Channel's Destiny

'Now there were open exclamations. Bron nodded. "You have heard of this boy, Zeth Farris, from Mrs. Carson. We have wondered at the stories she and Owen Lodge have told us and, if they are true, what we are being asked to do.

"Last night Zeth came for help against killer Simes attacking his home. No adult of Fort Freedom dared—but the faith of a child led him here, to beg aid of strangers."

"Why should we help Simes fight Simes?" shouted a portly man in the back row, whose nager was a sullen umber. "Let 'em kill each other, and good riddance!"

"As you would have killed last night, as we have killed our own children for generations!" Bron replied. "You all heard the alarm last night. Those of you on schedule came with your guns. The rest . . . you looked into your children's rooms, did you not? And before you went back to sleep, you thanked God it was not your child . . . this time."

At the whisper of assent, Bron continued. "When Zeth told me about the Raiders, I went to pray. God forgive me—He had sent the sign we sought, and I would not see it. I went off to pray without recognizing that the child who had come to beg our help . . . was in changeover!"

Starts of fear ran through the crowd, followed by puzzlement as Zeth stood quietly on the porch. Owen edged nearer as the questions rose, "How could he be?" "Look at him– that's no Sime!" "But I saw him in the stable last night." "But look—he's just a little boy!"

When the crowd had settled, Mr. Bron said "Zeth? Show them?"

Zeth stepped forward, Owen at his side. "There's nothing to be scared of," he said. "Owen's Gen, like you, but he knew what to do for me. I'm Sime—but I'll never kill."

With his right hand, he once again unbuttoned his left cuff and rolled the sleeve up to expose his sheathed tentacles. Owen, standing to his left, took Zeth's hand, lifted it—and at last Zeth allowed his handling tentacles their way, sliding over Sime and Gen flesh, binding their hands for all to see.

There were gasps from the crowd, and instinctive movements of guns. At once Maddok Bron stepped in front of Zeth. "There is nothing to fear. Rather rejoice in God's sign to us. Think of your own children, brothers, sisters. Will you chance their becoming demonic killer Simes? Or would you have them like this boy—lucid, controlled . . . harmless?" He moved to Zeth's right side and added, "I

Firmly, Bron held out his hand to Zeth. Sensing that the man knew, as Abel Veritt always did, the gestures that would convince people only partially swayed by words, he took his hand, letting his tentacles wrap about it. There was a collective sigh from the watching crowd.

Then Lon Carson raised his gun over his head, shouting, "For your brothers, your sisters, your children—ride with us to save Fort Freedom!"

With a shout of assent, people scattered to their homes. Zeth was left standing between the two Gens, retracting his tentacles. Mr. Bron -examined his hand, front and back. "They're not—"

"No, they're not slimy!" Owen supplied with a laugh. "I don't think I've convinced Uncle Glian of that. Oh!" he added. "I've got to ride to Uncle Glian's ranch! He'll bring his men to help."

"I've got to get across the border," said Zeth. "I'll be safe enough. You go for your uncle, and I'll ride with Mr. Bron."

"You're not going anywhere but back to bed!" Owen said firmly. "Zeth, you're a brand-new Sime and a cha

"And so will you, Owen," said Sessly Bron from just inside the door. "You had no rest last night, either. Maddok, send riders to the ranches. And you boys come inside and have breakfast. I'll heat some water so you can have a bath, and then—"

There was no use protesting that both Zeth and Owen were grown men by Fort Freedom's standards. Besides, as his tension relaxed, Zeth found his mind refusing to obey his will, fixing with utter fascination on trivial things such as the rippling pattern through the walls of a house as men rode by behind it. "Well, maybe you're right," he conceded, glad to have Owen beside him to shield him from the chaotic nager.

Still, he fidgeted nervously as they watched the men of Mountain Chapel ride out to defend Fort Freedom. Would there be anything there to defend? Was he the last cha

Owen put his hand over Zeth's restless tentacles and said, "We'll ride home tomorrow."

Chapter 7

The sun was low when Zeth and Owen topped the hill that gave them their first view of home. The air was very cold. A pall of smoke hung over the valley. Only large landmarks could be distinguished. The Old Fort stood amid columns of black smoke. Where the town had been, there was nothing– even the wooden bridge across the creek was gone, along with Slina's pens.

They had found the Old Homestead deserted but unharmed. Mrs. Veritt and the children must have gone home. That was the only hopeful sign. Well beyond the Fort Zeth could see other columns of dense smoke, and concluded that his own home was also a casualty.

He urged Star forward, insisting to himself, if the children are home. Fort Freedom drove the Raiders off. Immediately, though, he wondered: At what price?

Zeth reached forward, his laterals extending themselves to zlin, and was bombarded with excruciating pain, anguish, fear, grief.

It was not until Owen stopped both their horses and reached out to shake Zeth that he was able to stop zli

Forcing calm, Zeth said, "Down there. It's awful!"

Owen looked from Zeth to the scene below, and back again. "You can't zlin that far!"

"Are you going to tell me what I can and can't zlin?" Zeth snapped, rubbing his hands over his aching lateral sheaths.

"No, of course not," said Owen. "Here–stop that! You want to injure yourself?"

"I'm all right," Zeth said. "Come on—let's get home."

"What did you zlin?" Owen asked as they started down.

"Pain. Probably a lot of people hurt. I'm scared, Owen."

The path to the Fort led through heaps of dead bodies. Zeth saw Simes going through piles of corpses, separating the dead from the living. Scarecrow forms of Freehand Raiders were flung limply on the blood-churned stubble. Among the piles of enemy dead were other bodies, Simes and Gens, some he knew and some he recognized as out-Territory Gens: they had died defending people they had always considered enemies.

And I'm responsible, Zeth thought, as he turned his eyes from an upturned face bearing the hideous rictus of fear that marked death by the kill. But the Fort stood. One wall was partly burned and partly smashed in; several houses had been burned; but the chapel stood unharmed, and the people he saw were not Freehand Raiders. I'm responsible for that, too, he consoled himself. The bullet-ridden Raider corpses made it plain that the out-Territory Gens had saved the day.

Zeth and Owen headed toward a large group of active people—and naturally, they found Rimon Farris and Abel Veritt at its center. There was a whip slash across Abel's forehead, blood congealed in his white hair. He limped heavily, but he was the same unstoppable Abel.

Rimon, though, was almost unrecognizable. His clothing was in ashy tatters, his hair singed, his eyebrows gone. From his thighs to his boots, his trousers had been burned away, his legs a mass of burns and blisters. He was too busy healing others to think of himself. Rimon looked up with a start. "Who's—? Zeth!"

Until the past few minutes, Zeth had never before zli