Mahogany Trinrose E-Book

Jacqueline Lichtenberg

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Sime~Gen
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 436

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The ancient and dangerous secret of the Sime~Gen Mutation threatens to topple the ruling dynasty of the House of Zeor. How much torment can one teen girl take before the fate of the world doesn't matter to her anymore? How much psychic power can one young woman handle? What options can she create when she has no options left? And--can love truly conquer all?

As the great SF writer Andre Norton said of this book: "Imaginative and outstanding. It captures the reader and won't let go."

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

MAHOGANY TRINROSE, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

THE SIME~GEN SERIES

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHRONOLOGY OF THE SIME~GEN UNIVERSE

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MAHOGANY TRINROSE,by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

THE SIME~GEN SERIES

House of Zeor, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg (#1)

Unto Zeor, Forever, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg (#2)

First Channel, by Jean Lorrah and Jacqueline Lichtenberg (#3)

Mahogany Trinrose, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg (#4)

Channel’s Destiny, by Jean Lorrah and Jacqueline Lichtenberg (#5)

RenSime, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg (#6)

Ambrov Keon, by Jean Lorrah (#7)

Zelerod’s Doom, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg and Jean Lorrah (#8)

Personal Recognizance, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg (#9)

The Story Untold and Other Stories, by Jean Lorrah (#10)

To Kiss or to Kill, by Jean Lorrah (#11)

The Farris Channel, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg (#12)

Other Jacqueline Lichtenberg Books from Wildside:

City of a Million Legends

Molt Brother

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 1981 by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

Copyright © 2011 by Sime~Gen, Inc.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

DEDICATION

To my daughters, Naomi and Deborah,

Because they will soon be teenagers themselves,

To Jean Lorrah,Because she invented the Tigue mutation,

And to the Ambrov ZeorandCompanion in Zeorstaffs,

Because they supply the series

with so much enthusiasm.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

2011

We have to thank Ronnie Bob Whitaker for scanning and OCR’ing all the Sime~Gen novels so that we’ve been able to supply e-text for the Borgo Press editions. Karen MacLeod who combed the scanned text files for typos. And the fans who have kept on writing Sime~Gen novels and stories which are now available on the Web via http://www.simegen.com/sgfandom/

Many of the same people who were with us “then” are with us now on blogs, facebook, and twitter.

1982

In this book, you will meet Joeslee Teel Tigue, a character who has arisen through the interaction of two Sime~Gen fans.

Jan McCrossen Mike, who served a stint as editor of Ambrov Zeor, is a student of the Ancients’ gypsy tribes. She helped flesh out the culture of the Sime~Gen gypsies even though they are not descended from the Romany tribes but are simply wanderers or nomads with their own culture and customs.

Jean Lorrah, a professor of English at Murray State University in Kentucky, who earned fame as a Star Trek fan writer and is now a professional science fiction writer, added the Tigue mutation to the Sime~Gen universe. Tigue women are channels; Tigue men are talented Donors.

It seemed to me perfectly natural that Joeslee Teel would turn out to be a Tigue channel, and so she is also partly inspired by Jean Lorrah.

Others whose aid I must acknowledge include Marion Zimmer Bradley for her terse commentary, Christine Bunt, Pat Gribben, Judy Segal, Lisa Waters, Katie Filipowicz, who is now editor of Zeor Forum: Transfer for Ancients, and Karen MacLeod editor of Companion in Zeor, all of whom read and criticized the manuscript. Anne Pinzow, managing editor of Ambrov Zeor, also provided much inspiration and the impetus to get this book finished.

Most of the contents of the Sime~Gen fanzines can be found for free reading via the top index page:

http://www.simegen.com/sgfandom/

CHRONOLOGY OFTHE SIME~GEN UNIVERSE

The Sime~Gen Universe was originated by Jacqueline Lichtenberg who was then joined by a large number of Star Trek fans. Soon, Jean Lorrah, already a professional writer, began writing fanzine stories for one of the Sime~Gen ’zines. But Jean produced a novel about the moment when the first channel discovered he didn’t have to kill to live which Jacqueline sold to Doubleday.

The chronology of stories in this fictional universe expanded to cover thousands of years of human history, and fans have been filling in the gaps between professionally published novels. The full official chronology is posted at

http://www.simegen.com/CHRONO1.html

Here is the chronology of the novels by Jacqueline Lichtenberg and Jean Lorrah by the Unity Calendar date in which they are set.

-533—First Channel, by Jean Lorrah & Jacqueline Lichtenberg

-518—Channel’s Destiny, by Jean Lorrah & Jacqueline Lichtenberg

-468—The Farris Channel, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

-20—Ambrov Keon, by Jean Lorrah

-15—House of Zeor, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

0—Zelerod’s Doom, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg & Jean Lorrah

+1—To Kiss or to Kill, by Jean Lorrah

+1—The Story Untold and Other Sime~Gen Stories, by Jean Lorrah

+132—Unto Zeor, Forever, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

+152—Mahogany Trinrose, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

+224—“Operation High Time,” by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

+232—RenSime, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

+245—Personal Recognizance, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

Sime~Gen:

where a mutation makes the evolutionarydivision into male and femalepale by comparison.

Prologue

Below them the town rioted.

Digen Farris sat behind the chopper pilot where he could see the instruments as well as get a full view through the windshield. Dark clouds formed a low ceiling over the sprawling valley town surging with angry humanity. In the town square, three bright columns of flame leaped skyward. He couldn’t escape even by closing his eyes.

His Sime senses painted the lurid picture for him. Not for the first time, he cursed his innate sensitivity. The dying happening below reached up to claw at his nerves. From the rioters rose a miasma of anger, terror, and killust which sang through every cell of his body, touching off responses he had to choke back.

He inched closer to Im’ran, who observed quietly beside him. The Gen’s nager, the field surrounding his body, was a welcome shield.

“Wellway Central to overhead choppers. Respond.” The radio crackled with the static of the storm that had drenched the desert hills for the last three days.

Digen’s pilot activated his microphone. “This is Rialite Rescue Service with four choppers over Wellway Town responding to your emergency call. We request further information.”

The three rescue choppers flew a tight formation around them, visible as bright green and white forms through the mist and rain. Digen could barely make out the Central operator’s words over the noise.

“…afraid you’re too late. An hour ago, they broke into the jail and took the prisoners.”

Digen leaned forward and snagged the copilot’s microphone. “This is the Rialite Controller. May I speak to your Mayor?” He knew now what those pillars of flame meant. The eighteen gypsies, Simes and Gens mixed, had been held in protective custody when the Mayor had called the nearest Sime Territory authority—namely, Rialite and Digen—but it had taken them three and a half hours to get here.

Several minutes later, the radio spoke. “This is Mayor Treldies of Wellway Township, Gartin Territory.”

“Digen Farris, here, Mr. Mayor. Is there any way to reason with that mob?”

“If there was, I’d have done it by now. We did our best to protect your Simes, Mr. Controller, but they’re all gypsies.”

“What did they do?” asked Digen. Normally he wouldn’t consider gypsy Simes as under his jurisdiction. However, when a band of mixed Sime and Gen gypsies traveled out into Gen Territory, the resident Gens held the Sime government responsible and here, that meant Digen.

“Townsfolk figure they’re causing the rain,” the Mayor responded. “They’re planning to burn them at the stake to stop the rain before it washes the whole town away.”

“The charge, then, is—witchcraft?” It was a statute on the books in some Gen Territories.

“What else would you call it?”

“Have they been legally convicted?”

“Hell—no! That’s a lynch mob out there. If you can get your people out, you’re welcome to them. You can take them to Carlston, where they can get a fair trial.”

But, Digen realized, he wasn’t going to get any further help from the Gen authorities. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor. We’ll do our best.”

Digen thought fast. “Number Two!” he called on his command frequency. “Drop down over the square, moving fast. Find out if they have guns. Number One and Number Three, unlimber your ladders and stand by to deploy on target. Fil,” he ended to his own pilot, “we’ll circle the edges of the crowd using our downdraft to scatter them.”

When the Number Two unit was not shot at, Digen ordered it to follow the others into the center of the square and drop ladders to the prisoner gypsies awaiting execution. The ones on the pyres were already dead.

The maneuver was working, a Sime dangling on the end of each chopper’s ladder to cut the gypsies free, attach harnesses, and lift them out, when a multi-branched flash of lightning lit up the hillside above the town. It was only then that Digen caught sight of the wall of water rolling down upon them all.

He grabbed for his exterior microphone and jumped the gain up to maximum. His voice boomed out over the whole valley. “Your dam has broken. Repeat. Your dam has broken. You have approximately ten minutes to reach high ground. Our choppers will assist those stranded. We are calling for outside assistance.”

He flipped to his command channel. “Two, keep broadcasting that warning. Three, get those Simes out of here! Number One, as soon as you’ve secured your gear, get some height and try to punch a signal through to Baker. I’m going to Emergency Channel Three to try to reach any in-Territory help I can. There are over twenty thousand people down there.”

By the time he turned his attention once more to the mob below, it had dissolved into hundreds of individuals streaming for the elevated sides of the valley. At the farther edges, heavily loaded farm vehicles worked their way to high ground. He was glad he’d brought the large choppers with full equipment. Each could take on twenty or thirty passengers if they had to.

For the next few minutes, he was busy directing the rescue efforts. He only had time to notice the swarm of cars leaving the Wellway Central building, the Mayor and company abandoning the town. And then he saw the train, heading for Rialite.

It came speeding out of the pass toward the trestle over the river. Clearly, the wall of water which had swept through the center of the town would hit the trestle even while the train was on it.

He pulled his choppers away from the now empty town, broadcasting to all below that two more rescue teams were on the way, and sped downstream. He landed all the choppers on solid ground above the flood waters, and as the rain began sheeting down once more, he directed his crews to use the gypsy Simes who were uninjured to help locate and rescue any survivors.

He hadn’t had time to watch the water sweep away the trestle. Already corpses were floating by their position. His Number Two and Three choppers rose, rescuers dangling beneath, hauling panic stricken forms out of the dark waters onto rescue platforms.

Off on the far side of the raging river, Digen sensed a peculiarly resigned Gen nager. It was impossible to see that far through the torrential rain. But by zlinning with Sime senses, he could discern that one lone Gen had been overlooked.

Turning to the knot of gypsies huddled beside him on the bank, he picked two healthy Simes and said, “You—and you—come on!” He led the way back to his own chopper, where Im’ran was down in the passenger compartment unlimbering first aid supplies.

He climbed into the pilot’s seat, directing the two Simes to man the rescue platform that had been rigged under his chopper, then he lifted straight up and over the other working teams. Im’ran poked his head through the back hatch. “What—Digen!”

Over his shoulder, Digen yelled, “Stray Gen! Man the ladder!” And then they were in position. The wind was picking up, driving the rain sideways until it was a solid sheet covering his windshield. By Sime senses alone, he held the chopper steady over the victim, who was riding a swift current that would soon dash him into some rocks at the edge of the torrent.

And then the Gen was on the rescue platform, clinging to the Sime who was securing a harness around him, not shocked but bemused. Digen lifted and set down again on his well chosen spot of high ground, cutting his motors. Whew! I’m glad I can still do that!

When he got to the compartment where the nearly drowned Gen was being given first aid by Im’ran while the two gypsies hovered warily at the far end, he had to stop.

The entire compartment was lit up to his Sime senses by this new Gen’s field. It had a clear, disciplined quality and a power never seen in an out-Territory Gen. No wonder I spotted him way over there!

He went over to the cot on which the Gen was lying, breathing deeply now with only an occasional cough. Im’ran was saying impatiently, “Well, aren’t you even going to thank your rescuers over there…or don’t you talk to gypsy Simes?” The gypsy rescuers shrank into the corner.

“Im’!” said Digen sharply. “This man is at least your equal as a Donor!” He turned to the Gen. “I’m Sectuib Digen Farris, Rialite Controller—and I presume you are the new Donor they’ve been promising to send me all winter. No, don’t try to talk yet. You’re not hurt, but you could go into shock, so I want you to stay in that bed under those blankets and keep warm.”

“No argument, Sectuib,” said the Gen. “I am grateful.” He eyed the gypsies. “Would you please tell them so for me?”

Digen shrugged. Obviously, the two gypsies wanted no part of this Gen. He went to the two who had helped him. “You did that like professionals. We all thank you.”

Eyeing the Gen, one of them said, “Can we go now?”

“You’re going to have to ride back to Rialite with us….”

The second objected. “No! We can’t—I mean, can’t we ride with the rest of our people?” But his eyes were also on the strange Gen, who was now steadfastly ignoring them.

Digen couldn’t make out what was spooking them, but he conceded and went to end off the rescue operation and get the injured to proper medical facilities at Rialite, where they were also struggling with the flood tonight. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter One

The moment she laid eyes on the man, the future changed.

As long as she could remember, she had accepted that she would die in changeover. But now, with every step closer he came, first the hope and then the irrational conviction came over her—I’m going to live.

She knelt in the rich loam of her garden, her trinroses all around her, and watched the two men approaching. The Sime was her father, Digen Farris, Sectuib in Zeor, Controller of Rialite. He was tall, rangy, looking older than he really was. With him was a Gen, not as tall but oddly just as imposing a figure, with brilliant blue eyes and shocking white hair, though he could hardly be much over twenty.

As he came nearer, the searing intensity of her conviction faded, and in its wake came a shuddering fear, just as irrational, that she would—because of this man—be able to grow a mahogany-colored trinrose that would do exactly what the legends said it would. For the future had changed.

Using every scrap of her Zeor discipline, Ercy shoved the hope and the fear way down inside where no Sime, not even her father, could detect it. Then she got to her feet, suddenly conscious of her dirty coveralls and unkempt hair. The men stopped by the neat row of smooth river stones that edged her plot, and Digen said, “Ercy, I present Halimer Grant, Donor First, our newest staff member.”

Ercy smiled at the Gen, her mouth dry and her mind without a word in it.

“Halimer Grant, this is Aild Ercy Farris, my daughter, and Sectuib Apparent in Zeor.”

For a moment, the Gen seemed confused, noting her smooth forearms without even the trace of tentacles. She was a child, not an adult Sime, not a channel like her father; certainly it was premature to name her ready to take her father’s place as head of the prestigious and sprawling company known the world over as Householding Zeor.

Ercy felt an almost irresistible urge to squirm under the Gen’s gaze, but her father’s flashing eyes told her clearly that a future Sectuib does not squirm. Then in his maddeningly clinical way, her father said to Grant, “Ercy turns sixteen next week, but there’s still no sign of changeover. Nevertheless, we’re preparing carefully. Her birth characteristics indicated she’ll be the most sensitive channel in the family since my brother Wyner Liu died.”

Slowly—he seemed to do everything slowly, even his blink was slow—Halimer Grant smiled. It was as if the smile started peeping at last out through his blue eyes and warming her through and through, evaporating her nervousness.

Grant proffered his hand, bowing. “I am honored indeed to be permitted within the presence of such an accomplished gardener.”

She let him take her fingers. He had the smoothest skin she had ever touched in her life. He let her remain locked in that silent communication until her father said, “I’ll be briefing Halimer on his duties for the rest of the morning. If you see Im’ran or Mora, send them up to the office.”

“Yes, Father,” Ercy responded automatically. As she watched the Gen make his way back down the flagstone path, she could not quite remember how she had lost touch with his fingers.

“Ercy!” snapped her father. “You haven’t been paying attention! I said, when you’ve had lunch, I want to see you in the clinic again.”

“Again? Oh, Father.…”

“From today on, until—this is over for you—I want to check you three times a day at least.”

All the infuriating clinical detachment he could don like a cloak dropped away, and she could see his love for her, his fear for her life. “All right, Father, whatever you say.”

Digen turned away. His long stride brought him up beside Grant before the Gen had started up the broad front steps of the Controller’s Residence. Together, they walked to Digen’s office.

“Hajene Farris,” said Grant, using Digen’s official Tecton title, “isn’t such a late changeover a dreadful pathology in a Farris?”

Digen nodded. “Ordinarily, one would expect a Farris channel to change over at around age ten, eleven at the latest. There’s absolutely no record of any Farris surviving changeover as late as sixteen years. But Ercy will. She has the same birth characteristics as my brother Wyner Liu. I’m now sure his problems stemmed from premature changeover and Ercy is a healthy specimen of Wyner’s substrain of the Farris mutation.”

“That’s an interesting theory—”

“Don’t get me started on it—we’ll never get any work done. We’ve been terribly short-handed. I’m expecting thirty new admissions to the College of Channels today—every one of them a special problem—and the Senior Class is graduating today.”

Inside the office, Digen began pulling files and ledgers from the shelves, outlining the new Donor’s responsibilities. Rialite’s main business was the training of newly matured Simes, freshly through changeover. These young Simes spent their first year in a state of adaptability which gave them a learning rate often up to ten times normal. During that first year, they were expected to absorb a normal six year college education.

Digen briefly reviewed the organizational structure of the Muir College of Channeling, and then outlined the medical histories of the new admissions. Rialite always got the tough ones.

The training of a channel was not to be entrusted to just anyone. The channels were the only Simes who could take selyn, the energy of life itself, directly from volunteer Gen donors without killing them and then channel it to Simes in need. Channels were the backbone of the Tecton, the organization that supervised the selyn delivery system, preventing Simes from killing Gens for selyn. And the Donors—the specially trained Gens like Halimer Grant—were the only ones who could serve a channel’s personal need for selyn and survive the experience.

As he ran through the routine indoctrination for a new staff Gen, Digen watched Grant closely, trying to form a judgment.

Something about Grant bothered him. It was, Digen decided, the Gen’s energy field, his nager, that puzzled him most. It had a kind of shimmering, organized clarity that couldn’t be natural. It had to have been schooled into the man from his day of establishment. But by what method, what school, what House?

Flipping the books closed and stacking them before Grant, Digen asked, “You connected with any of the Householdings?”

There was a pause as a whispery shadow flicked through that strange nager. If I couldn’t see him visually, thought Digen, I’d think he was a ghost.

“Not—not officially,” answered Grant. “But I’ve spent a lot of time around Householder types. I respect Zeor.”

“I didn’t mean that. Obviously, you’re not prejudiced. I was just wondering where you were trained.”

In genuine startlement, Grant said, “Does it matter?”

“No, of course not,” Digen reassured him hastily. “A Tecton Donor is a Tecton Donor. That’s what you obviously are. I suppose your papers will arrive eventually. I heard the World Controller’s office was eight months behind in their paperwork and I suppose it’s the same everywhere with these new regulations. And the way you arrived—” Digen shrugged helplessly.

“I’m sorry I lost all my things in the storm, but when that bridge went out, I was lucky to get away with my life.”

“It’s no problem. I’ll request duplicates tomorrow—when I get around to it. The important thing now is to get today’s admissions processed before we have tomorrow’s admissions standing around wondering what to do with themselves.”

Digen began stacking books onto Grant’s outstretched arms. “Here’s the campus map. You should be able to find your office. Take a couple of hours to get settled before the train arrives. I’ll meet you then on the platform.”

Grant nodded and left. Digen, seeing that he had a few minutes yet, raced through some of the work that had piled up since the previous afternoon. Then he glanced through yesterday’s newspaper. There was an item about the extradition of a convicted witch who had taken asylum in-Territory. If the Sime government forced her to go back, the Gens were planning to burn her alive—before witnesses. Disgustedly, Digen threw the paper aside and left his office.

* * * *

Ercy was waiting patiently for her father, putting the finishing touches on a problem set for her trigonometry class. She thought she was finally beginning to understand cosines, With a sense of triumph, she looked up as her father walked in carrying the thick chart that detailed her whole medical history, right down to the amount of selyn she’d drawn from her mother at birth.

Digen set up the testing scopes and instruments around his daughter, adjusting the darkfield backdrop against which he’d view her body fields as he played various influences over her.

Ercy watched her father painstakingly making notes, glancing at her from various angles, adjusting his instruments. She was so used to it after all these years that she could anticipate his moves.

After a time, her father said, “Fine, now just for the record I want to do a full lateral contact probe this afternoon.”

“The record!” she said glumly. “That’s all I am, a specimen, an experiment. When are you going to write me up for the Journal?”

He set his chart aside and took her hands. “It’s not like that, Baby. I have to be sure….”

“That’s just it, I’m not a baby!” said Ercy with a vehemence she had not intended. And suddenly there were tears in her eyes. “You know what your trouble is? You want me to grow up, but when I act grown up it scares you, and you want me to be your little baby again. You just don’t know what you want, that’s all!”

“Who told you that?”

“You see? You can’t credit me with any brains. Nobody told me. I saw it when you introduced that Gen—Grant.”

Digen, refusing to be baited, said, “What did you think of Halimer Grant?”

Suddenly thoughtful, she replied, “I don’t know. He’s—different. Is he going to stay long?”

“As long as I can hold on to him. Grant’s—very good.”

She received this in silence, and Digen took the opportunity to slide into lateral contact position. The internal examination took only a moment. He had merely to extend his four delicate, nerve rich lateral tentacles that were normally used only in transfer, make a solid contact with the skin of her forearms, and a fifth contact, lip to lip for maximum sensitivity to her internal fields, and withdraw.

She was accustomed to the channel’s examining technique, and didn’t flinch. But as he withdrew, she touched a finger to one of his lateral sheaths, where the ronaplin gland bulged slightly, and met his eyes. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t taken transfer yet. I guess I was a little nasty just then. I’m really sorry, Dad.”

And worried, too, thought Digen.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that!” she snapped. “I’m beginning to feel like a bomb everybody expects to explode!”

He caught her eyes with a steady gaze, trying to sound positive. “Ercy, you’re going to have a perfectly normal changeover. We’ve been over this a thousand times; know it and hold on to that knowledge. Hold on hard, because it can’t be much longer. Honest.”

“But there’s no sign! You’ve told me a hundred times, a channel always knows months—even a year or more beforehand—exactly when he’ll hit changeover. I’ve never felt that!”

“Well—Wyner didn’t know beforehand. Everybody always thought that was because he was so young, but….”

“Wyner! I’m so sick of hearing about Wyner.”

She was near to tears. No! I won’t cry like a baby! Her father shouldn’t have to deal with her hysteria when he was in need. She jumped down from the examining table and began putting her schoolwork away. “Dad? Remember I said I wanted to go away for my channel’s training? I’ve changed my mind. I want to stay home—I want to train here.” Silently, she added the brutal honest truth to herself, under Halimer Grant.

Taken aback for a moment at his daughter’s sudden capitulation to a long standing argument, Digen said, “Why?”

“I just realized today. It could be very nice.”

“You’re not scared of the outside world, are you?”

“No—I don’t think so, anyway. I mean, after all, if I can face changeover, what’s a little thing like a world? I’ll go anywhere the Tecton sends me, afterward, but I’d like to stay here for my training. Besides, this way, I won’t have to leave my garden.”

So that’s it, thought Digen. That garden! But at least she had given up the grim notion that she was going to die in changeover if she was already making plans for her garden afterward.

Ercy said, “You’d better hurry, Father, or you’ll be late for graduation.”

Chapter Two

Ercy heard the train whistle just as she was leaving her trigonometry class. She cut through a shaded glade and around the senior students housing, intent on being the first in line for the mail. She had some special fertilizer on order which she had to get into the ground the moment it arrived. With luck, it might make the new trinrose buds come out mahogany.

The three graduating classes, Channels, renSimes, and Gens, were drawn up in crisp rows on the train platform, neatly intermingled with one another to give the arriving students a concrete impression of the goals of their education. The brand new Tecton crest rings shone brightly on the hands of the channels and Donors who were going to work for the Tecton.

As she drew near, she heard her father addressing them, talking about how they’d all worked together to avert real disaster in last night’s flood here. He made the whole annoying mess into a kind of glowing symbol of their new lives, and she admired him for his art in this, knowing that his transfer had been delayed because of the flood, so he was still in need.

Need was the periodic nightmare of every adult Sime, especially channels. What could it possibly be like to live with it? Some people said it was like starving to death. Some people said it was more like suffocating or drowning. If Halimer Grant stays, I’m going to find out what need is like after all.

As the train coasted into the station, her father ended his speech and turned to Grant. From where she stood, Ercy couldn’t hear their words, but she knew from his gestures that he was explaining how they would get the arriving students sorted out. Suddenly, she felt acutely uncomfortable watching them—her father’s tentacles gesturing; Grant’s untentacled arms bare to the shoulder, smooth and deeply tanned. She turned to walk around the station house to the post window to wait for her mail.

Leaning against the wall, soaking in the late afternoon sun, she closed her eyes, wondering how it would feel to be grown up and able to zlin, to see by selyn refraction, not by light.

“Hi, Ercy!”

She came to with a start. “Oh, Im’ran!”

The slender, gaunt faced Gen coming toward her was as much her father as Digen was. He was married to her mother and served her father as a permanent Donor because of the locked transfer dependency, the orhuen, that they shared.

“Where’s Digen?” asked the Gen.

“Showing our new Co-Dean how to get a class of channels started. He just finished his speech.” Seeing how worried Im’ran looked, she added, “Dad doesn’t seem under much strain yet.”

“He shouldn’t be yet—but—” He broke off, his attention going to the scene on the platform. The ceremony broke up and Digen came toward them, Grant at his side.

Im’ran moved to take his place at her father’s shoulder, and Ercy knew that he was now bringing her father’s selyn fields into his own steady bodily rhythms, alleviating a great part of the strain of need for her father. But she wondered what it would be like to be able to zlin the fields meshing between them.

Pulling her thoughts together, she turned toward the window, where the mail clerk already had the mailbag open. They were exceptionally efficient today, she thought, probably because her father was nearby.

“Ercy,” said the clerk, “here’s your Gardener’s Tips copy for the month. That what you’re waiting for?”

She took the magazine. “Yes, thank you,” she said, concealing her disappointment.

She did all her chores, spent two hours on class work, showered, read her magazine, presided over supper in the absence of her parents, who were still sorting things out after the flood, and then she went to the lab to wait for her father’s last check of the day. She felt she could run all of Rialite by herself if she had to. After all, she was turning sixteen.

She was sitting on the examining table, swinging her legs and contemplating her accomplishments, when Halimer Grant came in.

“Ercy! What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for my father.”

Grant came all the way into the room, setting aside some papers he was carrying. “I have to find the supply room and put through these requisitions,” he said, “but I’m glad to see you.”

“This is my father’s personal lab,” she offered, wishing violently that there wasn’t such a lump in her chest where her heart should be. “The supply clerk works way at the other end of the building and around the corner.”

“Oh,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the papers. “They said the east corner of the building.”

“Right. This is the west corner.” And then before she could stop the words, she said, “That’s fairly typical of a lost Gen.” Before the words were out, her hand started to fly to her mouth to stop them, but she aborted the gesture, feeling impossibly childish.

Grant chuckled merrily. “It seems I got lost in that storm and haven’t found myself yet. Can you tell me something?”

She nodded, her larynx frozen.

“What were you doing with the trin bushes this morning? Those grafts interest me. Do you grow your own trin tea here? In this sandy soil?”

She shook her head, swallowing hard until she could speak. “I’ve worked the garden into a good loam, mostly using kitchen scraps and manure, but the climate is wrong for good tea—at least that’s what the Simes said about my efforts and I suspect they were being charitable.”

“Then why cultivate the bushes? Your garden is spectacular enough without them.”

“For the flowers I want—” She broke off. What if he laughs at me? She met his eyes again, and a brilliant white calm wakened within her body. The words came tumbling out. “My parents think I gave up long ago, and I let them think that because—well, because the daily fights about it just wore me out. I know how absurd it sounds to them—my trying to grow a mahogany trinrose.”

She looked at him defiantly, but oddly enough, he was regarding her without a trace of the usual ridicule. “Have you—have you succeeded yet?”

“No,” Ercy admitted. “But this spring, I’ve made up some new genetic charts and I’m going to start cross pollinating again. I’ve got a theory the real key is both chemical and—and—” I can’t tell him that!

“And?”

“Ah, well, it’s all very complicated, researching a legend, but Dad always says science is an inherently slow procedure.”

She thought she detected an air of relief in him, and wished forlornly that she could zlin his nager. On a sudden leap of intuition, she said, “You know something about the mahogany trinrose, don’t you?”

“Oh,” he answered in his slow manner, “no, I once had a friend who tried growing them.”

She wondered if he spoke slowly to give himself time to choose his words, or if he chose his words because he spoke slowly. “Did your friend ever succeed? Maybe we could compare notes? I keep a thorough scientific journal even though I’m just researching a superstition…”

“No—no, I don’t think that’s possible. I’ve lost touch with him. But what would you do with such a bush if you got one?”

“Take pictures. Publish an article. Try to get some pharmaceutical house to test it. Wouldn’t it be something if the legends turn out to be true?”

Slowly, as always, he said, “What—which legend?”

“That even a Sime addicted to the kill—a real junct Sime who’s killed for years—the kind you only read about in history books—can survive disjunction and never have to kill again, by using an extract made from the mahogany trinrose.”

“There might,” said Grant thoughtfully, “be some truth to that legend--but I wouldn’t—” He broke off as she met his eyes, hoping he wouldn’t scoff as all the others did. “Ercy—have you already chosen to specialize in disjunction?”

“Well—I hadn’t really thought about it, but I suppose so. With my father—it seems only natural.”

“Your father?”

“He’s only technically junct, you know. He could never actually kill any Gen because the scar on his lateral would kill him first. But every so often he does have to take junct style transfers from Im’ran. They both hate it. Dad wants to disjunct so bad he’s willing to risk his life. The only thing preventing him is that he has no heir until I change over. He’s Sectuib—he can’t risk his life unless Zeor is safe. But he wants to.”

“Why?”

Words failed at that strange question. “I’m only a child and even I can imagine what it must be like for him being legally barred from functioning as a channel! I’d expect any Donor to understand. Why, the only thing keeping him from dying of entran is his orhuen with Im’.”

“I have,” said Grant even more slowly than usual, “seen what happens to a Tecton channel who cannot work. Entran is such a sterile word for that—agony.” He seemed to pull himself away from a vision and focused on her. “Even though his transfer dependency on Im’ran controls the entran symptoms, he must suffer simply because he’s a talented healer barred from healing. But, Ercy—why is it up to you to disrupt the situation? And why in this particular fashion?”

“You remember how he became junct in the first place. It’s in all the history books—only half the time they quote the superstition that his junctedness happened simply from transfer with a Distect Gen. Really, it happened because that particular Gen, Distect or not, was his matchmate and was suffering from underdraw. Why not fight superstition with superstition? The mahogany trinrose is just a legend, a fairy story, but if science can find a way to grow one and extract a drug which will ease transfers—then science triumphs over stupidity. People will realize that there’s no such thing as ‘magic,’ only natural laws we don’t yet understand. Then they’ll stop burning people and rioting against so-called magicians.”

“You feel very strongly about that, don’t you?”

“Was I shouting? I’m sorry, I get carried away.”

“I didn’t intend criticism of your behavior.”

“Well,” answered Ercy without thinking, “I’m supposed to be Sectuib-Apparent in Zeor.” And then it hit her. “I mean, I’m going to be Sectuib in Zeor.” After a moment or two she realized she was staring wide eyed at Grant. Sectuib-Apparent in Zeor trying to grow an impossible flower. And if he knew about the moon, what would he think?

But all he said was: “Yes—the future—changed.”

“You changed it.”

“I—did.”

“Why? Why did you come here?” The words seemed to come out of their own volition, though her voice was choked to a whisper by a fear she couldn’t name.

“I—had to. I had to come—here.”

She found his hands resting on her wrists, her eyes almost level with his as he leaned closer to say very quietly, “We can deal with a changing future. We can and will deal with the future we have chosen.”

If he took his hands away, she thought she’d faint.

There was a sound at the door. Without startlement, Grant turned. He disentangled his hands slowly, placing hers in her lap.

At the door, Im’ran had moved in beside Digen, watching them. Ercy wondered how long they’d been there. Digen came into the room, his overly quick, jerky stride betraying his need.

“No,” said Digen as he advanced, “don’t move apart. I want to get a good reading on this. Hal, give her a full transfer position, would you?” As he moved, Digen picked up Ercy’s chart and began observing them from every angle, as Halimer slid his hands almost up to her elbows. “That’s right,” said Digen, jotting down some notations. “Lip contact, too.”

Grant leaned in to make the lip-lip contact. Ercy shied back. No Gen had ever done that with her before.

Vexed, Digen said. “Ercy, you’ll have to get used to it sometime.”

“But not yet,” she objected. She was sweating in sudden embarrassment. Grant watched Digen.

“That’s very interesting,” muttered Digen. “Im’ran, you try it. Hal’s only mid-field. You’re much higher now…”

Businesslike, unruffled, Grant relinquished his place to Im’ran.

Im’ran said, “You know I wouldn’t hurt you, Ercy. Come on, cooperate. It’s for your own good.” He slid his smooth, untentacled Gen arms up along hers and held her loosely as he bent to make lip contact.

He was thin and hard, built almost like a Sime. His smooth arms had never seemed Gen to her. Or, they hadn’t before today. Now, for the first time, she had to force herself to permit Im’ran to touch her, to make the hard, impersonal lip contact, like a channel’s examination, very, very far from a kiss. Im’ran held it for just a second longer than a channel would, then broke, sliding his hands down her arms. The skin of his hands felt rough after Grant’s, and she wondered what they would feel like after her changeover.

Im’ran asked, “What are you getting, Digen?”

“Not sure. Hal, let’s see you again. Ercy, let him make contact.”

Again, as he touched her, she broke out in a cold sweat, embarrassed by the tremendous inner response she couldn’t name. But it was no stronger when he made lip contact, and she managed to hold still this time, pleased with her self-control.

Digen finished his notation, smiling. “Thank you, Hal. There’s a response factor that wasn’t there a couple days ago. What I can’t figure out is why it’s the lower field that’s getting through to her. Ercy, what are you feeling?”

“Embarrassed, that’s what.”

“I apologize if I’ve discomfited you, Ercy. But don’t you realize what I’ve just said? This is it. The inflection point I’ve been searching for these last six years; the very first sign of changeover, before any nerve cell accretions have even built up. There’s a subliminal awareness, a sensitivity you didn’t have before. Isn’t there?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.” But she had to force herself not to squirm under his gaze.

Digen put the chart aside and came to her. “Ercy, you’re entering a new world now, the world of the Tecton where the channel has no private parts. If I’m hard on you, it’s because I want you to adjust to it quickly.”

“I’ll try, Dad.” She gave herself full credit for sitting still when she wanted to run screaming from the room. She’d been taught that in changeover people always sought solitude, as a cat would go off to give birth. She could understand why now. If this is really it. “I don’t feel anything, though, just embarrassment.”

Her father gave a tight little smile. “I know. We’ll keep testing you until we can pin down a date. It will be at least six, months, maybe more. I think this is the earliest detection of changeover on record, and we have it only because of the careful observations we’ve kept on you—and because of Hal here.”

Putting away his record books, Digen watched as Ercy left, followed closely by Hal. “Im’, if I didn’t know it was impossible, I’d almost say that Hal has somehow triggered Ercy’s changeover.”

Im’ran looked at him sharply, then laughed.

Chapter Three

It was six weeks before Ercy began to believe it was really happening. All this time, preparations were going on around her but somehow without actually convincing her it was real. She was given a refresher course in changeover physiology. To do the work, she had to drop her trigonometry course, and seldom made it to her garden at dawn.

When she finally did manage to get out at first light, she often saw Halimer Grant walking in the distance—a silhouette against the rising sun. Once she saw him standing perfectly still during the prolonged moment when the sun cleared the horizon, and for the rest of that day she echoed inside with a quietude she had never experienced before. She began to make a special effort to be out at dawn, watching and waiting for him. And when she made her diary entries at night, often the only item worth noting was whether or not she had seen him that day.

Her fertilizer came and she began her new experiments. As the days lengthened into spring, her whole garden wakened into new growth, and there was much work to keep her busy. Yet before sleep came at night, there were always thoughts about what Halimer Grant had said—that one time they talked. Why did she want to grow the mahogany trinrose?

It was the only goal of her life. She had long been convinced that she would succeed in presenting her father with the mythical kerduvon drug made from the dark flower, and then die in changeover. Her death wouldn’t matter because her father would be disjunct and able to take care of Zeor. When once she had mentioned her knowledge of her fate, it had so upset her parents that she had decided it was better not to talk about it. But the conviction had never faded. Until now.

Now the future had changed. Grant had changed it. Why? And how did she know? She had audited some psychology courses, and learned to accept apparently sourceless knowledge as the function of her subconscious.

But now she began to wonder what facts her mind could possibly have based this knowledge on. When had she made the choices that had led to a new future?

During these weeks, she found herself dreaming more often than she had since she’d gotten over childish nightmares. One dream in particular haunted her for days.

She was standing in shadow, surrounded by dark figures. The sky lightened and the sun edged over a craggy mountain peak. She woke with the conviction that her life had just begun, and all choices lay before her. An odd conviction lingered when she woke that Halimer Grant had stood in that company greeting the sunrise. She realized that it was just another wish-fulfillment dream. She had no time for such nonsense.

Her father was trying to get enough data to calculate her changeover day, since she still had no feeling for it at all. He put her back on the strict regimen of diet and exercise, concentration and coordination drills, tedious memory exercises and self-control tests that constituted much of Zeor’s own prechangeover training. It was designed to develop her personal will to the point where she was strong enough to deal with transfer deprivation.

Day by day, he raised the standard of performance he required of her. Even her rest was regimented into four periods of deep relaxation every day, until she could snap from total alertness to total relaxation on command, and she was required to remain wholly alert without any tension.

The increasing standards, more than anything, convinced her that they were serious about her approaching changeover, though she still felt nothing within herself.

One time, after finishing his late night examination of her, Digen said, “Don’t go, Ercy. Im’ should be here in a minute.”

She ran a comb through her short, dark hair and waited patiently. A few weeks ago, she would have protested that she was already late for her evening relaxation drill, feeling that if he was going to assign a regimen, she had a right to expect him to be consistent. But now her father had a right to command every detail of her life because she was a Zeor channel in training, and he was Sectuib in Zeor.

As Im’ran came in, her father turned, putting aside his charts and graphs. “All right, Ercy. You’ve been showing signs of fatigue and you haven’t been doing well on your concentration. I’m going to start you.…”

Ercy gasped, deeply offended. “I have met every standard requirement! I’ve been scoring at Rialite’s top rank on everything.”

“At, yes, but not above. You’ve spent the last six years waiting for changeover, lazing around. You’ve forgotten everything you ever knew about how to work. You do what comes easily to you and stop there. Well, you can run your life that way, Ercy, and the world will still worship at your feet because you are better than average without trying. But I will not accept the pledge of anyone who will not give Zeor—and the world—their very best.”

That stung. Not to be allowed to pledge Zeor? “I’m sorry! I’ll do anything you say, Father—Sectuib Farris.”

Her father took a deep breath and beckoned to Im’ran.

“We haven’t talked much about this,” said her father, “not for years. But it’s always been assumed in this family that Im’ran would provide your First Transfer. That poses certain problems.”

She looked at Im’ran and saw not a second father but a Gen—a professional Donor of the highest order, almost an alien being.

“…an orhuen of twenty years standing such as Im’ and I have,” her father was saying, “is not an easy kind of dependency to break into. If the break is not done right, it could be fatal.”

“Is it really worth it, Dad?”

The two men traded dark glances, and as one, answered, “Yes.” “Yes, it’s worth it.”

Im’ran said, “Digen and I worked this out a long time ago. We know how to manage it.”

Her father nodded. “What I want to do now is build a relationship between you and Im’ so that it will be easier for him—and for you.”

“All right,” she replied reluctantly, “what do I do first?”

“I want you to begin using the channel’s transfer rooms for your drill sessions. You’re working now, Ercy. Im’s time will be debited to your account. I’ll expect you to fill out all the appropriate forms.”

Just like that, without fuss or fanfare, she made the transition from child—a legal nonentity—to adult. She would be receiving a Donor’s services and be held responsible for the accounting, months before she would even go through changeover.

She went with Im’ran up to the top floor of the lab building where the channels who worked at the Controller’s Residence had their transfer suite. Having never been allowed up here before, she had to stare about her wide-eyed. The suite itself consisted of a large sitting room appointed in bright green and white with clear yellow draperies around the heavily insulated walls and windows. It was an intensely quiet room with something of the air of a library. All around the large room, doors opened into the small transfer rooms, which were equipped to handle any transfer emergency.

As they came in, a channel was sitting with her Donor in the far corner, sipping trin tea. The channel noticed Im’ran’s field and, spotting Ercy, raised one tentacle in question.

Im’ran gave a signal in return, and guided Ercy into one of the transfer cubicles. She went with tender steps, hardly daring to identify with her future-self who would come here as a right.

Closing the door behind them, Im’ran dimmed the lights, then absently ran through a routine check of the medicine cabinets as if he were going to do some real work. She stood in the middle of the floor, feeling like an intruder in the adult world.

She forced herself to turn and examine the rest of the room. It was decorated in an opalescent gray and vibrant blue though the furniture was ordinary Tecton standard. There was a reclining contour lounge on either side of her, a couple of high stools in the corners. Equipment was rigged over each lounge on swing out arms. In the little hall leading into the room, one side held a sink and counter with a tiny hot plate. A narrow door led into a shower room, and she could just make out a commode. The walls were lined with glass fronted cabinets filled with neat rows of jars and bottles, and a little desk jutted from the wall.

Seeing the forms there, she laughed. It came out a little strained. “How in the world can I sign those forms Dad wants me to fill out? I don’t even have a designation yet!”

Pushing the swinging arms out of the way, Im’ran said, “You put ‘Ercy Farris, prechangeover therapy.’ That’s the standard charge in a case like this.”

He sat down on one of the contour lounges and looked up at her.

She sat down opposite him, keeping her eyes on him with strict discipline even though she wanted to inspect everything in the room.

Im’ran said, “I hate to say it, Ercy, but Digen’s right. I remember your attitude when you were a kid. You used to really put your back into your work. You’ve got to recapture that altitude.”