Channel's Destiny s-5 Read online

  Channel's Destiny

  ( Sime-Gen - 5 )

  Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  Jean Lorrah

  The human race has mutated into Gens, who produce life force, and Simes, who must consume that life force in order to live. To keep from being killed, Gens murder Simes on sight.

  Into that world is born Zeth Farris, the son of Rimon Farris, Sime, and Kadi Farris, Gen, who discovered in FIRST CHANNEL how to share life force. This is Zeth's coming of age story.

  Jacqueline Lichtenberg and Jean Lorrah

  Sime~Gen #5

  CHANNEL'S DESTINY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  To the economy, but for which this book would have been somewhat longer, and might have covered the actual founding of the House of Zeor.

  Also to all the Sime~Gen fans who have read and commented on this book in manuscript and kept up the dialogue on the series background in the three Sime~Gen fanzines. (For information on the fanzines, send a self-addressed stamped envelope to AMBROV ZEOR, Box 290, Monsey, NY 10952.)

  Thanks to Anne Golar for helpful medical research, and to Katie Filipowicz for many thankless tasks in putting this book together.

  And to all our readers—if you would like to comment on this book or the Sime~Gen series, you may write to us in care of the publisher, or through the AMBROV ZEOR address, above.

  Jean Lorrah, Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  Murray, Kentucky Spring Valley, New York

  Chapter 1

  "No matter what happens," said Zeth Farris, trembling with an emotion he could not name, "when I grow up, I'm never going to kill."

  "You can't say that for sure," challenged Jana Lodge Erick, tossing her braids back over her shoulders.

  Her older brother Owen said, "Zeth's going to be a channel, like his father. And channels don't have to kill."

  The three children were walking along behind their dogs, herding sheep into a sheltered pasture. Zeth, the youngest of the three, had to stretch to keep up. As he caught them, he saw a stern glare pass from Jana to Owen, the same kind of glare grownups used to swerve conversations away from topics not for children.

  "No matter what your father says, there's no way to know if you'll be Sime or Gen," said Jana.

  "It doesn't matter," replied Zeth, with the belligerence Jana always seemed to wake in him. "Even if I'm only a Sime, not a channel, I still won't kill. It's too hard to stop once you start."

  "That's why I want to be a channel," said Owen. "To heal people. I want to be a healer."

  Zeth had heard this argument many times, and knew there was nothing Jana could say to deter Owen. But Jana snorted at her brother's ambition. "I'd rather be Gen. A Sime is either a channel or he isn't. But a Gen can learn—''

  "Hey, listen!" Zeth interrupted. "Is that the bell?"

  "Can't be," said Owen. "Can't hear it from here!"

  But the wind was carrying faint echoes. "Let's go see," said Jana. Instructing the dogs to mind the sheep, the children scrambled back along the trail toward the stockade of Old

  Fort Freedom. As they emerged onto a rise of ground overlooking the neat community, the pealing of the bell became clearer and clearer—until the alarm pattern sounded danger across the landscape.

  As far as the children could see, the land was part of the township of Fort Freedom. The original religious community still stood on one side of the creek, but on the other was a growing secular community, loosely incorporated with them and sharing their ideals.

  •In the far distance, the hilly land on which Owen and Jana's father raised the finest horses in the Territory sloped down to join the New Farris Homestead. There, at his own home, Zeth spotted a column of black smoke. "It's a fire!" he shouted. "Come on!"

  The three children ran pell-mell down the trail and across the newly sprouted fields just in time to catch the last riders from the Old Fort. Dan Whelan, the blacksmith, slowed his horse to catch Zeth up in front of him. "Hang on!"

  "I'm all right," Zeth panted. "What's going on?"

  "Raid. You kids get out of the way. I'll drop you, and you run on up to Mr. Brick's."

  "But Dad and Mama—" started Zeth.

  "They'll want you safe!"

  Zeth was safe enough for the moment, Mr. Whelan holding one arm about the boy's waist, the other hand on the reins, handling tentacles out to steady them. His laterals lay quietly sheathed amid the rippling musculature of the smith's forearms. After one glance at those calm laterals, Zeth let his fear well up. His child's nager could not irritate Mr. Whelan.

  "Dan!" called one of the other men. "Are they Freehand Raiders?" Such outlaw bands descended like locusts, stealing, looting, killing Gens, murdering Simes—but Fort Freedom had not seen a band of them in years.

  Zeth had one clear memory of a group of Gens—his mother, Hank and Anni Steers, some others—advancing on the astonished Raiders, sending the scarecrow forms scurrying to their horses. Had he seen it, or been told about it? He recalled the nightmare image of a tattered, skeletal Raider grasping his mother, trying to kill her the way Simes used to kill Gens, by draining her life energy.

  But Kadi Farris could not be killed. Her red hair was a halo of flame, her body surrounded by a glowing nimbus that drew

  her attacker helplessly, hands and tentacles grasping her smooth, untentacled arms, lips pressed to hers—

  And then a blinding flash, deafening thunder, and the Sime attacker lay dead at his mother's feet.

  Zeth could not have seen it like that. He was a child; he couldn't zlin fields. He wasn't sure he had seen it at all, or if it was his father's vivid account engraved on his mind. The raid when he was four was the last Fort Freedom had seen of Freehand Raiders, because they'd developed a superstitious fear of Gens who could kill.

  As they drew near, Zeth saw one of the barns burning. Mr. Whelan and the riders who had picked up Owen and Jana swerved off toward the hills, where Del Brick's land lay.

  "You kids get on up to your father's place—Zeth, you stay with them till someone comes for you," Mr. Whelan instructed. "Head around to the east!" he called to the other riders. "Shen! Who'd have thought they'd attack Farris?"

  "I'm going home!" Zeth said to the older children.

  "But Mr. Whelan said—" Owen began.

  "Zeth," interrupted Jana, "you come on home with us now."

  "I don't have to listen to you! That's my house down there! Your pa's down there," added Zeth. "You know he would've gone to help."

  "That's right!" Jana said. "We'll all go!"

  The children scuttled down the hillside, through a stand of evergreens, to the edge of the fields. The attackers were not Freehand Raiders, but in-Territory Simes, fanners, sheep ranchers, tradespeople—a posse, not militia.

  Nor did Zeth see any badge of authority. Vigilantes, then– but why attack the Farris Homestead? All they'd ever done was good!

  Zeth couldn't see his father or mother. They'd be in the house, according to the attack plan. That plan had come out of the raid when Zeth was four, when Liz Carson, a Gen Companion, died not in the kill, but from a Raider's dagger. The loss of a companion was grave indeed, but the precarious balance of their lifestyle could be overturned by the loss of a channel. They had only three: three precious lives between Fort Freedom and the kill.

  A cordon of Simes protected the main house. The channels would be inside, and all Fort Freedom's Gens. No—not all. Zeth saw Hank Steers gallop up, steady as any Sime, bursting

  through the line of attackers as their horses reared and plunged. Zeth wished he could zlin. Mr. Steers must have
hit the attacking Simes with a nageric shock. Steers, meanwhile, rode straight to the house, stood up on his saddle, and vaulted onto the porch roof. A window opened, and eager hands pulled him inside.

  The torches thrown at the house could not catch in the slate roof or stone walls. People from the Old Fort and the town outnumbered the attackers, so the gang left their assault on the main house, throwing their torches at outbuildings. The three children crouched behind a wagon—until one of the attackers threw his torch onto the wooden bed. When Zeth thought the man had turned away, he jumped up to snatch the burning brand.

  The man must have zlinned him, for he wheeled his horse and lunged at Zeth. Zeth tried to parry with the torch, but a ten-year-old boy was no match for a Sime. Zeth was caught up and held dangling as his captor shouted, "Shendi! Kora– hey, look what I caught!"

  A woman clutching one whip in her tentacles and another in her fingers came to see. Her face was twisted with fear and hatred as she said, "Slaughter the brat! He'll grow up into one o' them perverts. Gut him, Trev!"

  Zeth squirmed and kicked, but was firmly held as the man pulled his knife—not a Raider's dagger, but a farmer's sharp utility blade. Helplessly, he watched his death approach—

  "No!" Owen and Jana appeared from under the wagon, Jana grabbing the horse's reins, Owen lunging for the man's knife hand. Owen's weight dragged the man off his horse and Zeth was flung aside, the breath knocked out of him.

  For a moment he blacked out. When his vision cleared he saw the woman holding the squirming, kicking Jana before her on her horse. On the ground, the man hit Owen, knocking the boy down. Zeth scrabbled to his knees. His midsection hurt violently, every tiny breath torture.

  "Shen!" screamed the Sime woman, and flung Jana away, nursing a hand that bled where Jana had bitten her. Jana jumped at the man beating her brother, but was thrown back against the wagon. She gave a sharp yelp of pain, and her face went white as she fell, her arm bent at an impossible angle. She tried to rise, gasped, "My arm!" and wilted, unconscious.

  A child's pain might not have the penetrating effect of an

  adult's, but Zeth knew pain pervaded the whole atmosphere, impinging from all sides on the two Simes. Like a harpy, the woman screamed, "Their arms! Cut off their arms, Trev! They'll die in changeover!"

  Jana was unconscious, Owen helpless before the man now wielding his knife, licking his lips, eyes flaming with unholy zeal as the woman goaded him on. Zeth tried to force his rubbery legs to work, trapped in a nightmare in which his body would not obey his will.

  When the Sime bent to slash at Owen, the boy tried to roll away, and the blade glanced off his shoulder, sending more pain into the atmosphere. The Sime grasped Owen's left wrist with his left hand and tentacles, and with augmented strength brought the knife slashing viciously through Owen's upper arm. Zeth clearly heard the crack of bone as, too late, he heaved himself at the man's legs.

  He was kicked away, stunned, and then the attacker was looming over him, bloody knife in hand, reaching for his arm.

  Behind the man the thunder of hoofbeats rose. A shower of mud cascaded over Zeth. White hair flying, Abel Veritt loomed astride his horse, wielding his whip with the skill of a Freehand Raider. The whip wrapped around the waist of Zeth's attacker, and he was caught up and flung toward another rider.

  It was Del Erick, Owen and Jana's father. There was a crunch louder than the hoofbeats as Erick broke the man's neck and dropped him, not even looking back as he leaped from his horse and ran to where his children lay.

  Veritt was there already, kneeling beside Owen. "Jana's arm is broken," he said. "It's not serious. But Owen—"

  "Dear God!" Erick whispered—and Zeth knew it was hopeless, for Mr. Erick, like his father, would not pray unless there were nothing else a man could do.

  Mr. Veritt, though, was saying, "Here—stop the bleeding. Somebody get Rimon!",

  Relieved of having to try to move, Zeth watched Del Erick wrap handling tentacles to stop the bright blood spurting with every beat of Owen's heart.

  Veritt took off his jacket and put it carefully over Jana. Then he turned to Zeth. "Are you all right, son?"

  "I'm not hurt," Zeth lied.

  "Just knocked breathless, eh?" Veritt's eyes unfocused as he zlinned the boy. Then he nodded. "You'll be all right."

  "But Owen—Jana—" Tears choked Zeth's words. "Mr. Veritt, they said to cut off our arms so we'd die in changeover!"

  Pure pain enveloped the old man's face. "They don't understand, Zeth. Killing is so much their way of life that it frightens them that some people have learned to live without it." He sighed. "Fear is our real enemy, not the people whom it possesses."

  "But—what will happen to Owen?"

  "I don't know, Zeth. It is in God's hands.','

  "Will he die in changeover?" Zeth insisted. "That man cut his arm off. I saw. I couldn't st-stop him!" Zeth fought down a dizzy nausea.

  Veritt hugged him close, letting him cry, saying, "You tried. All God asks of us is to try our best, Zeth."

  "But Owen's gonna die!"

  Perhaps. Perhaps not. Pray for him, Zeth. That's all we can do—pray and await God's will."

  But Rimon Farris did more than that when he arrived on the scene, his wife at his side. Veritt had gone back to kneel beside Del Erick and Owen, while Zeth sat watching.

  Farris began directing the people with him. "Take Jana to the house—brace that arm. It's a clean fracture, lord can set it. If she wakes up, give her fosebine. Zeth, have Uel or Jord check you over. What were you kids doing here?"

  "I only meant to help," said Zeth.

  "Never mind," Farris replied. He was already kneeling beside Owen. "Shen and shid!" he swore as he zlinned the boy, then looked into Del Brick's anguished eyes. "Del, he's alive. You kept him from bleeding to death, but—"

  Grimly, Erick said, "If you save his life, he'll die in changeover."

  Abel Veritt gently urged Del to release his grip on his son, remaining with one arm about Brick's shoulders as Zeth's father took over. The support Veritt gave was more than physical—often Zeth sensed something the older man gave to those who were troubled, whether Sime, Gen, or child.

  Zeth's mother took her place beside his father. When Mr. Veritt spoke of angels, Zeth envisioned his mother as she was now, her flaming hair a halo, her hands steady on his father's shoulders as both concentrated on healing.

  Blood spurted again from Owen's wound, but Farris quickly clasped the boy's arm with his own tentacles, holding and

  slowly releasing, in a kind of trance, until finally he let go, and the bleeding did not start again.

  When he sat back on his heels and opened his eyes, Del Erick asked, "Will he live?"

  "I don't know," Farris replied. "I'm almost certain I could save a Gen with that wound—or a Sime if it were not an arm injury. But it's so hard to influence a child's fields, Del."

  "Try, Rimon!"

  Zeth's father said, "Del, I'll do all I can for Owen, but I can't save his arm. If he lives, it could be for only a few weeks or months. If he goes into changeover—"

  "Then he's got to be Gen!" said Erick.

  "Del," Abel Veritt said, "we will all pray for that, but with both parents Sime—"

  "He has to be Gen," Erick insisted. "Rimon, save him!"

  Zeth's father gripped Erick's shoulder, years of intense friendship in the gesture. Then his mother said, "It's damp and chilly out here. Let's get Owen into the house."

  By this time, Zeth could walk. He hung back, feeling terrible guilt. It was his fault Owen was hurt—he had taunted him into coming to the New Homestead, and then Owen had gotten into the fight to save Zeth. I'm the one they meant to hurt.

  But he couldn't say it to anyone—his father and mother had to concentrate on healing Owen, and the other three people Zeth could confide in were Owen, Del Erick, and Abel Veritt. He arrived home deeply troubled. Patches came running to

  him, whimpering. Zeth saw that someone had wrapped abandage around
the dog's ribs. "What happened to Patches?"

  he cried.,

  "He's all right." It was Ann Steers, the Gen who was Hank Steers's wife. "Patches and Biggie helped drive off the attackers. Patches got some whip cuts, but poor Biggie has a broken leg."

  Zeth's dog and Hank's were littermates, and Hank had helped Zeth train Patches. Now Biggie hobbled after Ann, one leg splinted. Anni bore bruises on her face and arms, but she was carefully controlled.

  Upstairs, Uel Whelan and Hank Steers, who always worked with the youngest channel, were just coming out of Zeth's

  room. Uel said to Del Erick, "I've just checked on Jana. It's not serious, Del. She'll heal as good as new."

  "Thanks, Uel," said Del. "I'll stop in to see her."

  "She'll sleep till morning. You can see her then." He paused to zlin Owen as he was carried into the big bedroom Zeth's parents shared, "Rimon, can I help? Spell you?"

  "Maybe later," Farris replied. "I'm in need. That may give me the sensitivity to heal Owen. How's everyone here?"

  "Fine. No one was hurt as badly as the kids, except . . . they killed Ten Layton."

  "I must comfort her parents," Abel Veritt said at once. But he paused, looking around. "Where is Jord?" Veritt's son was the third channel in Fort Freedom, although he wasn't as capable as either Uel Whelan or Rimon Farris. Zeth didn't understand Jord's problems, but knew they had increased after his wife died. He couldn't seem to find another Companion.

  "Jord took the Laytons home," said Hank Steers. "Let him pray with them. It will help him, too—and you should rest, Abel."

  Something unspoken hung in the air between the old Sime and the young Gen. Zeth knew there were things he could not comprehend because he was still a child. Today, however, he glanced at Uel Whelan and saw a peculiar mixture of compassion and revulsion on the young channel's face. He knew it was difficult for a channel to give up transfer from his Companion, even for one month. Hank gave transfer to Mr. Veritt every few months; Zeth had heard his father say it was good that Hank and Uel didn't have so strong a dependency. Still, there was something more in Uel's expression he could not fathom. If only I could zlin!