigned room. Then he returned with a book in his hand, placing it on the desk, next to the medallion. "Ever hear of fighting fire with fire?"

Chaynek left the room without saying another word.

Puzzled, Frevven took up the book. In gilt letters across the cover, it proclaimed in English, "Teachings of the Church of the Unity." The channel frowned. Wasn't that the small in-Territory religion that attracted followers mainly from amongst those Simes who'd been born and raised out-Territory? He'd always dismissed them as just another splinter group, not really relevant to anything.

Frevven settled back in his chair and opened the book.

It was late at night when the channel finally finished reading. The fire on the hearth had burned down to embers, but he hardly felt the cold. He extinguished the flame in his lamp, took off his glasses, and rubbed his stinging eyes.

He hefted the closed book in his hand. Chaynek was right. This just might work. Many of the basic beliefs and ceremonies seemed almost the same as those of the Church of the Purity, but instead of teaching that Simes were soulless devils, the Church of the Unity recognized them as people, stressing the absolute necessity for Sime and Gen to live together in peace and cooperation in order to fulfill God's plan.

Frevven squirmed a bit at this idea. He really wasn't sure how he felt about God anymore. And he was less than sure that any organized religion could have the final word on that subject. The concept of a Being that was on such a very different level of existence from humans just didn't seem likely to fit tidily into any human category or definition.

Still, the Church of the Unity was attractive, its beliefs fostering Sime/Gen unity. For someone who had been an adherent of the Church of the Purity, it might indeed provide an effective antidote.

Lem Cabrell, for instance. He hadn't lost his faith, even though he had stopped attending Richt's church. Frevven had noticed Lem saying the thanksgiving prayer after meals on occasion, although the Gen recited it silently to himself.

But what could one Gen do, against an island of religious fanatics?

Richt was only one Gen, wasn't he? And he had turned the islanders from the comparatively moderate Church of the Purity to his Salvation Church. Why shouldn't another Gen be able to do the same in reverse?

As Frevven climbed the darkened stairway to his room on the third floor, he carried the book with him. Tomorrow he'd give it to Lem and see what he thought.

Lem puzzled over the book for several days, occasionally coming to Frevven to ask for an explanation of some of the theological terms. He didn't say much, but Frevven often noticed him standing alone out on the pier, or in a corner of the Center's yard, despite the snow and cold. He was obviously praying for guidance.

Finally, he returned the book. He slumped down into the chair in Frevven's office, his nager as downcast as the expression on his face. "This is real nice, but it don't do no good."

"Why not?"

"No way to get the message out to people."

"Call a meeting? Hold a service?"

"Where? They burned down my house, remember? Sure can't hold it here, neither."

Frevven had already thought of that. "How about that empty store just across the street? The sign says it's for rent."

"Yeah." Lem perked up suddenly. "The shoemaker moved to the other side of town when the Center opened here, and nobody's rented it since. Bet they'd let it go real cheap." Then he slumped again. "Even so, I got no money for something like that."

"I do." Lem looked at him quizzically. "What's the matter, you don't believe the Tecton pays its channels a decent salary?" Frevven continued with a grin. "I can lend you the money. Just don't let anyone know where it came from."

Lem thought about this, nodded his head, and brightened, gradually filling the room with hope and faith.

"Praise the Lord," Lem whispered softly.

Frevven winced, uncomfortable with the ambient. But after all, it had been his idea.

The rental was quickly arranged. Lem set about cleaning up the long-deserted storefront. Working in the Center's basement, he painted a modest sign announcing the first service of the Innsfrey Church of the Unity, scheduled for exactly fifteen minutes after services began at Richt's church.

"What do you think?" he asked the channel, wiping his hands on a stained paint rag. "Soon as it's dry, I'll hang the sign in the window. Folks'll have the rest of the week to get used to the idea, and then we'll see what happens come Sunday morning."

A strong southerly wind blew all that night. By the next day, Innsfrey Harbor was packed solid with ice floes, grinding angrily against each other and against the moored boats. Anieva had her crew out on the Morning Star, fending off the worst of the ice before it could wear a hole through the wooden hull. Lem's dory had been hauled up onto the pier, safely out of harm's way.

The islanders stared out over their harbor with consternation. Such a thing hadn't happened since the hard winter of eleven years ago, when they'd been out of contact with the mainland for six days.

Any boat caught out at sea had no choice but to drop anchor and wait it out, or sail monotonously back and forth amongst the islands, sending a small boat ashore for supplies along the exposed coastlines, where landings were still possible, although dangerous.

Fishing came to a dead standstill, and with it the incomes of most of the island families.

The Cormorant didn't come, presumably having been either warned about conditions on the Out-Islands or itself iced in at Easthaven. V'lis fretted anxiously, her bags packed and ready to leave, but she couldn't go anywhere until Kurt returned, even if the Cormorant had been able to get through. For safety's sake, there shouldn't be less than two Donors on the island at any one time.

The days passed, and the ice remained. On Sunday morning, Frevven stood on the landing of the main stairway, at the window commanding a view of Lem's makeshift chapel across the street. The sound of tolling bells from the tower of Richt's church jangled the icy air. A few snowflakes drifted on a desultory breeze, under a gray and lowering sky. Would anyone attend Lem's first service?

The street was busy, with heavily clad pedestrians bustling about. A horse-drawn sleigh drove briskly by, in a flurry of bells and merry shouts. Most people seemed headed in the direction of Richt's church.

The bells tolled again, a reminder for latecomers to hurry inside. The street became emptier. Frevven had yet to see anyone enter the ramshackle building across the street, although there were a number of people wandering aimlessly back and forth, casting occasional glances in the direction of the Center. The channel was careful to remain out of sight, just peeking around the edge of the curtain.

An elderly woman came cautiously along the snowy sidewalk, cane in hand. Frevven smiled, recognizing old Mrs. Rodrick. She was one of the few GN donors who hadn't been scared off by the Watchkeepers. She donated faithfully month after month, and had been doing so since the Center opened.

Looking neither left nor right, she made her way directly to Lem's building, opened the door, and went inside. Hesitantly, a couple who had been strolling along the street followed her lead, then a lone woman, carrying a baby. Two men, one casting a nervous glance over his shoulder as he went in. A family.

The channel grinned and let the drape fall back in place. Now they'd give Richt a run for his money. The preacher wasn't going to like this at all.

Frevven was sitting in the cafeteria with Chaynek, bragging about the twenty people who'd attended Lem's service yesterday, when the Center's alarm began to ring. Chaynek jumped, unused to the nerve-jangling sound. With a sick feeling in his stomach, the channel went to the window, rubbing half-frozen moisture from the cold glass and peering upwards.

Two green flares burned in the sky to the south of the town. Westerly Island. And no way anyone from the Center could get there. The harbor was still packed with ice floes. Clouds brooded on the horizon, suggesting the likelihood of more snow yet to come.

With Chaynek following close behind, Frevven trudged to the back door at the base of the lookout tower. Anieva stopped ringing the bell.

"They must know we can't get the Morning Star out," Anieva said dismally.

"We could carry my dory to the south end of Innsfrey on the buckboard, then row across the shoals to Westerly," Lem suggested. He was already pulling a heavy sweater over his head, his yellow oilskins dumped in a heap on the floor in front of him.

Anieva considered this and then shook her head. "Between the ice, the rocks, and the tide, we'd never make it. And it looks as if there's a storm brewing."

"We could try. We can't just sit here­-" He looked to Frevven in mute appeal.

"Let's go," the channel replied.

Anieva smothered her disapproval. She picked out three of her crew and they scrambled off to get into their retainers.

They had covered less than half the distance to the southwest tip of Innsfrey Island before the snow began to swirl down around them. By the time they'd reached a place to launch the dory, the wind had picked up, blowing against the incoming tide to create a nasty stretch of choppy water above the Innsfrey Shoals.

Breakers hissed and crashed on the beach and around the offshore rocks, as the little group from the Center wrestled Lem's dory off the buckboard and down a low sandy cliff on the southwest shore of Innsfrey.

Six times they tried and failed to get the little boat into the water, driven back each time by the violence of the waves. On the seventh attempt, Frevven and Lem managed to scramble into the dory just beyond the breakers. Before Lem could get to the oars, the boat was knocked sideways and overturned by an incoming wave, plunging Frevven and Lem into the freezing water yet again.

"Watch out!" Frevven shouted to the Gen as a huge chunk of ice appeared at the crest of the next breaker. They both ducked under the turbulent water, but the ice collided with the swamped dory, crushing the top of the starboard side and tearing off the oarlock and several planks.

Frevven's feet could barely touch bottom between the waves. Lem thrashed awkwardly, water soaking quickly into his heavy clothes and dragging him down. Augmenting, the channel struggled over to Lem and began pulling him towards the beach. Anieva plunged in to help.

Shivering violently in the cold wind, Lem stumbled ashore and watched the other Simes haul his damaged dory out of the water. Chaynek pulled off Lem's wet coat and wrapped him in his own, since it was the only dry clothing they had. Lem coughed roughly and spat into the sand.

Out on Westerly Island, a child was doubtless dead or dying. Frevven cursed, but knew he could do nothing more. "This is useless. Back to the Center," he ordered. "Haul the dory up high on the beach and leave it here. We'll get it later."

Lem started to protest, but his words turned into a coughing fit. One of the Simes put an arm around his waist and led him off the beach. There were dry blankets in the wagon.

Frevven detailed a Sime woman to run ahead to the Center, while the others surrounded the two Gens huddled in the bed of the wagon, trying to protect them from the wind and cold.

When the storm cleared, Frevven sent one of the staff Gens to the heliograph station on the hill overlooking the town, hoping to get some word of what had happened on Westerly. He was certain he knew what that news would be, but the actual truth came as a severe shock. Instead of a dead changeover victim, a deacon of the Salvation Church had been killed.

"Janni Cabrell turned Sime?" Frevven repeated unbelievingly. "She hid by the chapel and killed Deacon Allenby?"

"Yup," Jodean affirmed. "Seems she realized she was in changeover, knew we wouldn't be able to come, and chose her victim deliberately, instead of staying at home and maybe going after her aunt." He looked at Frevven uncertainly, not quite sure how to tell him the rest.

"Well?" Frevven demanded, fearing the worst. "Out with it, man! What happened to Janni?"

"The Watchkeepers have her locked up in the chapel and refuse to surrender her to the police."

Frevven groaned. How was he going to break the news to Lem? And how were they going to get Janni away from the Watchkeepers? She might still be alive, but that wouldn't last long, he was sure.

"I've got to get there!"

"You can't, Lem. You'd never make it. And besides, what could you do, alone, if the police can't do anything?" Frevven pointed out, in an attempt to be reasonable.

"My daughter­-"

"If the Watchkeepers meant to murder her, she'd be dead by now," Frevven said, hoping it was true. "Wait. As soon as the harbor is clear, we'll all go in the Morning Star and demand her return."

Lem swore and rushed from the office. When Frevven found himself seriously considering tossing his paperweight through the window just to relieve the anger and frustration burning in his heart, he sank down into his chair and ran through a calming meditation that had always worked for him before.

It didn't work this time.

Another storm swept in from the sea. The fresh snow settled like a pall of despair over the Center. Lem retreated into his room and refused to come out.

Word came through one of Lem's friends that Richt had held a memorial service for the dead deacon, saying Janni's fate was divine punishment for Lem's defying the Almighty. Her perversity in deliberately killing Allenby was cited as proof that Lem's Sime-influenced religion was nothing but rank heresy. He declared that the ice was a plague sent by God, in punishment for the islanders' toleration of the Simes and their support of Lem's church.

Richt offered to turn Janni over to the Center if Lem would close down his church and recant.

When Frevven got the news that the Town Council, meeting in closed session, had voted three to two to send an official demand to the Tecton that the Center on Innsfrey be closed, it was just one more nail sealing the coffin of his misery. He felt as if he should be ranting and raving and cursing over this development, but he was too close to need to feel anything except a kind of numb despair. He sat up all that night in his room, brooding over what had happened and how he might have been able to prevent it. The ambient within the Center roiled with upset and concern.

The following morning, Lem was nowhere to be found in the Center. A note left on his bed said only, "Going to get Janni back. Pray for me."

The ice was still thick in the harbor and they couldn't follow him in the Morning Star. Frevven stared from the lookout tower, but sharper eyes than his could not make out any sign of the Gen.

"Lem knows what he's doing," Anieva said in an effort at comfort. "He must have repaired his dory. I sent someone to check, and it's not on the beach where we left it. There's a following wind this morning. He should be able to get to Westerly."

"And if he does, what then? Do you imagine the Watchkeepers will simply turn Janni over to him?"

"Maybe. She's his daughter, remember."

"She's a demon. And she's out-Territory without retainers."

"They'll be all right. You'll see."

But the heliograph station reported no sign of Lem's arrival on the other island.

The following morning, the sun rose to show the ice in the harbor slowly breaking up, drifting out to sea on the combination of an easterly wind and ebbing tide. By tomorrow, the harbor might be navigable once again.

The ambient in the Center thawed at this news. They were no longer so terribly isolated. Spirits brightened, and a few people even thought about the springtime yet to come.

Frevven brooded over Lem and Janni's predicament. His fears for Lem's safety at the hands of the Watchkeepers turned out to be unfounded.

The Gen never even reached the other island, much less encountered the Watchkeepers there. His dory was found swamped and adrift by a fishing boat, a gaping hole in its bottom. He had evidently collided with an ice floe in the darkness. In the frigid winter cold of the ocean, he would have lived for five or ten minutes at most, before succumbing to hypothermia or drowning.

They made an effort to go to Westerly and claim Janni, but Richt had beaten them there. The chapel was locked and barred. No one would answer their shouts and knockings, and the local police refused to help, even though Frevven swore he could zlin a number of people inside, one of them Reverend Richt.

Kurt returned on the first voyage of the Cormorant, low field but full of tales of his adventures on the mainland, trying to get through snow-clogged trails to reach his transfer assignment in time. His enthusiasm dimmed rapidly when he learned of the things that had happened on Innsfrey during his absence.

Although Frevven was glad to see him back, Kurt was too low field to be of much help to him. If only things hadn't gotten so messed up and Kurt was going to be his transfer partner for this month, instead of Chaynek.

The channel shook his head at the thought. Chaynek kept hovering over him, wanting to help soothe his jangled nerves, insisting he sleep when he wasn't tired, putting a cup of trin tea in his trembling hand.

Shen him, anyway! Didn't the damn Gen have the sense to know when he wasn't wanted?

V'lissia came to the door of Frevven's office, interrupting his melancholy musings. She came over to stand alongside his desk. "I­-I'm leaving now. I just wanted to say good-bye."

She hesitated. The woman obviously wanted him to hug her, say something reassuring. There was an ache in her nager, a sort of lonely throb Frevven had noticed several times on the rare occasions when he hadn't been able to avoid encountering her during the past couple of days.

He almost said something, but then her field shifted suddenly, drawing in as if V'lis had gathered it up into one hand like a woman gathering a long skirt in preparation for ascending a stairway. She held her feelings lightly folded in upon themselves as she said softly, "You don't love me, do you? Not really?" It was a statement of fact, not a question.

Deciding that a gallant lie would only make the situation worse, Frevven shook his head.

"That's what I thought." V'lissia's voice hardened, and her field projected sad but definite decision. "When I get married, it will be to someone who loves me, not someone who marries me out of a sense of duty. It would be a disaster for both of us."

Frevven fought to keep the relief he felt from showing on his face. He didn't know what to say.

V'lis smiled, trying to project confidence but not quite making it. "As the mother of a possible channel, I'll be supported by the Tecton in fine style, anyway. You don't have to worry about me." Then the brave confidence turned to regret. "I'm sorry, Frevven. I only wanted to make things better for you, but it seems all I've done is make them worse. I never expected it to work out this way, believe me."

"I'm sorry, too," he admitted, rather surprised at his own words. "I never meant to hurt you, but I have." He pushed his glasses up against his nose again and forced himself to meet her eyes. "Sometimes I think I make a habit out of hurting the people who care for me. You've done everything you possibly could, but­­"

"Chaynek always tells me that you can't give someone something that they don't want. Maybe he's right." V'lissia shrugged and took a few steps closer to the channel, her eyes imploring. "Tell me, is there anything that would truly make you happy?"

Surprised, Frevven considered her question, but he couldn't look at her face. He studied the patterns on the carpet as he admitted, "I don't know. Maybe­-maybe just to be like all the others. Not to be the disjunct channel, who keeps functioning against all odds. Not to know always that no matter how well I do, I could have done better if things had been different."

"But that's impossible. No one can undo the past."

He smiled crookedly. "Don't you think I know that? Since when has the simple fact that a thing is impossible been enough to prevent a person from wanting it?" He stopped himself abruptly. He'd already said far more than he'd intended.

She touched his hand lightly. "I think I understand, a little. Someday you'll find the place where you belong in this world. You'll see."

Belong? There was nowhere he belonged. There never would be. He forced a smile to his lips. V'lis seemed so certain he knew she believed it.

"Write to me?" she asked plaintively.

"Of course. And I'll see you again," he promised with a rueful smile. "If I ever get off this blasted island, that is."

"I'll speak to my cousin about that. I'm sure he can arrange something."

"Don't you dare­-" Frevven began, then he noticed the mischievous twinkle in her nager. "You're teasing me."

She nodded. Then she turned serious. For just a moment, Frevven had the image of a torn chunk of Gen nager, oozing blood at the ripped and ragged edges.

That was ridiculous. Nagers don't bleed.

No, but hearts do.

"V'lis­-" Frevven began.

She brushed away his words with an airy gesture. The sadness evaporated from the ambient. "Don't say it. It isn't necessary." She hurried over to the door, opening it partway and then turning to blow him a kiss. "Bye, Frevven. Until next time."

She was gone, her nager fading as she walked down the hall and through the front door. The insulation cut off his perception of her field as the heavy door closed behind her. The sound echoed through the hallway with the melancholy finality of something that had ended forever.

Or perhaps had never really begun.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Frevven was just going down the stairs to a reluctant breakfast in the cafeteria when he heard church bells ringing. Had another Sunday morning come already?

Thinking sadly of Lem Cabrell and his abortive attempt to counter Richt's teachings, Frevven hesitated by the window on the landing. He pushed the drape aside to look out at Lem's erstwhile chapel. A cold fog swirled along the street, almost hiding the building from sight. It appeared dark and deserted.

He was about to let the curtain fall back into place when he zlinned a faint glow in the fog. No, the chapel wasn't entirely deserted. Wasn't that Mrs. Rodrick standing in the doorway?

Even as he watched, several other folks approached, gathering in an uncertain knot before the door. One or two drifted away, but a few stayed.

Well, what are you waiting for? Go on inside, Frevven thought impatiently. Then he realized they didn't have a key to the door.

He did, downstairs in his office. Lem had entrusted the spare key to him, for safekeeping.

He hurried to his office, plucked the key out of a drawer. Now what? Should he send one of the Gens on his staff across the street with it?

No, he'd bring it himself. In fact, he'd even attend the service, if they'd have him. Frevven smiled smugly. Chaynek would think him a fool for such a gesture, but it appealed to him.

He went casually across the hall, took his cape from the closet, and ducked back into his office. Carefully, he zlinned the interior of the Center. Anieva came from the stairway and headed out the back door to the pier, then one of the Gens went into the library. Chaynek seemed to be upstairs, in the cafeteria. Good. If he were eating breakfast, the Donor would be occupied for a time.

He really should have an Escort to leave the Center, but Chaynek was sure to give him an argument and Kurt was sound asleep in his room. By the time he'd gotten either of them to go with him, the small party of would-be worshippers might well have given up and gone home.

As soon as he knew the hallway and reception room were empty, Frevven donned his retainers and hurried out the front door.

Fear and uncertainty washed over him, colder even than the fog drifting along the street. One of the Gens standing in front of the makeshift chapel glanced back over her shoulder, catching sight of Frevven crossing the street.

No, not a Gen­-a child. Flora Veara. The others noticed the channel, drew back several steps. Flora went forward to greet him, smiling without her usual attempt to hide her crooked teeth. Her cheeks were pink with cold.

Frevven surveyed the dozen or so people gathered on the sidewalk. He held out the key in one hand, holding it gingerly by an edge so anyone wishing to take it wouldn't actually have to touch him.

"Lem ain't here to lead the service," one of the men said, not meeting Frevven's eyes.

"Lem isn't necessary. Surely someone else can do it," Frevven suggested.

Heads turned away, eyes shifted uncomfortably.

"Ain't none of us know how."

The channel frowned at this unexpected complication. What was he to do now? He knew it was irrational, but it seemed somehow very important that Lem's little group of believers not fall apart.

"Mrs. Rodrick­-?"

The old lady shook her head. "Never been much of a churchgoer, Mr. Aylmeer." She made a wry face. "'Cept for Lem's ideas, none of that much appealed to me."

Who else? There had to be someone who knew the service.

There was.

"I can do it," Frevven suggested, hoping he sounded confident but not overbearing.

The ambient lurched as someone reacted with violent revulsion. The feeling was quickly smothered, but Frevven pinpointed its source as a man at the edge of the crowd.

Mrs. Rodrick gestured to the door with her cane. "Well, what're we waitin' for? Let's get in out of the cold." She reached out a hand for the key and unlocked the door, a broad smile lighting up her face.

Flora rushed over to lay a fire in the fireplace, as the others straggled uncertainly into the small room. A woman started arranging the chairs into a circle.

Frevven picked up one of the prayerbooks. It was old and battered, but it was the standard Church of the Purity text. He flipped through the pages. Someone had made changes by hand in many of the prayers and songs. He didn't have time to do more than glance at the book, but it was coming back to him now. All he had to do was watch for the changes they had made in the liturgy.

Mrs. Rodrick had taken a seat, leaning regally on her cane planted on the floor between her feet and looking a challenge at her neighbors. Frevven sat next to her, and Flora quickly sat down at his other side. Chairs scraped and scratched at the rough wooden floor as the dozen or so people took their places. Nervous anxiety pervaded the ambient.

Frevven scanned the room, his eyes still on the prayerbook in his hands. What was he doing here, anyway? This was a harebrained scheme if ever there was one. How dare he pray at all, much less attempt to lead a service? All of a sudden, he wanted to run from the room. Flora gave him a trusting smile, opened her book, and pointed to a page number.

Suppressing his misgivings, Frevven flipped to the correct page. "Friends, let us pray," he began quietly.

It was easier than he'd anticipated. Once he'd gotten into the swing of things, he hardly had to think of what he was saying. He even stumbled over some of the new words, when his lips automatically wanted to recite the old ones.

They sang a hymn. An entire verse had been crossed out and a new one scribbled in. References to a hoped-for future, instead of being about the total absence of Sime demons, stressed a vision of Sime and Gen working together to redeem the world.

Frevven smothered an urge to laugh out loud. Hadn't that been the very same hymn he had heard Richt's congregation singing when he had gone to the Salvation Church service several months ago? If only the preacher could hear it now!

He went on to lead the responsive readings with enthusiasm. This was a vast improvement. Surprisingly enough, not all that much had had to be altered in order to change the meaning considerably.

Sometimes the words hadn't even been changed, but the meaning had shifted subtly. A psalm of petition asking that one might be delivered from the clutches of the evil ones, for instance. In the church of Frevven's childhood, it had always been clear who those evil ones were. Here, in this context, it was equally clear that the phrase did not automatically refer to Simes. The special emphasis in Mrs. Rodrick's voice, the way Flora glanced up at him side-wise, the defiant flare in the ambient, the quick flicker of a woman's eyes in the direction of Richt's church, all told Frevven the verse was not directed at him.

And a tremble of hidden resentment from across the room told him at least one person, the man he had noticed once already, did indeed mean it for him. Why was he here, if he felt that way? A spy, reporting back to Richt?

No matter. Frevven read the next line, calling for a time of silent meditation. He could almost hear the way the organ would have sounded, playing softly in the background in his home parish during this part of the service. He closed his eyes, imagining he could feel Jozanna beside him, as always.

The bittersweet memory faded into the realization that he was supposed to be praying. But how could he pray? The only God Frevven knew was Gen, and that Gen God represented the standard, the norm for all human beings. How could a Sime pray to such a Deity? What meaning could it possibly have for him?

No, he thought, watching the circle of his fellow worshippers from lowered eyes. This is still not quite right. You are still limiting the very concept of Deity with your words. Open your ears and hear what you have said. Open your eyes and see what you have done. You have taken Divinity and made it one of you. But what of me, created also in that Image? How can you ever accept me, when your God is only Gen? What else may I be but devil, demon, other?

The words cried out in his heart, but he knew he must not say them, not now, in this place. They had made such strides already. He couldn't risk incurring their enmity by demanding they go one step further.

Flora nudged him with her elbow. People shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. The silent meditation had gone on long enough. He looked down at the prayerbook again and cleared his throat.

"Protect us with Your mighty arms and keep us safe in Your hands," Frevven continued. "Shed Your light upon us, that we might know and love You in truth. Bless us, for Your Name's sake, that we may ever bless You, so long as the world shall last.

"Protect us and teach us, that we might live together in peace and justice, Sime and Gen together."

Frevven tripped on the unfamiliar closing phrase, remembering how that prayer had asked for the destruction of the Sime devils in the church at Chilton Lake.

"Merciful One, hold Your protecting hand over us, and grant us peace."

Flora shifted uncomfortably at his side.

He was about to go on with the next prayer when the girl spoke up, softly and hesitantly. "Maybe­-maybe we're missing something here. Maybe it should say `Hold Your protecting hand over us and encircle us with Your mighty tentacles.'"

Frevven stared at her. She had said what he had hardly dared to think. Despite the official theology that God was not a material being and therefore could no more have hands than handling tentacles, had that image ever occurred to him before?

At the far end of the room, a man flared outrage as he got to his feet and ran out the door.

"Good riddance," Mrs. Rodrick muttered. "He weren't one of us anyway. Don't know what he wanted here."

"Mrs. Rodrick, perhaps you will read this week's portion from the Holy Book?" Frevven asked, trying to smooth over the brief disturbance.

Flattered, she did as he requested, her thin voice filling the respectful silence in the small room. Frevven didn't hear her words. He was too busy thinking over what Flora had suggested.

Maybe his own image of God was wrong? Maybe he was seeing something that wasn't there? Perhaps there were other possibilities, and he hadn't even considered them?

Charity finished the passage and Frevven began the closing prayers, only half his mind on what he was saying.

How do you picture a Being who is neither Sime nor Gen? His mind balked at the thought. An Ancient? Who knew for certain what they were like? A child? That seemed grossly inappropriate.

How do you search for that which you can barely imagine? Where do you start?

In your own mind, in your own heart, where Sime and Gen have neither meaning nor reality. Start there and seek outward. But be warned: the search will not be easy.

Frevven stopped in the middle of a sentence, halted dead in his tracks by the unbidden thought. Where had that come from?

The congregation had gone on reading without him. Shaken, he scanned the page, trying to find his place before anyone noticed his lapse. But there was something in the ambient now that he didn't like. He concentrated, zlinning despite the distortion of his retainers. Something threatening seemed to be gathering outside.

Before he could get a clear reading, a rock crashed through the front window, and the Watchkeepers crashed through the front door.

Much to Frevven's relief, Clarendon Richt was not among them. Robed and hooded, they spread out to surround the half dozen people in the room. A man rose to his feet, fists clenched, but Mrs. Rodrick remained seated, glaring at the intruders.

"What do you want here?" Flora piped up. "Go away and leave us in peace."

"There can be no peace for heretics."

"Leave this place of false worship and return with us to the true faith. Beg forgiveness of Almighty God for your sins."

"We have committed no sins," Mrs. Rodrick stated definitely.

"Purge the evil from your midst. You consort with demons."

Even in Richt's absence, the Watchkeepers were able to hold a sort of nageric resistance in the ambient. Any fear they might have felt of the channel was walled up and smothered by a blank wall of faith. It was an odd thing to zlin.

Amidst the babble of excited voices and the strangeness of the ambient, Frevven could discern the peculiar, hard nager of Farika Snow. She seemed to be leading the Watchkeepers, in Richt's absence. She kept her voice artificially deep and strained, but Frevven recognized her regardless.

"Lem Cabrell died for his heresy. Isn't that proof enough for you?" one of the Watchkeepers shouted.

And Farika's glinting nager twitched. Just a slight waver, a small jerk of uneasiness.

It was enough to ignite a thought in Frevven's mind. He stood up, facing Farika directly. "Lem Cabrell isn't dead, is he?" he said, playing his hunch.

The woman's nager drew in and tightened, an impenetrable shiny shell encasing her body. Frevven went fully hyperconscious, struggling to read it through his retainers.

"He's dead," she stated. Behind that hard wall, something shifted almost imperceptibly. Frevven could hardly be sure he felt it, but it was enough. If she were telling the truth, nothing would have come through.

"You're lying. He's alive. Where is he?" And for that matter, where was Richt? Why wasn't he here? Janni was on Westerly. Lem had been headed there. What if he'd made it, after all?

Farika stared at him coldly, offering no answer.

Frevven took a step closer, wanting to zlin her better. "Lem is on Westerly, isn't he? And so is Reverend Richt. What is he doing there?"

She retreated, the ice-cold shell developing weak spots. "Sorcerer! Stop reading my mind!"

"You tell your so-called Master Watchkeeper that we want Lem and Janni back. I can't file charges for kidnapping Janni, since your laws don't apply to Simes, but I can damn well file a complaint about Lem Cabrell, if he's being held against his will." Frevven continued to stare at Farika as he made the threat.

"He's dead, I tell you." But the ambient didn't bear her out. Two of the other Watchkeepers also knew the truth.

Farika focussed her hatred on the channel, in a pale imitation of Richt's peculiar style of nageric manipulation. "Lem's dead," she repeated, more positively this time. "As dead as that sister of yours, and that other Gen that you killed. Deny it if you can, you cursed demon! The likes of you can never claim to have the Almighty's blessing. Killer! Foul killer!"

The blood drained from Frevven's face at the mention of Jozanna. He wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. How could he defend himself against the truth?

Suddenly, the Watchkeepers all had good-sized rocks in their hands. "Stone them! Stone the heretics!" Farika shouted in triumph, seeing Frevven's hesitation.

Frevven knocked a rock out of the air before it could hit Mrs. Rodrick, wrenching one lateral painfully against his retainer as he did so. But he couldn't protect everyone. Already, people were running for the door. Flora helped Mrs. Rodrick to her feet. Frevven covered their retreat as best he could, dodging well-aimed stones or deflecting them before they could reach their targets. Even so, some of the Gens were cut and bleeding before they reached the relative safety of the street.

Some of the Watchkeepers began wrecking the store, but others followed them into the road, still lobbing stones. Mrs. Rodrick crumpled to the pavement with a sharp cry. Frevven stood over her, trying to shield her from further harm. Flora tugged on her arm, begging her to get up. People tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. Nearby shops were closed and locked.

The front door to the Sime Center swung open and Chaynek appeared. "In here," he shouted in English. "Quickly!" He ran out into the rain of stones and lifted Mrs. Rodrick to her feet. A man hesitated, then grabbed his wife's arm and raced for the open door. The rest of Lem's small congregation followed, with Frevven bringing up the rear.

Eventually, the Watchkeepers gave up throwing stones and went away. The wounded were treated, while the others were brought to the cafeteria for tea and a hot meal. No one felt like venturing into the street again, so Frevven invited them to remain at the Center until things quieted down.

He had barely finished tending to Mrs. Rodrick's bruised ribs and wrenched shoulder when Chaynek indicated he wanted to see Frevven in his office.

The Donor had stood quietly by, supporting Frevven as he examined and worked at healing the wounded. But he had been far from happy with the situation. He kept those feelings sternly under control, but every so often Frevven had been able to pick up a hint of Chaynek's disapproval, on the rare occasions when the Gen's attention lapsed.

Frevven sat down at his desk, unwilling to face a confrontation but with no real choice in the matter. Their transfer was scheduled for tomorrow morning.

Chaynek came over in front of Frevven's chair and squatted down. He ran one finger appraisingly along the Sime's forearms, and Frevven knew there was no way he could fail to notice the trembling laterals and swollen ronaplin glands. Nevertheless, he pulled away from Chaynek and stood up, clasping his hands uneasily behind his back. "Damn it, I'm all right," he muttered. "Leave me alone."

Chaynek raised one eyebrow and looked at Frevven with thinly veiled amusement. "Oh, sure, you're perfectly all right," he said ironically, "and I'm the Sectuib in Zeor." Turning suddenly serious, Chaynek continued, "Enough nonsense. What the bloody shen do you think you were doing out there? Did you deliberately try to start a riot, or did you do it by accident?"

"I wanted Lem's church to have its service, that's all. The damned Watchkeepers­-"

"One day before your transfer, you went amongst out-Territory Gens without an Escort? To lead a prayer service?!" Chaynek exclaimed incredulously. "Are you totally out of your mind? Do you know what could have happened?"

"Yes. Lem's church could have crumbled."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it. A disjunct channel in the midst of a melee like that­­" Chaynek shook his head "­-anything could have happened."

Then it dawned on Frevven that Chaynek thought he might have been tempted to kill one of those Gens. "Shenshid, you don't really think­-"

"I think you are a very foolhardy person. A channel has to know his limits. You obviously don't."

"Chaynek, I wouldn't have­-"

"No? Such things have happened before, especially where disjuncts are involved. Why do you think you're required to have an Escort, after all?"

"If I'd taken the time to inform you of my plans, we'd have had this same argument. By the time I'd have gotten to the chapel­-if I got there at all­-everyone would have gone home."

"Of course. And there wouldn't have been a riot, would there?"

Frevven didn't quite know what to say to that. Chaynek was right, but he was also wrong. "Avoiding trouble at all costs isn't always the proper thing to do," he said cautiously.

"Truly, it beats starting trouble all the time, especially out-Territory. Thanks to everything you've done, the town wants the Center closed down. Does that indicate to you that you've been following the proper course of action?"

Beaten down by the thinly veiled contempt in Chaynek's glowing field, Frevven had no answer to that. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe it was all his fault.

"I'm sending in an official recommendation to Controller Shagoury that you be relieved, effective as soon as she can send someone to replace you," Chaynek said formally. "I have a feeling it won't take her very long."

"Chaynek, please don't do this to me. It isn't necessary. I can handle the Center. You'll see. After our transfer, when I feel better, I'll file a complaint against Richt, force him to release Lem­­"

Chaynek just stared, his big brown eyes growing wider. Frevven sighed, and explained how he had come to believe Lem was alive and being held prisoner.

Chaynek was not impressed.

"In an ambient as confused as that, you zlinned one of the Watchkeepers­-through retainers­-so clearly you could tell she was lying? Come on now, Frevven. It would take the sensitivity of a First to do that, especially if Mrs. Snow has the sort of nager you describe."

"You don't believe me?"

"You zlinned what you wanted to zlin. Simes do that sometimes. You just don't want to have to admit your friend is dead, that's all."

"Lem's alive, and I'm going to get him back, one way or another," Frevven proclaimed defiantly. "And Janni too."

" You're going to do no such thing, my friend. Perhaps the channel who replaces you will be able to extradite Janni, but you're going to sit tight and keep out of trouble for the next few days. And that's all you're going to do, unless you want my official report to call for your forced retirement from working as a channel, in addition to everything else."

Retire from working? At worst, that could be a death sentence, since entran and entran complications were often fatal. At best, it would mean the end of everything Frevven had fought to achieve for the past ten years, the end of his only real desire: to be a functioning channel, to prevent the Kill in the only way he knew how, to make up for what he had done to his sister and to Tomithy Marston. To atone for his past, and to help others never to kill.

If the Tecton took that away from him, they might as well take his life also. It amounted to the same thing.

He stared at Chaynek in dismay. Disapproval and doubt rang through the Gen's nager, the same as it had all during Frevven's time of training. Chaynek would never trust him. Never.

In cold despair, Frevven hid his face in his hands and capitulated.

"Whatever you say, Chaynek. Whatever you say."

After Chaynek left, Frevven sat behind his desk, staring numbly at the familiar piles of paper waiting to be sorted, read, and signed. He scanned a requisition for supplies, signed it mechanically. Picking up last week's selyn accounting sheet, he filled in the final totals and put it with the stack of reports waiting to go to the mainland. He wanted to have the paperwork all caught up, so his replacement wouldn't have to figure out what was going on. It was important that he leave things neat and tidy. It was­-

Shen and shid, who cared?! They were going to replace him, maybe close the Center entirely. What difference did it make that his records were in order?

Damn Chaynek. This was all his fault.

Frevven pushed the stacks of paper off his desk with an angry sweep of his hands, regarding the resulting mess with numb detachment.

He'd made so much progress on Innsfrey, done so much.

Yes, and caused so much trouble with Richt.

Was it all for nothing then? All the struggle, all the times he'd forced himself to hope, rather than despair? All the times he'd kept on going, when it would have been easier to admit defeat?

If disgrace and censure were all it had gotten him, he shouldn't have bothered, he thought bitterly. In a far corner of his mind, Frevven knew a lot of his depression was caused by his being in need. Everything always seemed worse then. If he'd had the least shred of hope left, he'd have been able to discount his feelings, tell himself things would surely be better after this transfer.

This transfer. With Chaynek. He shook his head. It wasn't a prospect he looked forward to.

Oh, he'd wanted Chaynek as long as he'd known him. But not under these circumstances. The Donor was already convinced he had cracked up under the strain. If any least little thing went wrong during the transfer, Chaynek would simply see it as one more evidence of Frevven's loss of control. And it couldn't possibly go smoothly, with Frevven so worried about it.

He glanced over at the fire on the hearth. How do you convince yourself not to worry? And what was happening to Janni and Lem? And was V'lissia well? What would he do when she had her baby? He'd be a terrible father, he was certain.

Face it, he was a failure.

Unable to stand being in his office any longer, Frevven fled up the stairs to his own room. He threw himself down on his bed.

The battle is over, Frevven. Give up and go home. Chaynek is right. You're a mediocre Second Order channel, and that's all you'll ever be. You're no hero, no match for someone like Clarendon Richt. You're no Klyd Farris, able to change the world.

Frevven's eye fell on Klyd's portrait, in its place on the mantelpiece. He went over and picked it up, glaring at the man who was probably the most famous Sectuib the House of Zeor had ever had. Zeor, whose very name meant "excellence" in Simelan.

"You," he muttered fiercely at Klyd, "it's all your fault. Excellence. Unity. Striving for perfection. Ha! What nonsense! All your fine ideals have brought me nothing but frustration and grief. Curse you, and all those like you, who hold up impossible ideals to the world, just so people can fail to live up to them!"

He couldn't stand to look at Klyd's face anymore. The sharp nose and dark hair, the pained look about his eyes, all seemed to be accusing Frevven of failure. There was no sympathy there for weakness, no compassion for those who couldn't make the grade.

With a strangled sob, Frevven drew back his hand to toss the portrait into the fire on the hearth. Get rid of it. Forget the ideals, forget the dreams. Just get by, that's all. You can't make the world better. Give up.

Then his eyes fell on the elaborately calligraphed inscription in the corner of the picture, next to a miniature version of the Householding's pointy, dagger-shaped crest. OUT OF DEATH WAS I BORN, UNTO ZEOR, FOREVER!

He froze, remembering another time when he had read that brief inscription.

Confused and hurting after Chaynek had made him witness the semi-junct Kill, Frevven sought the one place he'd never had the courage to go before. Zeor's Memorial to the One Billion was in the basement under the main building. He didn't know exactly what was in the secluded room, but he wanted to be alone with his thoughts and this seemed somehow to be the appropriate place.

He didn't remember going down the steps, but he remembered how relieved he was to find no one else there. The room wasn't large, but it was intensely quiet, and so well insulated that he felt strange when the door clicked shut and the rest of the world ceased to exist.

A single oil lamp illuminated the room, and shadows flickered weirdly in the dim recesses of the corners. On a stand near the lamp there was a large, ornately bound blue book.

Curious, Frevven picked up the book, sat down on the floor, and started flipping through it. All he found was page after page of names. Here and there, he picked one out.

Feleho ambrov Zeor. He'd heard that one before, but couldn't quite recall who it was.

Sharette ambrov Zeor.

Wait a minute, that name sounded familiar. Hadn't he just read about Sharette in one of those books he'd gotten from the library? Yes, she was a Companion who'd been captured and brutally murdered by McNairn's Raiders.

Then a few of the other names began sounding familiar also.

Martyrs. This was a book of martyrs. These people had all died for Zeor, that its hopes and ideals might live.

Frevven almost let the book slide off his lap onto the floor. Then he turned back to the beginning and looked through it again. There were no details, no clues to who these people had been or to the circumstances under which they had died. There wasn't even any way of telling the Simes from the Gens.

The most recent entries were in Muryin Farris' elaborate but distinctively sloppy script. The rest of the pages were blank, waiting for more names.

He shivered, then closed the book and stared at the blue cover. This was a lot of people, but surely nowhere near one billion. The Memorial to the One Billion had another meaning also, he knew. The number was only a symbol for the uncounted and uncountable numbers of nameless, faceless Gens killed down through history, that Simes might live.

Martyrs he could deal with, but the panorama of such a vast slaughter was something else again. No one had given them a choice; no one had asked if they were willing to die.

In the cold silence of the Memorial, Frevven felt a world of guilt pressing down on him. How could anyone even hope to make up for all that death and suffering? There were too many lives on his conscience; had been even before he had been born. The two people he himself had killed were as nothing compared to this huge wave of horror spread across the centuries.

How could he possibly not have seen it before? There was so much guilt that he could never hope to get free of it, never. His very existence had been made possible only by these deaths. He didn't deserve life at this price; no Sime did.

But it didn't happen like that anymore. Channels stood between Gen and renSime, preventing the Kill. It was over. It would never be like that again.

Over? After what he'd seen just a few hours ago?

No, it wasn't over yet.

Frevven pushed the book aside and stretched out full length on the floor, burying his head in his hands and trying to hide from the horde of ghosts surrounding him. His mind was besieged by images of Gens dying in the Kill. His sister's face was there, but it was one among many. Young Tomithy Marston. And the Gen who had died before his eyes this very afternoon.

Too many! There were just too many!

At first he thought he'd go mad. He tried to turn off the pictures, silence the screams in his head. Hordes of Pen Gens, bred and raised like animals, distributed each month to every tax-paying Sime as his or her due. Adolescents barely past establishment, drugged and semiconscious. What had they known of life, beyond the certainty of their own imminent death?

Wild Gens, captured out-Territory by Raiders and sold at auction to the highest bidder, precious because they were conscious and aware, their capacity for terror enhancing killbliss for the lucky buyer. Children claimed as Choice Kills by their Sime parents, as soon as they showed the first signs of selyn production instead of changeover.

When Frevven realized it was impossible to stop the images, he just watched, wondering if he were already crazy.

And the worst thing was that a part of him enjoyed that horror, was fascinated by it, wanted more. He tried to hate that part of himself, but that didn't make it go away. When the images shifted to show a band of Raiders galloping down on a sleeping Gen town, he couldn't stand it anymore. He didn't want to see the rest of that particular scene, precisely because he knew he did want to see it.

No, I won't! I won't! he moaned, banging his head against the stone floor. Stop it! Please stop it!

The next thing he remembered was becoming aware of the cold floor underneath him and the raw skin on fingers and tentacles where he'd grasped at the unyielding stone.

Exhausted and drained, Frevven pushed himself up off the ground, the entire side of his face numb with the cold. His nose was running and his eyes were wet with tears, but the images had stopped.

He retrieved his glasses, found the book and held it up in shaking hands.

"These people are all dead," he whispered defiantly to the shadows, "long dead. And I didn't do it. I'm not responsible for all this. It isn't my fault."

There was only silence to answer him, but he heard the answer very clearly nevertheless. "You are responsible for two deaths, and you must accept that. But you only continue to be guilty, for those two and for all the rest, if you condone it. If you approve it. If you make no effort to stop it. If you continue to kill."

"No," Frevven murmured. "Oh, no."

"Yes," came the relentless echo. "Oh, yes."

"I didn't ask to be Sime. I can't deal with this sort of guilt. No one can. And I can't disjunct. I'll die if I try. I know it," he protested.

No answer came from the shadows. The lamplight flickered on an inscribed plaque. Frevven took a few steps closer and squinted at the letters through the smeared lenses of his glasses.

OUT OF DEATH WAS I BORN, UNTO ZEOR, FOREVER!

Nonsense. Nothing is born from death, except decay and despair.

Nothing? This Householding, and everything it came to stand for, was built upon the deaths of those who had loved it more than they loved their own lives. It was begun as an effort to bring life, where before there had been only the Kill. And it had worked. The Householdings had made it possible for Simes to live without killing Gens. This had been born from death.

Other Simes had refused to be crushed under the burden of this awful guilt. And the very existence of this Memorial proved that they acknowledged and accepted what those like them had done in the past. Accepted it, not ignored it or denied it. And remembered it, that it might not happen again.

That meant there were people who could understand the torment in Frevven's heart, because they felt it themselves. And some of them had ended up in the Householding's cemetery, beneath the trefoil markers designating those who had died for Zeor.

He placed the Book of Martyrs carefully back in its place, but one hand lingered on the cover.

"For their sakes, then," he proclaimed defiantly to the shadows and silences. "There's not one other blessed thing I can do for them that would have any kind of meaning, is there?" He extended one lateral and carefully touched the cover of the book. It was that same brilliant shade of blue they seemed so fond of in this place, like the clear blue sky at the top of a mountain when you looked straight up.

"You are my witnesses. I swear that I'll never forget. I'll devote my life to accomplishing the task that they began. And I'll die myself before I'll ever kill again!"

Frevven Aylmeer squared his narrow shoulders and strode out the door of the Memorial. He didn't look back. He was afraid if he did he would see the ghosts of those to whom he had just promised his future.

Very gently, Frevven set Klyd's portrait once again in its accustomed place on the mantelpiece. Impossible ideals? Against all odds, he had successfully disjuncted. Against considerable opposition, he had insisted that he be trained as a channel and allowed to function. He'd qualified as a Second, when no one expected him ever to do better than Third. How far would he have gotten, without the dreams, without the example of others who had also tried to achieve impossible ideals?

All right, he had failed on Innsfrey, failed miserably. But he had tried. And he'd just have to go on trying, regardless. Maybe someday he'd even be good enough for Zeor.

He rose and trudged dismally back down the stairs and into his office. With a resigned shrug of his shoulders, he began retrieving the papers scattered around the floor. Not everyone could be Klyd Farris, esteemed hero.

"What does it cost to be a hero, Frevven? Are you willing to pay that price?"

Frevven straightened up and turned abruptly, almost as if he'd heard a voice behind him. No, there was only the window. It had been merely a stray thought­-strange, but inside his own head. He was imagining things again. Maybe Chaynek was right. Maybe he had gone around the bend.

Outside the window, Frevven caught a flash of light. He was about to sweep the drape aside when Tilla jerked his door open, her nager flaring concern.

"Frevven, Anieva wants you in the lookout tower right away. Something strange is going on," she announced tensely.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Puzzled, Frevven ran up the narrow spiral staircase. When he reached the top and stepped into the little room with its unobstructed view in all directions, he was uncomfortably aware of a dark swirl of dread pervading the ambient. Anieva and the Sime on watch stared out over the nighttime ocean. By a combination of zlinning and straining his eyes, he could just about make out the details of the panorama below.

Across the moon-sparkled surface of Innsfrey Harbor, an astonishing number of boats ghosted along, driven by the light wind. They were obviously converging on the Center's long pier, each boat crowded with people and brightly lit up by the torches and lanterns they carried.

"What the bloody shen is going on?" Frevven muttered.

The Sime on watch shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea, Hajene. They came around Sandy Point half an hour ago. When I saw they were headed right for us, I sent word down to Anieva."

"I don't know what it is, but I don't like it," Frevven concluded. "Ring the alarm. I want everyone on the alert."

"Yes, Hajene."

Anieva bounded down the stairs, and the Center's alarm bell began its raucous clamor. Frevven took one last look at the fleet of boats converging on the Center, and a shiver of apprehension ran along his spine. Some of them were small private sloops and cutters, but there were a couple of fishing schooners as well.

Even as he watched, one of the larger vessels came up into the wind and dropped anchor. Frevven fancied he could hear the splash. With a flurry of organized activity, boats were put over the side and filled rapidly with people.

He frowned and hurried down the stairs. Chaynek waited for him at the bottom, curbing the curiosity he felt and focussing concerned support on the channel.

Anieva had just finished her description of what was happening outside to the assembled group of staff personnel. In place of the disciplined commotion that usually broke out when the alarm was sounded, there was only silence as Frevven reached the lower part of the stairway. The ambient crackled with tension.

Frevven looked out over the twenty-odd people comprising his staff. Suddenly they seemed a very small group, compared to the wide, wind-swept darkness around them.

"I don't know what this means any more than you do," he said quietly. "But let's go out and see. The whole thing may be nothing but some kind of diversion to draw our attention. I want someone stationed by every entrance to the building and in any first floor room that faces directly onto the street. And I want those people to be Simes," he added grimly, as several of the staff turned to go.

Frevven went through the door leading out to the pier and the Morning Star, with Chaynek close on his heels. His perception sharpened by need, the channel slid hyperconscious, but he was overwhelmed by Chaynek, still focussed on him. "Ease off," he ordered softly. "I want to find out what's going on out there."

Chaynek flickered brief distrust, then did as he was asked.

Frevven zlinned the darkness glowing with the interwoven, shifting brilliance of the combined nager of the crowd of Gens on the boats. Unable to pick out details with his eyes, he still could tell quite clearly what was happening. And he could tell the people on those boats were angry, murderously angry.

Some of the smaller boats had sailed right up onto the beach, which had been left wide and damp by the falling tide. Others hovered near the end of the pier, making short tacks back and forth. Skiffs from a half dozen anchored schooners rowed straight in toward the sand, loaded with passengers.

People were coming from the town now also, drawn by the strange events on the beach. They gathered in small, whispering knots in the shadows, keeping a wary distance from either side of the Center's long pier. Lights flared in houses all up and down the shoreline, as word spread through the town.

Frevven raised his hand, stopping his party while they were only partway out the pier, still over dry land. The menace in the ambient could not be mistaken, and he didn't want anyone too far from the relative safety of the Center's main building, in case there was trouble.

Anieva came up alongside Frevven, her face set in a grimace of distaste. "What do you make of this?" she said softly. "I've never zlinned such an awful ambient."

Frevven just shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. He sorted through the confusing fields for the one he was sure he'd find somewhere, the one he was certain was responsible for all this, whatever it meant. His blurred eyes couldn't pick out clearly the gray-robed figure seated triumphantly in a boat just touching the sand, but Frevven would recognize that distorted nager anywhere. Richt was strangely quiescent. He hadn't taken control of the ambient yet, but Frevven had no doubt he could do so, anytime he wished.

He nudged Chaynek with his elbow, pointing unerringly with finger and tentacle. "That's Clarendon Richt."

"The one in the stern, or the one in the bow?" Chaynek asked, squinting into the darkness. "I can't see him too well."

"The tall one in the stern. He's standing up now."

Richt waited until his boat had been pulled ashore, disdaining to get the bottom of his robe wet by climbing out too soon. He stepped proudly onto the beach and strode towards the pier, surrounded by his anonymous hooded disciples.

The inchoate ambient began to take form, shaped and focussed by Richt's field. Frevven edged closer to Chaynek, then clenched his hands around the waist-high railing at the side of the pier and waited.

People streamed onto the beach from all directions now, but the gray-robed Watchkeepers surged to the front of the crowd to form a wall around their leader. Richt got close enough so that even Frevven could see him clearly before he stopped. He crossed his arms, the medallion he wore on his chest glinting in the flickering torchlight. Not far from the pilings supporting the pier, he stopped and glared up at Frevven and the small group of Simes and Gens standing behind and around him.

Frevven stared directly down at him, putting all the scorn and disdain he could muster into his voice. "What's the meaning of this, Reverend Richt? What are you doing here at this hour of the night?"

Richt raised his arm in the dramatic gesture Frevven had seen him use in his church, pointing up to the heavens and then sweeping down sideways, taking in all of the Simes on the raised walkway.

"Accursed ones!" he shouted. "Murderers and drinkers of souls! There are those who think to convince us that you are not devils!" His voice resounded with condemnation and self-righteous anger. The crowd's murmurs died away to an uneasy silence.

Richt's accusing finger stabbed directly at Frevven. "You," he said, "have demanded the return of the murderer of Deacon Allenby. Very well. The devil may claim his own."

At a gesture from Richt, Janni Cabrell was thrust roughly into the circle of torchlight in front of the pier and shoved down onto her knees. Her long black hair hung in tangles around her dirt-streaked face, and her hands appeared to be tied behind her back. It took knowledge to tie a Sime's hands that way. The ropes had to be arranged in just the right position, so the slightest attempt to augment and break them would put an intolerable pressure on the sensitive laterals.

Frevven ached to go to the girl. He could zlin her need, although she was hardly a week past her Kill. She must have been badgered and tormented into augmenting, to drive her once again this close to attrition.

He longed to jump the railing and serve that awful need. But she was outside the Center, officially out-Territory. He didn't have his retainers with him and dared not go down there without them.

And Richt knew it.

"Here is your precious darling, Hajene Aylmeer. Do you still want her back?" he jibed.

Kurt leaned over the railing. "It wasn't her fault," he shouted. "We could have prevented it, if we'd been able to get there. Janni had no choice."

Anieva grabbed Kurt's shoulder, as if afraid he might leap over the railing and down into that menacing crowd. Voices were raised in anger, protest, argument, confusion.

Janni staggered to her feet, her face contorted into an inhuman grimace. The mob pulled back, even Richt's Watchkeepers taking a step away, looking at their leader uncertainly. She turned to Richt, the sheer hatred in her voice cutting through the noise of the crowd.

"I'm glad I killed Allenby. I chose my victim deliberately. But I only wish it could have been you!"

She lunged at the Master Watchkeeper. He side-stepped adroitly and grabbed her bound wrists, twisting them and forcing her down to her knees once again. Janni stifled a scream of pain.

"You have heard it from her own mouth. Are there any who still doubt my words? Let them come forward and speak for this devil, if so." No one moved. "Destroy the monsters, and all their works!" Richt nodded, and one of the robed figures raised his torch, waving it in what was obviously a pre-arranged signal. From the boats still hovering off the end of the pier, torches arced across the black water to land on the Morning Star.

The furled mainsail burst into flame, the canvas dry and brittle. The boat would burn quickly. And if it didn't, people stood poised with more torches ready to throw.

Frevven turned swiftly to catch Anieva's arm as she gasped and started to go to the defense of her beloved cutter. That might be exactly what the attackers wanted.

"No," he whispered grimly, "it's only wood and cloth and metal. It's not worth your life. Let it burn."

The other Sime's nager convulsed in torment as the masts caught fire. Then she bit her lip and nodded, and Frevven released her. He turned back to the railing and the scene on the beach below. Pushing his glasses up against his nose, he tried for an assurance he did not feel.

"All right, Reverend, you've made your point. Now give us the girl and tell everyone to go home. The fun's over."

Richt jerked Janni to her feet, pulling her in front of him.

"Oh, no, Hajene Aylmeer," he said, too politely. "The fun's not over yet. Not by a long shot. We'll deal with the girl. You can watch, if you like, you and your friends up there. But I'd advise you all to pack your bags and start running instead. Because after we're finished with her, we're going to burn more than just your boat. We're going to burn your precious Center, along with anyone who's still foolish enough to be in it." He turned to the crowd. "Aren't we?"

There were a number of shouted agreements, but not enough to satisfy Richt. "I said, `Aren't we?' Does someone wish to disagree?" The gray-robed Watchkeepers looked ostentatiously into the mob, ready to note faces and names. A woman stepped forward as if to challenge Richt, but her husband pulled her back quickly. No one else dared speak up.

At a gesture from their leader, the Watchkeepers closed ranks ever more tightly, torches thrust before them, shotguns and knives held ready in their hands.

From out of the press of bodies, Lem Cabrell was shoved into the clear space before Richt and Janni.

"Look, all of you who would still doubt me, and see God's judgment on this misguided and unrepentant heretic!" Richt announced. "His own daughter will destroy him!"

Lem stood straight and glared at Richt, taking in the situation in a glance. "I'm prepared to offer my life for Janni's," he said calmly, holding out his hands to the girl.

This wasn't to the preacher's liking. A quick jerk of his head brought two of the Watchkeepers to Lem's side. One grabbed his arms and the other splashed something from a small bottle onto a handkerchief and held it to Lem's nose.

Frevven felt the small glow of Lem's defiant bravery dissolve under the impact of the fear-inducing drug, even as Richt loosed the rope from Janni's arms and pushed her toward her father.

All rationality destroyed by the insidious drug, Lem screamed in pure terror as he saw the hungry look on his daughter's face. He backed away, but he was blocked by the Watchkeepers, their torches and weapons forming an impenetrable wall around him and Janni. He cowered at their feet, babbling and begging. Someone kicked him away, back into the circle.

Janni moved jerkily towards him, fighting her need at every step, clinging to the last shreds of sanity. But she was unable to resist the raw terror Lem projected. She lunged sideways in an attempt to break out of the circle, but the Watchkeepers stood firm. Lem's fear blazed like a beacon. Try as she might, she wouldn't be able to escape its potent influence.

The encircling Watchkeepers kept their fields steady, calm and dull and not particularly attractive. An air of righteous faith seemed to banish the fear that should have been natural to them under the circumstances.

At a signal from Richt, the circle tightened, pushing Janni yet nearer to Lem. He got to his feet, rushed across to the other side. And was repulsed, but the Watchkeepers sagged backward, coming closer to the pier. Lem fell at Richt's feet, pleading for mercy.

Frevven measured the distance separating him from that ghastly tableau. Calling on scarce reserves of selyn, he vaulted over the railing and down to the sand. His sudden appearance broke the edge of the circle. Frevven snatched a torch from one of the surprised Watchkeepers, tossing it out into the crowd to add to the confusion. Stunned, the Watchkeepers drew back from him.

The channel held his hands carefully at his sides, laterals retracted, but every line of his body spelled tension. He was too close to need, and he didn't require the ronaplin oozing down the sides of his hands to remind him of how much of a pretense his apparent calm truly was.

Then Chaynek landed behind him with a heavy thud. Frevven swore to himself but kept his expression from showing anything. Chaynek's powerful nager edged closer, cutting the raw edge of Frevven's need.

"What are you doing down here, you shendi-flamed fool?" Frevven hissed softly to the Gen in Simelan.

"Truly, I might ask you the same thing," was Chaynek's quiet reply.

Richt reacted to this change in the situation by ordering his Watchkeepers to close the side of the circle, forcing them all out and away from the pier before anyone else could jump down.

Frevven held out his hands to Janni, hoping he could attract her away from Lem. Without his retainers, he was now legally in trouble, but he tried not to think about that. Lure Janni away from her father, show this mob he could safely serve her need, and maybe everything would be all right. He raised his showfield, simulating a Gen, imagining Gen fear, Gen terror.

Janni turned to him, zlinning, not seeing. Confusion in her face, she turned from the channel to Chaynek, who stood a little behind him, his field at such close range an even brighter beacon than her father's or Frevven's. She lunged in a burst of augmentation.

Frevven moved instinctively to intercept her. She mustn't have his Donor. Chaynek was his.

He caught the girl, forcing her into the Sime/Sime transfer grip. Taking advantage of her aroused need, he poured selyn into her system, hoping she wouldn't abort on him.

When he released her, she collapsed onto the sand, hugging her knees to her chest and sobbing. Frevven would have liked to have knelt beside her and calmed her, but there were other problems to consider. Janni was safe enough, for the time being.

He turned to face Richt, uncomfortably aware of Lem still cowering in induced terror at the Master Watchkeeper's feet.

Hesitation and uncertainty surged through the ambient, but it was overlaid with fear. No one would dare raise a voice against the Watchkeepers. Their very anonymity added to the fear invoked by their presence.

Frevven realized he could destroy that shield of anonymity very easily. He didn't have to see their faces in order to know who they were. What if the unnamed disciples should be named? Would that defuse the situation?

"No one hides behind a mask if they truly do God's work," he challenged. "Show your faces, and take responsibility for your actions!" He turned to Chaynek, whispering, "Back off a little. I've got to concentrate." Obediently, the Gen damped his previous concentration on the channel.

Frevven raised one hand, carefully keeping his tentacles sheathed. He pointed at the hooded figure to Richt's right. "Farika Snow," he said. He turned to the next figure, putting the name to the nager he could zlin. "Farley Danielson." And the next. "Rita Andalfi­-no. Her daughter, Sancha."

Exclamations broke out in the crowd as Frevven continued around the circle.

"Witchcraft!"

"Take off the hoods! Let's see if he's right!" another voice demanded loudly.

Richt flared fury. He stooped down and dragged Lem to his feet, holding the still-terrified Gen in front of him.

"Aylmeer!" he yelled suddenly, shoving Lem roughly forward.

Frevven turned at the sound of his name, his focussed concentration on the identities of the Watchkeepers abruptly broken. The channel winced as he reacted to Lem's field. Chaynek moved closer, one hand already reaching for Frevven as his nager solidified in an effort to shield him.

Lem stumbled and fell into Frevven's arms.

Frevven tried to force himself to move away, but his handling tentacles closed reflexively around the Gen's arms, even as his laterals flicked out. Lem's nager spiked upward into pure panic.

Oh, it was nice. Frevven had never expected to feel that sheer delight of unadulterated terror ever again, that tantalizing promise of ecstasy to come. It had been so long, and it would be so easy. Oh, this was marvelous, this was­-

This was Lem Cabrell, who'd risked his life and well-being by siding with the Simes. This was no nameless, faceless Gen. This was his friend. What had he been thinking?

Deliberately, Frevven released his hold on Lem. The Gen crumpled down onto the sand, frantically crawling away.

But Frevven stood tottering on the edge of a fine madness, unable to suppress entirely his body's reaction to experiencing Lem's fear. He was too much in need, and for too long had denied that need.

The crowd faded out of existence, all danger forgotten now, and Frevven saw only Clarendon Richt, his irritating skewed nager all too apparent. It disrupted even the calming effect of Chaynek's controlled field, as the Donor fought to bring his concentration to bear on the channel.

Frevven turned to Richt, his mind full of the preacher's loathsome nager. He felt Richt's field shift as he became aware of the channel's intention. Yes. Give him a moment to learn terror.

Frevven savored it. He felt the edges of his mouth turn upwards into a deadly grin, as Richt began to back away.

"I can stop you," the preacher babbled frantically. "Don't try it, Sime."

It took Frevven a moment to realize Richt was speaking Simelan. Yes, there was a way a Gen could defend himself against an attacking Sime, but it took courage. Instead of pulling away, a Gen could accept the transfer grip, but slide his fingers up the Sime's arms to a certain point where the selyn transport nerves ran close to the surface, exposed. The slightest pressure at that point could maim a Sime horribly. Sufficient pressure could kill.

Could Richt do that? It took calm and courage. Neither of those qualities showed in his nager just now, only the bright edge of panic.

An out-Territory Gen shouldn't even know about that. But an out-Territory Gen shouldn't be speaking Simelan either.

"You haven't got the guts," Frevven rasped, still in Simelan.

Richt had backed into the press of the crowd by now. They began to scatter behind him.

Chaynek's nager twitched with startlement and he exclaimed softly, "Darnay Tandessen. It is you, isn't it?"

Frevven had to force his mind to understand Chaynek's words. Who was Darnay Tandessen? Oh, yes, the Donor Chaynek had mentioned knowing a long time ago. The one who had seen his fiancee killed by a disjunct channel and then been attacked himself.

"No. My name is Clarendon Richt. Darnay Tandessen is dead." But Richt was babbling, still backing away from the channel.

So intense was Richt's terror that Frevven could almost see himself through the preacher's eyes, frozen grin contorting his face, unseeing eyes narrowed dangerously. But there was another channel's face superimposed over his own, a young man with light hair and blue eyes.

The channel Darnay knew from long ago?

Frevven decided to play out the game. "Confess, Richt. You're a phoney. You were a Donor once," he said loudly in English, forcing the words to come out steady although he felt like shrieking in wild anger. "You aren't worthy of God's grace. You've given your soul to the demons. Confess," he persisted, taking a step closer. "Or die enmeshed in your sins."

Voices muttered in the crowd now, although Frevven hardly heard them. He concentrated on Richt, deliberately attempting to terrify the man into making the admission that would forever discredit him in the eyes of his flock.

Richt fell to his knees. "No. No. I believe with perfect faith. I am saved!"

"You are damned. As a liar and a fake. You are soiled, impure. And you have dared to lead God's people? Confess. Confess, Darnay Tandessen!"

Frevven stood over Richt now. He reached down to grab him, tentacles extended.

The man screamed and scuttled away, caught in his own trap. "I confess!" he shrieked. Then, more calmly, getting to his feet and straightening his robe. "It's true, I was once the one you call Darnay. But I have repented. I have seen the light. I am saved!"

Disgusted, Frevven willed himself to step back from Richt. If he could appeal to the crowd, say the right thing, he might cash in on the preacher's admission. But he found himself unable to move, the words frozen in his throat. Richt's nager held him, drew him, fascinated him. He could not disengage. He wanted the man, more even than he wanted Chaynek. Wanted the terror and pain he knew he could force from Richt.

He tried to tear himself loose from that awful fixation, and could not.

"Get away from me!" Richt demanded, regaining some of his composure as he became aware of the channel's hesitation. "Begone, you vile abomination!"

" You are the abomination, not me!" Frevven hissed, remembering the insight he had had during the service he had led. "You have made hateful the very idea of God! Better, far better, it would have been, if you had not invoked God's name at all, than to have made of the Holy One the justification for your hatred and fear!"

The rage Frevven had suppressed for years overtook him then. Everything except Richt seemed to fade away into a red haze of violent hatred. There was only one way to stop all this, and that was by stopping Richt. He would destroy the Master Watchkeeper, and it would feel good!

Give him a moment. Let him think he might be able to get away. Play with him, as the Raiders had often played with their victims, wringing every last bit of sadistic torment from them before a Kill.

This would be easy. And it would silence forever the echoes of the voices in Frevven's head, the voices that never ceased to condemn him for what he was, the echoes that reflected and reverberated down through the years from his childhood, the sanctimonious sermons and Jozanna's desperate, whispered prayers. He could erase all that, by erasing Richt.

And he would enjoy it.

Unaware of anything else except the red fog of hatred through which he moved, Frevven knew he was stalking Richt in killmode, but he didn't really care.

His hands caught the preacher's arms, slipping underneath the loose sleeves of his gray robe. Strong handling tentacles secured his prey. Fixed on Richt and gleefully revelling in his target's swelling terror, Frevven hardly noticed Chaynek move next to him until the Donor's field impinged on Richt's, getting in the way.

Frevven didn't want what Chaynek offered. He snarled a curse, warning the Gen away.

"Frevven, don't do this," Chaynek said softly. "I'm here. Come to me. You don't want Richt, and you know it. You want me."

You? Frevven thought fiercely. Why should I want you? As long as I've known you, you've been so bloody-shen sure that you had all the answers. I could never do anything right, never live up to your standards. Why on earth should I want you?

Frevven shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving Richt. He understood what Chaynek was trying to do, but it wouldn't work. Not this time, Chaynek. Not this time.

Chaynek's field swirled and crystallized into a burning promise, focussed, controlled, and solid. It was pure invitation. If he allowed Chaynek to mesh with him, to take him into the pre-transfer commitment of trautholo, the Donor would have successfully lured him away from his fixation on Richt.

Once before Frevven had felt the full focus of Chaynek's nager directed at him. Once before, at his disjunction crisis. Chaynek, bright and shining, everything he could ever imagine wanting in a Gen.

And he had turned from Chaynek, throwing himself at Muryin Farris for transfer instead, because that's what he'd had to do in order to successfully disjunct. He had been able to refuse Chaynek then, despite the overwhelming attraction the Gen's nager held for him, for he had sworn to do anything to avoid the Kill, even if that meant never taking a Gen again in transfer for the rest of his life.

Enough! he commanded himself sternly. Enough of yesterday! This is now.

"It won't work, Chaynek," he muttered through his frozen smile, banishing his memories. "Back off."

"Frevven, please." Chaynek faltered, and his marvelous smooth nager unravelled slightly at the edges. "I'm not playing games with you. I'll serve you, right now if you wish. Let go of him."

Frevven snarled, ignoring Chaynek's plea. He pulled Richt into transfer position, laterals seeking the Gen's arms. All he lacked was the fifth contact point.

Chaynek held out his hands in the classic invitation to transfer. "Let him go and come to me. I won't shen you this time. I swear it, unto Zeor."

The torchlight gleamed on the gold of the ring on Chaynek's finger. Frevven couldn't see the Zeor crest on the ring, since Chaynek's hands were turned palm upwards, but he saw the symbol clearly in his mind.

Zeor. And his vow to the martyred shadows. I'll die myself, before I'll ever kill again.

The red haze burned away around him like paper in a flame, and he knew what was happening. He faced that same old choice once more.

Give in to the Kill. Or not. That was the only choice he had, the only choice he'd ever had. He couldn't stop wanting it; he could only stop doing it. Once he'd had to do it by turning away from Chaynek. Now he had to do it by turning to him. Same choice, different parameters.

Wearily, Frevven wondered if he'd face this same lesson over and over throughout his life, until he'd learned it thoroughly.

With a mighty effort, he forced himself to shove Richt away. The preacher crumpled to the sand, sobbing hysterically. Frevven was hardly aware of Richt's fractured nager now. Yes, it would have been nice to destroy him. But it would have solved nothing.

Chaynek still stood, arms outstretched, obviously expecting the channel to come to him for transfer. Frevven shivered.

No. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people. He wanted Chaynek, now more than ever. And he would have him. But not like this.

"Later." He managed to force the word through tight lips, holding himself rigid so he wouldn't run to Chaynek.

Chaynek's eyes opened slightly wider, and he gave a short nod. The keen invitation softened. His field meshed with Frevven's in trautholo, affirming his solid commitment to the offered transfer, whenever Frevven wanted it.

Feeling this firm assurance, some of the tension went out of the channel's body. It was all right. He could wait. He could wait forever, if necessary, as long as Chaynek kept this up.

Kurt pushed his way through the crowd, going to kneel alongside Lem. He held a small bottle under Lem's nose, forcing him to inhale the fumes. Immediately, the ambient steadied around the two Gens, Lem's irrational fear beginning to weaken and dissolve as he inhaled the antidote to the fear drug.

"You've seen with your own eyes that Simes do not have to be killers," Chaynek said loudly to the crowd, one arm confidently resting on Frevven's shoulder. Frevven fought to play his part, knees locked against the trembling that threatened to overtake him. They mustn't see how close to the edge he'd come, mustn't realize he'd almost killed Richt.

"Janni didn't kill her father, despite the extreme provocation," Chanynek continued as he gestured with one hand at the Sime girl, still hunched over on the sand, face hidden against her knees. "She lives, and has not harmed anyone in order to do so. You have seen a channel refuse to kill twice. What more do you want? What will convince you?"

The mob was wavering now. Frevven could zlin shame and uncertainty mixed with the hostility. He thought he recognized some of the members of Lem's congregation, who had come out of the Center and were now arguing earnestly with small knots of people. The monolith of fear and hatred was broken. It would take only a few small wedges to drive it apart entirely.

Richt lay cowering on the sand, sobbing and praying hysterically. Farika Snow, still swathed in her Watchkeeper's robe and hood, knelt next to him and tried to put her arms around him. He drew back with a shriek, then, recognizing her, clutched at her desperately.

Lem rose shakily to his feet, Kurt supporting him with one arm around his waist. He looked at the channel. Frevven could almost read the question in his quavering field: "What can I do?"

He took a tentative step in the direction of Frevven and Chaynek. On an impulse, Frevven shook his head a fraction, allowing his eyes to turn toward Janni's huddled figure.

Lem took the hint. He walked stiffly over to his daughter. Janni lifted a tear-stained face to her father, wonderment mixing with shame. Lem reached out one hand. Hesitantly, she took it in one of her own, twining her tentacles shyly around the Gen's fingers as a smile spread over her face. He pulled her to her feet.

In the flickering light cast by the torches, father and daughter embraced in love and relief. The mob stared, dumbfounded.

Frevven called together the last shreds of his tattered self-control. He took a step towards Richt and then stopped. With a gesture that included both the Watchkeepers and the crowd, he said in a voice that shook only a little, " You are the killers. You have murdered your own children, when it was not necessary! Does not your own Holy Book forbid you to practice child sacrifice?"

The monolith split and broke apart into fragments. Not all of them could accept that judgement without accepting guilt for the deaths of their children. Frevven almost pitied some of those parents, for guilt was something he understood only too well. But now was not the time for pity. Now he had to break up this crowd, defuse its menace before that guilt could be transformed into self-justifying hatred once again.

"Let us all pray for guidance and forgiveness," Frevven suggested loudly, looking to Lem, hoping the Gen would be able to take the cue.

Janni cowered against her father's chest, confused by the muddled mess of the ambient. Lem held her close. Clasping his hands behind her back, he raised his eyes to the dark sky and intoned confidently, "Oh God of compassion, look at us with compassion. For we have fallen short of Your compassion."

Frevven recognized with a shock the beginning of the litany of supplication.

"Forgive us, we pray. For we have sinned."

Only a few uncertain voices made the response, but Lem went on regardless.

"Oh God of love, look at us with love. For we have fallen short of Your love."

More voices joined in the reply this time. Mrs. Rodrick, leaning heavily on Flora's shoulder, tottered over to Lem. Standing next to him, she and the girl led the response with firm conviction.

Frevven stood frozen as the words of the crowd washed around him. He could not pray; he could not respond. Drained of all feeling, there was nothing in his heart but emptiness. They were strangers, praying to a God that was not his and never could be.

But at least Lem's God didn't demand the slaughter of helpless children. That was an improvement.

"Oh God of peace, look at us with peace. For we have fallen short of Your peace."

Chaynek had an arm around the channel's waist now, leading him through the crowd and towards the Center. Anieva stood at the heavy gate in the stone wall, holding it slightly open and watching them tensely. Kurt had gotten Janni away from Lem. They were threading their way towards the gate also.

The ambient showed signs of calming. Some people knelt, others stood weeping. Richt still lay in a crumpled heap on the sand, muttering incomprehensively to himself as he clung to Farika. Here and there, a robed Watchkeeper skulked away into the darkness.

It had been ordinary people like this who had perverted Frevven's childhood, setting up the situation where he would kill Jozanna. It was their fault, all their fault.

No, not entirely. He had never had to believe them, had never had to listen. But what choice had there been? Who could have told him there were other ways?

His foot hit the step cut in the rock of the wall, but Frevven hesitated at the edge of safety. He looked back to the stilled crowd, zlinning the sincere regret many of them felt as they recited the penitential responses.

Their ancestors had been slaughtered by Simes down through countless generations. How long would it take them to unlearn that ingrown distrust and fear?

"Oh God of forgiveness, look at us with forgiveness. For we have fallen short of Your forgiveness." Lem's voice floated distantly to Frevven's ears.

"Forgive us, we pray. For we have sinned."

They were the same words Frevven knew from his childhood and hated, but tonight the prayers carried a different meaning. Yes, it was possible that the words might remain the same, and yet the meanings change. And when the meanings changed, the actions driven by those meanings would change also.

Let it be, he prayed silently, Oh, let it be!

As he looked up at the stars, only dim blurs of light to his myopic eyes, Frevven wondered who he was praying to. And why people always seemed to look up to address their gods.

Then Chaynek urged him through the gate to safety, the Donor's relief blossoming brightly through his field.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"It's all right, Chaynek. I can wait until the scheduled time for our transfer."

Frevven paced rapidly around the transfer suite, pausing to glance out the window and down to the now-deserted beach. "Shen, did you zlin that ambient? We've whipped them. No one will ever listen to Richt again. It was marvelous!" He stopped short, suddenly aware he was talking to a Gen. "No, of course you didn't zlin the ambient. What am I saying?"

"Frevven, I could see their faces," Chaynek said calmly. "I don't have to zlin them to know how they feel. Now stop ranting and lie down on the couch."

"Chaynek, I can wait. It's only a few more hours. I've broken enough rules already. There's no reason for me to get into even more trouble." He resumed his restless pacing, stopping by the counter to rearrange the already neatly placed jars of medications. "I did it. Shen and shid, Chaynek, I did it. They listened to me. They believed me. Out-Territory Gens, and they listened to me. Who'd have thought it?"

"Frevven­-"

"I'm all right," the channel insisted, opposing the concern he zlinned from his Donor. "I can wait. In fact, the way I feel right now, I could wait forever, if I had to." He turned his back and strode over to the window once again. At the end of the pier, the wreck of the Morning Star still smoldered. "We'll have to do something about the boat. Get a replacement. Maybe build a new one. We'll have to take care of that right away. There's so much to do­-"

Frevven had only a split second of warning before Chaynek wrenched himself free of the trautholo he had been holding. The channel had barely time to spin around and open his mouth to protest when the bright promise of the Gen's field dimmed and withdrew, leaving him alone, deserted, aching with need. Need? No, it was more like attrition.

Shenshid, am I this far gone, and didn't even know it? was his last rational thought before his instincts took over.

Chaynek was life, the only life Frevven wanted. He was already standing over the Gen, handling tentacles twined brutally around Chaynek's arms and his laterals reaching for the marvelous selyn source, fully prepared to take what he needed, if Chaynek wouldn't give it to him willingly.

Chaynek dropped his mock indifference, catching the channel up once more into peace and reassurance, and certain promise of fulfillment.

Much to his dismay, Frevven realized he had Chaynek pinned down on the transfer couch, practically lying on top of him, only a handbreadth short of lip contact. Such behavior would not impress the Donor with his self-control at all.

Shaking his head slightly, he pulled back. But he couldn't make himself release Chaynek's arms, couldn't force his laterals to withdraw.

Chaynek just smiled. "A channel's got to know his limits," he said, but there was no real criticism in his voice. "You've been pushing it, my friend. Now, stop trying to impress me and things will go much better."

Frevven stared into Chaynek's brown eyes, so close that he could barely focus his own eyes on them. Other times. Other places. Chaynek had always judged, and always found him wanting. Had he really thought he could impress this Gen? Frevven might have laughed, but he wasn't sure he could get the sound past the tightness in his throat.

"You're right," he admitted. But you haven't always been right. Not always. I told you I could be a good channel, and you tried to discourage me. I told you I could be just as good and just as reliable as any non-junct channel, and you didn't believe me. I knew Richt was the cause of the missing children on Innsfrey, and everybody told me I was paranoid. But I was right this time, Chaynek. And, as God is my witness, I was right the other times too! I'm good, Chaynek. Damn good. Even if I am only a Second.

Frevven leaned to touch his lips to Chaynek's, calmly and with the certain assurance that he was in full control. There would be no problems with this transfer. He could feel it.

He drew smoothly and steadily, knowing there was no chance he could hurt Chaynek. The Gen was a First. Even a full week early, he still had more selyn than Frevven would want. In all likelihood, the channel could have attacked him in full killmode and not done any harm.

Sweet warmth burned through his body, waking his starved system to life and hope. Dissonances smoothed and balanced. The empty, cramped universe that was Frevven's primary system shattered into billions of pieces and flowed away in a river of sparkles, shimmering and blazing like a galaxy of stars. Relief and peace at last, and a fading of the constant gnawing hunger it seemed he had never been without in all his life. For the second month in a row, he didn't have to hold back, stop himself short of full satisfaction for fear of hurting­- No, say it, Frevven, don't be afraid, he told himself sternly­-for fear of killing someone.

No chance of that with Chaynek. He allowed himself to draw faster, feeling the selyn flowing up from his laterals and then outward from the vriamic node in the center of his chest. Ah, lovely! If it could only last forever, never giving way to that sickening plunge into need each month. Or if he could only have a Donor like Chaynek for every transfer.

Even in the midst of ecstasy, a cold chill of fear pierced Frevven's mind. It wouldn't be like this next month, or the month after that. Or possibly ever again.

Spurred on by that thought, and Chaynek's obvious willingness, he drew faster and faster, greedily striving for the full satisfaction he had felt so very few times in his life. He had almost enough selyn, really he did, but he thought he might be able to cram in just a bit more if he tried.

Without the slightest warning, the bottom dropped out from under him. Insanely, Frevven recalled something he'd done as a child, climbing a flight of steps in the darkness, thinking there was one more to go, stepping up­-and coming down through empty air with a shock of surprise.

A strange, unfamiliar sensation ripped through him. Everything sharpened, just as his vision would sharpen whenever he put on his glasses. And suddenly, where he had thought himself almost full, almost replete with selyn, there was still a great aching abyss. Something unfolded, unwound, released­-and demanded more.

Confused, he simply continued to draw, letting selyn flow into these deeper levels he had never even known existed. He felt Chaynek falter momentarily, seeming puzzled. Then the Gen picked it up and went with him again. But there was a hesitation now, a sense of anxiety.

What was going on?

Frevven realized his lips had curled into a maniac grin, still pressed hard against Chaynek's. Whatever it was, it was nice. He hoped it would never stop.

He was just beginning to consider the sheer amount of selyn he had drawn, wondering vaguely where it was going, when alarm bells began going off in his mind.

The physical pleasure was too much like killbliss, too close to the peak sensation he had felt only twice before in his life, when he had truly killed a Gen in transfer.

He was hurting Chaynek.

No, impossible. How in the world could he hurt Chaynek? Ridiculous.

And yet he was, he could feel it. Chaynek couldn't keep up with his draw anymore. His field was dimming, darkening dangerously.

Nonsense. Chaynek could shen him, if he was in trouble. He'd done it once, hadn't he, when they'd first met? He could do it again. Maybe he was just teasing, putting up a show of resistance to spur Frevven on. He couldn't be in real difficulty. Not Chaynek.

I won't shen you this time, Frevven. I swear it, unto Zeor.

Chaynek had said that, trying to lure him away from Richt. Frevven realized sickly that the Gen would keep that promise, although he died for it. And Chaynek was a week early for transfer.

Sure. For transfer with a First Order channel. Not for me.

It just didn't make sense. And Frevven didn't want to stop, wasn't even sure he could. Chaynek's now-frantic attempts to supply more selyn faster only made it more fun. The Gen's suppressed but definite pain goaded Frevven on. He was wrenching selyn across Chaynek's resistance now, feeling the Donor fighting the reflex that would raise his barriers and send Frevven into slamming shen. Chaynek couldn't keep this up much longer.

I should stop. I must stop. But the destruction of the Gen's usual confidence pleased him. I have you. You can't stop me, he exulted.

The pleasure grew and spread, overwhelming him with its intensity. He had thought he'd never feel it again, never in his life.

Jozanna. Jozanna had felt like this, trying to help him, trying­-and dying under his hands.

NO!!

All the control he had fought so hard to gain during that long-ago time of training fell into place. He struggled to stop before it was too late, although his body cried out against him, to stop no matter what the cost, stop short of paradise if it must be obtained through another's hell.

And it worked. But there was no use telling himself he didn't still want to kill. That was a lie. Wearily, Frevven recognized the still-hungry and forever-insatiable monster in his soul as nevertheless an integral part of himself. And accepted what he was and chose to deal with it, rather than deny it. And, at last and finally, stopped hating himself quite so much for it.

Frevven flung himself out of the transfer by sheer willpower, steeling his nerves against the expected pain of the abort backlash. It wasn't so bad; he could override it. He wanted desperately to know if Chaynek was all right. He forced the ringing from his ears and the blackness from his vision.

Chaynek sprawled unconscious on the transfer couch. Frevven reached for him hesitantly, hoping it was not just his imagination that sensed life in the Gen's limp body. So soon after transfer, he found it nearly impossible to zlin.

"Chaynek, don't die. Please don't die," Frevven pleaded hysterically. "You've got to be okay. You've got to."

So involved had he become in willing the Gen to live that he hardly realized he had seized Chaynek by the shoulders and was actually shaking him insistently, as if attempting to wake him up.

The distraught channel was entirely unprepared when Chaynek's eyes fluttered open. "Truly, Frevven, I have absolutely no intention of dying," he said weakly. "That is, unless you intend to keep shaking me like this. I have one hell of a headache already, and I doubt I can stand this sort of treatment much longer."

Frevven stared, torn between laughter and tears. "Then I didn't kill you, did I?"

"Apparently not," Chaynek replied calmly. "Did you really think you would?"

"Yes­-er­-no­-that is­-I don't know," Frevven stammered in confusion. He still had hold of the Gen's shoulders, and he was somehow reluctant to let him go. "What happened?"

"You mean you don't know?" Then he groaned and put a shaky hand to his aching forehead. "Will you get me some fosebine, please?"

Unwillingly, Frevven released Chaynek and went to the counter, twisting the top off a bottle of the foul-tasting painkiller and preparing to pour some into a glass.

"Congratulations," Chaynek said softly from behind him. "You Qualified First Order on that transfer, unless my senses deceived me."

Frevven dropped the bottle of fosebine abruptly onto the counter top, staring for a second as some of the white liquid ran out and dribbled down onto the floor. Then he snatched up the fallen bottle, poured a dose into the glass, and handed it roughly to Chaynek. "Don't kid about something like that, Chaynek. Please."

He was about to turn away when the Gen caught his hand. "I'm not kidding. I meant it. Couldn't you feel it?"

Was it possible? That inexplicable bottom-dropping-out sensation? Yes, that made sense. It had been a little like that when he had Qualified Second Order six years ago, if he remembered correctly. Besides, how had he been able to even come close to draining Chaynek, if he weren't a First? Such a thing should have been impossible for him.

He sat down on the transfer couch next to Chaynek, who was sipping distastefully at the fosebine. "I really did it?"

Chaynek nodded.

"But everyone said it would be impossible. I'd never make First."

Chaynek shrugged mutely.

" You always told me it was impossible."

"So I was wrong," Chaynek said, just the slightest twinkle of mischief in his dark eyes.

Frevven almost laughed. Chaynek admitting he was wrong. If only he could zlin the Gen now. Somehow he thought he might relish that sensation for the rest of his life.

And then, faintly, he was zlinning Chaynek's dim nager. It wasn't entirely clear and it took an effort, but he shouldn't have been able to do it at all. The Gen was profoundly ashamed and regretful, even though it didn't show on his face. But there was something else there also, something Frevven didn't quite understand.

Frevven stopped immediately. He had no right trespassing on the other man's feelings that way.

But Chaynek had noticed. His face changed. "Frevven, I mean it. Maybe­-maybe I've been wrong about you."

Chaynek apologizing to him? Would wonders never cease?

"But tell me this," the Donor continued. "Without me to push you, would you have gotten so far?"

That put a new face on the matter. How many times indeed had he tried just a little harder, gone a step farther than he thought he could, simply to prove to Chaynek that he could do it?

Frevven was still too astonished to take in the full import of that idea. "I really did it then? I Qualified First Order?"

The Gen sat up stiffly, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch so that he sat next to the channel.

It was beginning to sink into Frevven's brain that this was for real. It had actually happened.

Chaynek touched his shoulder softly, and Frevven looked into the Gen's brown eyes. Slowly, he smiled.

"Listen," Chaynek said. "This is the Oath of Firsts. I want you to repeat it after me." In a faraway voice, the Gen began, "`A First has opened me to my own First level . . .'"

Dazed, Frevven repeated the words he'd never in a million years expected to say.

" . . . the price of freedom is obligation; the price of attainment is struggle . . "

" . . . I stand not alone . . . "

" . . . I will not kill . . . "

"As one First has been to me, all Firsts will be to me. This is the foundation of my being, from which I reach out to all humankind," he said at the end, his voice breaking. He was surprised to find tears running down his cheeks. When he started crying for sheer joy, Chaynek held him in his arms and cried with him.

The channel sent to replace Frevven arrived on the Cormorant the following morning, along with official orders for Frevven to report to the Center in Easthaven.

"Phooey!" he exclaimed, too exultant over yesterday's events to be seriously upset. " Now they replace me, after all the excitement is over?"

He went in search of Chaynek, finding him in his room. "Can't you do something about this?" Frevven demanded of the Gen. "Rescind your previous recommendation, or something?"

"I could, but I won't." Chaynek shrugged as he went on packing clothes into his suitcase. "Besides, the problem isn't exactly solved, you know. The Town Council still has a request in that the Innsfrey Center be closed. That hasn't changed."

"Right. All the more reason I should stay here, try to work things out­-"

"You just don't want to face the music, that's all. You know there will be disciplinary measures as a result of what happened between you and V'lissia. And there's going to be an official investigation into everything that went on with Richt and the Salvation Church."

Frevven waved a hand in dismissal of all that. "That's not important. What's important is­-"

Chaynek stopped what he was doing. "Truly, Frevven, what's important is that you don't belong out-Territory. And you should know it by now."

Frevven hung his head. "All right. Maybe I don't belong here. But I have a responsibility to the folks on Innsfrey. I can do a lot of good in a place like this."

"You can do a lot of good in-Territory also. Maybe even more than you can here." Chaynek picked up a pair of trousers and folded them into a neat bundle. Then he looked up at the channel as if a thought had just struck him.

"How would you like to be assigned to the Santenkaty Center for Special Problems? I might be able to manage that, since I'm on the committee in charge of staffing. You would be with V'lissia when the baby is born." Chaynek smiled at the astonished expression on Frevven's face. "Think about it, why don't you? But just now, I suggest you pack your bags. We have passage aboard the Cormorant when she leaves this afternoon."

Against his will, Frevven took the Gen's advice. But he was still filled with misgivings as he formally turned over authority to the new channel and bid farewell to his small staff. Still less than happy with the entire situation, he left the Center along with Chaynek, Janni, and the Escort who had been sent from the mainland to accompany her.

Janni lingered, falling behind Frevven and Chaynek as they walked down the street. The channel knew she felt homesick already. Combined with the discomfort of wearing retainers for the first time, her misery was sad to zlin.

"Poor kid," Chaynek remarked, softly enough so that only Frevven could hear. "She's going to face a hard disjunction, unless I miss my guess. I'm willing to bet she'll be sent to the Santenkaty Center. We have a special ward just for that sort of thing. It's still under construction, but it's already operating on a limited basis."

"Chaynek, cut it out, will you? Most of the staff at that Center will be Zeor people. I don't belong with them."

"Oh? Why not?" the Gen asked innocently.

"I'm not good enough for Zeor, Chaynek. I never will be."

"There's no such thing as being good enough for Zeor. Don't you know that? Sure, Zeor is committed to excellence, but that doesn't mean we've gotten there yet."

"Stop preaching, Chaynek. I know what the Zeor channels are like. I'm nowhere near that good."

"The direction you're travelling is more important than where you happen to be on the road," the Donor persisted. "It's striving for perfection that counts, not reaching it. Trying to better your own previous mark, not someone else's."

"But the Farrises­-"

"The Farrises have their own demons to fight. Different from yours, perhaps, but just as real."

Frevven shook his head in exasperation. "Save your breath, Chaynek. I'll never be invited to pledge Zeor, no matter what you say."

"Don't be so sure, Frevven. Don't be so sure." Then Chaynek turned very serious. "But we were discussing Santenkaty Landing, not Zeor."

"All right, I admit I'd love to work there. But after all the trouble I caused here, I doubt the district controller will offer me such a responsible assignment. I'll be lucky to be sent to some big city Center as fifth assistant to the channel in charge of paperwork," he grumped.

"I don't know. You dealt with Richt pretty well."

"Yeah. Real well. He burned the Morning Star. The town petition to close our Center still stands, as you pointed out earlier. I did just great."

"Lem and Janni are alive," Chaynek countered. "Richt's Church is discredited. The Watchkeepers won't be murdering children anymore."

"Fine. Without a Center, they'll be murdered by their parents instead. Big improvement."

"You're going to have to leave that up to the Tecton now. If the two of us make a personal report on what happened here, there's an outside chance we could convince Controller Shagoury that the worst of the trouble is over and the Center should remain open. But if the local citizens truly don't want a Center, there isn't much we can do to­­"

As they turned the corner leading from the main street to the town pier, Frevven and Chaynek halted dead in their tracks.

"Speaking of the local citizens," Frevven said tensely. "I wonder what's going on up ahead? Looks like quite a crowd on the pier."

"Uh-oh. More trouble?"

Frevven shook his head, zlinning. "I don't think so. The ambient shows no hostility." In fact, it showed a strange mix of shame and jubilation.

They waited for Janni to catch up, then the little party from the Center drew together and started cautiously along the pier. The two tall masts of the Cormorant poked up into the brilliant afternoon sky, but most of the schooner was concealed from view by a crowd of Gens milling around in front of the gangway.

The crowd parted as they drew near, but no one said anything. Janni shuddered, not yet accustomed to coping with such a dense ambient. Frevven held himself duoconscious, alert for any sign of trouble.

Nothing happened until they were almost up to the gangway. Six Gens stepped forward to stand in their path, blocking the way to the schooner. Frevven recognized the Town Manager, Haskell Snow, among them. He thought he knew one of the women also, a member of the Town Council. Was this perhaps the entire Town Council, then?

Haskell Snow stepped forward. Reluctant resentment leaked into the ambient as he spoke. "Mr. Aylmeer, the Town Council has voted to rescind our previous demand that your Center be closed." It was very clear to Frevven that Snow disagreed with this decision. Judging by the coldly closed nagers of two of the Council members, the vote must have been very close indeed.

Close or not, the Center would remain. Frevven let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He was about to try to thank the Council, when Mr. Snow continued stiffly, "The town will also provide a replacement for your Morning Star." He wasn't happy about that either, but he said it.

This was more than Frevven had expected in his wildest dreams. "I don't know how to thank you­-" he began, addressing the entire gathering rather than just the members of the Council. This couldn't be happening. Richt. Where was Richt, to let this go on? There was no trace of his nager anywhere.

Lem Cabrell shouldered his way through the crowd, smiling broadly. He stopped in front of his daughter, his hands reaching out as if he wanted to hug her, but he wasn't at all sure if that was the proper thing to do. Janni touched his fingers, moving gingerly so as not to hurt herself with the retainers she wore.

"Good-bye, Daddy," she said.

"Until next time, darling. Not good-bye. I'll write, and come visit whenever I can."

Frevven knew that sort of thing seldom worked out, but he said nothing. Maybe this one time, an out-Territory relative might honor his promise to keep in touch.

"I love you, Daddy." Janni held her head high despite the tears running down her cheeks. Her face was no longer that of a little girl. "I'll come back to Innsfrey to see you someday," she said as she released her father's hands. "I promise."

That was even less likely, but Frevven held his tongue.

Lem turned towards the channel, taking a large envelope from his coat pocket. "Would you take this in-Territory for me and see that it's delivered to the proper people? It's a request that the Church of the Unity send us a real minister for our church."

Frevven stared. "What church?" The Watchkeepers had pretty well wrecked the storefront chapel. Wasn't Lem aware of that yet?

Lem grinned. "A majority of Reverend Richt's congregation voted to turn their building over to us. The Salvation Church no longer exists on Innsfrey Island. Thanks to you."

Huh?

Chaynek asked the question before Frevven could. "But what about Darnay­-I mean, Reverend Richt?"

"Last anyone seen of him was last night, on the beach. He seems to have plumb disappeared." Lem grinned, then added softly, "And so has Farika Snow, and one of the Snow family's racing sloops. Funny thing about that."

Haskell Snow looked off into the distance as if he were seeing something very interesting out there. His nager drew together and jittered.

Lem cleared his throat and raised his voice again. "Most of us here would like to express our gratitude for all you've done on Innsfrey." He shifted nervously from one foot to the other. "I'm not much for making speeches, but we think you've done a good job and we're sorry you're leaving. Some of us­-" he waved his hand out over the assembled crowd. Frevven recognized John Veara and his son, Garvin, both smiling hopefully. Mrs. Rodrick, leaning on her cane, as always. Next to her, Flora grinned, no longer afraid to show her teeth. He noticed with surprise that she had established. Her nager had firmed up into an adult configuration, and it fairly bubbled with joy and new selyn production. With training, she might make a technical class Donor, Frevven thought. He'd have to talk to her about that.

No. Someone else would have to do that. He was leaving. Well, no matter. The seed had been planted. Whether it blossomed or not was no longer his responsibility.

Lem turned to gaze at his own daughter, standing proudly next to her Escort. "Well, some of us have a lot to thank you for. We got together and made you something, just to kind of show our appreciation, as they say."

Lem gestured to John Veara and the man handed him a small box. He opened it and carefully lifted out a miniature model of the Morning Star, complete with sails, rigging, and beautifully wrought fittings and tiny details. He held the exquisite little boat out to Frevven.

The channel stared in dumb amazement at the group of Gens, most of whom wore tentative smiles on their faces and hesitant affection in their nagers. Then his eyes came to rest on the model and he took it carefully from Lem.

Holding the little boat in front of him and squinting in an effort to see it clearly, Frevven said, "It's lovely. Thank you."

Someone started to applaud and soon the whole crowd was clapping and cheering. Frevven blushed and readjusted his glasses. As if all this commotion weren't enough, the Cormorant's whistle blew, reminding everyone it was time to board.

"Thank you," Lem replied. "For Janni's life. And mine. May the day soon come when all Simes and Gens can live together in peace."

And Frevven answered, "Amen."

 

Proceed to chapter eleven