First Channel

"The most hopeful sign," said Rimon, "is that he reacts to us as individuals. But I'm afraid his first priority on getting out of here will be to go home. Mine would be."

"His wife was killed by the raiders that captured him. He doesn't know what happened to his twelve-year-old son– but he thinks he's probably on this side of the border. His only hope of finding him is staying here."

Rimon took a deep breath. "Jord—I don't know if you'll want to tell Steers this, but I do know the Trade. The boy's probably dead, especially if he was established, or did so since capture. I don't think it's fair to get Henry's hopes up—even if his son is alive, it would be a tremendous job to trace a single pre-Gen, even if I still had access to my father's information network. If he was still a child, the raiders would have sold him cheap, because nine out of ten Wild Gen children are dead within the month. Especially in winter."

Jord reached for Willa's hand. "I'll have to tell Henry. We can't give him false hopes. Still—we don't know his son is dead."

"He'd be better off, Jord," Rimon said softly.

"No," said Willa. "If he is alive, someday someone will take him from the Pens, the way you took me. When Simes don't kill anymore, they'll have to let all the Gens out. Then Henry and his son will find each other and be happy."

It was the longest speech Rimon had ever heard from Willa. Jord said, "I wish you spoke English, Willa. Henry would believe you—but he can't understand you."

"Then we must teach him to talk like us," said Willa.

That plan, however, was delayed by a new problem– the very outgrowth of Reloc fever both Slina and Rimon had feared all winter: pneumonia. As spring approached, the sparse snows melted and an early warm spell encouraged tender shoots of new grass while the daffodils poked up a month early in the yards of Fort Freedom. Inevitably, freezing rain and hail soon destroyed the premature signs of life. Another warm spell turned the rutted roads to slushy mud, but Rimon and Kadi managed to get through on horseback to Fort Freedom, where they were told that Abel, Jord, and Willa were at Slina's fighting a new illness.

Rimon left Kadi and Zeth at Fort Freedom and rode quickly back into town. Even light cases of Reloc fever were debilitating. Gens might recover completely, but for about six months after they were susceptible to anything that came along—and the recent thaw-and-freeze pattern was exactly what Rimon's father always called "pneumonia weather."

Slina's infirmary was full, and she had set up cots in several holding rooms. When Rimon came in, Risko was carrying out one blanket-wrapped form. "Third one today," he grunted.

Slina, busy with the fosebine, didn't look up when Rimon entered, but told him, "I'm out of healthy Gens. Everyone close enough to need to pick up his month's choice has been in the last two days. Everyone else will get sick ones—and the way they're dying, I may be out before I can get an emergency shipment."

"Out? Completely out?"

"Well, whaddya want me to do?" she snapped. Then, pushing back a lock of hair with one tentacle, she said, "Shen, Rimon, they're go

"The Gens will raid us," Rimon said heavily.

"Organized Gens!" spat Slina. "With their bloody shen guns, killing right and left!"

"We've got to save enough Gens to get along until you get some more," said Rimon. "I'm here to help."

"Go spell Jord Veritt—he's about ready to drop. I never used to like the boy—the old man's a good sort, but Jord was a real lorsh. You done something to him, Rimon, or maybe Willa did—he's been going day and night for a week. Shidoni—who'd think I'd be beholden to them Fort Freedom characters?"

Rimon found Jord and Abel, both haggard and bleary-eyed, in one of the larger rooms. Willa, pale and exhausted, had fallen asleep in a chair. She was high-field, however, a support to Jord even though she was not consciously doing anything.

High-field? Rimon zli

"Can't sleep now," Jord murmured.

"You can with Willa, Give yourself two hours." He took over support of the Gen Jord had been concentrating on, alert to the others, apparently the most critical cases.

Abel said, "Go ahead, Jord. Rest. Thank God Rimon is here now."

"How about you, Abel?" asked Rimon.

"I'm fine; I haven't been doing anything but physical work. It's healing mode that's so exhausting."

Rimon smiled. "Then I'd be glad if you stayed. When you're meditating—praying—your nager is almost as soothing as a Gen's."

The moment he could take his concentration off the worst patient, Rimon zli

"Isolated indeed!" replied Abel, his nager flaring more fury than Rimon had ever seen in the gentle old man. "Do you know what she was doing to him?"

Rimon sighed. "I knew, but I didn't know you did, and I was hoping he'd never find out."

"You knew?"

"Abel—I tried to talk her out of it. It's dangerous to try to breed the Wild males. But he was strong, and healthy after he got over the fever. She was just trying to recoup her losses."

"Rimon—I'm glad Jord isn't here right now. I find it hard to recognize you, and I've seen more of the world than my son has. I think I could understand if it were simply that Slina tried to use Henry—for breeding. It's how she used him I He would have refused, but still, she didn't ask, or tell him what she was doing—and don't say it's because she doesn't speak English, because we'd have translated for her."

"Would you have?" asked Rimon.

"If I couldn't have persuaded her to give up the attempt. He had a right to know—but she drugged him! You remember his telling of memory lapses? God forgive me, I had no idea there were such drugs—but you did, Rimon. How could you have hidden it from us?"

"What would you have done if I'd told you?"

Shaking his head, Veritt ran all his tentacles through his hair, looking very much like Rimon's father. But then he sheathed his tentacles self-consciously and met Rimon's gaze.

"If we'd known, we'd have gone to Mr. Erick. He's been very generous, but no one can give outright the huge price Slina has set. Yet I think Mr. Erick would have lent us the money—if you'd only spoken out! You concealed the truth, and because of that, Mr. Steers has lost his will to live."

"Oh, now, wait a minute, Abel! If you found out and told him, and that made him give up, don't blame me. I know you believe in telling the truth, but this time I can't see he's any better off knowing!"

"I didn't tell him," Abel protested. "He told us. The last time Slina drugged him—he remembered. Whatever she gave him—it turned him into an animal, unable to control his own desires; but that time he knew what he did, even though he couldn't stop himself. Afterward, he didn't want to talk to Jord or me. And in a few days he came down with pneumonia, and now all he'll say is that he'd rather die than be used as an animal, by Slina or by us."

"Abel, I'm sorry!" said Rimon. "I didn't think Slina'd ever get the dose right! It's tricky—"

"Oh, God help us, Rimon—how could you know that a human being was being used like that and keep silent?"

Abel's tone said clearly that Rimon, the first nonkilling Sime, had no right to be less than perfect. It was the same tone his father had often used to him.

"Abel," he said, suddenly angry, "this whole Pen uses human beings against their will, drugs them, buys and sells them for the kill. I don't see much difference between Mr. Steers and the nameless creatures grown in Pens. They're all people."