Fear and courage, p.8
Fear and Courage, page 8
Old Jack sat up to wake his wife from what he thought was a dream triggered motion but it was over within the time it took him to sit up and reach for her. He started shaking her and calling her name. He began crying as he realised she was dead. He had known what it was but refused to believe that such a horror could be real, but now he had seen it, no not seen but zlinned. Fear began to rise in him. Fear for his wife, and fear for what he had released.
Old Jack was so focused on his wife that he didn’t notice the presence still with him, and when he did notice it was too late. Suddenly his arms were pulled away from his body by some invisible force as he felt the steely grip of tentacles lash about his arms and his own tentacles forced from their sheaths to wrap around these unseen cords of death. Before he could make a sound his lips were sealed with an invisible kiss and his laterals were wrest from their sheaths and tightly bound. He could taste the blood in his mouth as his teeth bit into his own lips.
Shock turned to fear as he felt his system being wrenched inside out as his selyn was being stripped from him. On the verge of death he heard the bedroom door flung open and his son began screaming to him. He thought this would be the last sound he would hear before death carried him away. Instead this invisible Killer stopped and as Old Jack drifted into unconsciousness he felt sudden fear coming from the void above him. His body was released from the deadly clasp and he fell back onto the bed, barely alive.
The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the mask of sheer terror on the face of his wife. She too had been drained of her life, her system turned inside out to flow backwards. Killed like a Gen.
Old Jack finally came through after having to be forced to take a Kill after he regained consciousness. He refused at first, not wanting to live long enough to have to go through that again, but as his natural instinct for survival overrode his emotions he took the Kill and began his physical healing. As Old Jack lay on his bed he just kept muttering that they had to leave right away because “it” would come back. It would Kill everyone. He and his son, as well as the remaining Gens.
Old Jack told his son that he was sure he knew what it was, or who it had been. It had started several years earlier. One time there were only a few Gens in the cells. These few Gens were the last of a group of Wild Gens that had been caught just inside the border.
There had been a child, a pre-Gen, that had been kept in a cell by himself. Old Jack had made this child do menial jobs around the Pens and sometimes he would even allow him to work around the yard and in the barn. As the boy became less fearful he would often hide and occasionally he would attempt to escape, without success.
Old Jack let this pass for a while but when he caught the boy trying to pick the lock of the cell that held the remaining Gens he lost his temper. As he tried to return the boy to his cell the boy began to kick and claw at Old Jack’s arms in an attempt to get loose. This sent Old Jack into a rage and he picked the boy up by the scruff and threw him violently back into his cell.
Old Jack realised that without fear this boy could be dangerous and from that moment on he treated the boy as if he were already Gen. No longer was the boy allowed out of the Pens, and Old Jack took his own Kill where the boy would witness it and know that Simes were to be feared. Whenever the boy showed any sign of defiance he would grab the boy as he would a Kill and terrorize him. The boy was also made to clean the Killroom after a Kill. The boy learned his lessons well. He became a pitiful, cowering child who shook and whimpered whenever a Sime came near.
Having to collect a new shipment of Gens, Old Jack and his son left early one morning so he could do some other business while in town. Sometime during that morning this boy went into changeover. When Old Jack returned he found his wife agitated and very upset. She had heard screams that afternoon and on investigation found the boy on the verge of death.
He had been so close to the Gens in the next cell, yet he was separated by the thick bars. Sitting, face pressed against the bars his desperation almost overwhelmed her. By the time she went to the house to get the spare keys and returned the boy had died of Attrition, arms stretched through the bars in a final frantic attempt to reach life.
After that, Old Jack would occasionally find several Gens drained of their selyn. Usually in that very same cell. Each time it happened there would be more Gens Killed and they would be Killed more brutally. It was as if whatever was Killing them could not be satisfied and each time its Need was greater. Old Jack always said it was that boy who Killed the Gens, and he was sure it was him that Killed his wife, and almost Killed him. He also believed that somehow this lurking non-entity still carried with it the fear that he had instilled in the boy, and when his son burst into the room it was that fear that drove it from the room.
His son, Marc, buried his mother and packed their wagon with as much as it could carry. Marc helped his father to the wagon and they headed for town. They stayed there the night at a friend’s place and told them of what happened and the next day Old Jack and Marc drove out of town, never to go back.
Did it ever attack again? Well, some months later a good friend of Old Jack moved here and he told him that after Old Jack left several of the townsfolk went out to his place to get what Gens were left there. Although the cells were all still locked every Gen had been Killed, savagely. Completely drained.
Over the next couple of weeks the townspeople started to find their Gens dead in their Killrooms. Slowly people began to leave the town out of fear, and when another Sime was Killed in the same manner those who had remained did not take long to abandon the town.
Even today the town is dead. No one will even travel through it in case this invisible Killer attacks. Everything is still as it was then. And of those who do go there? It’s said that they are never heard from again. There are many rumours as to what it is and whether it is still around, but one that I have heard is that once the town is empty and there is no one left to trigger it, it goes into some kind of stasis or hibernation until the utmost heart wrenching fear calls to it again.
Till the day he died, Old Jack never again slept at night, nor did he sleep alone. He only slept when someone else was awake. No one knows why it left when Old Jack’s son entered the room. Maybe it thought Old Jack dead. Maybe it was frightened off by Marc’s appearance. Who knows? I don’t.
He never fully recovered from the guilt he felt at his wife’s death and the fear that he might face this terror again someday. He always told the story, as a warning, to his son and his son’s children of the terror that has no form. It was told to me and my sisters and to our cousins by my grandfather, Marc, and now I tell you.
This invisible death strikes in the still of night, covered in the blanket of darkness and camouflaged as dream. You will never see it, but if you’re Sime you will zlin it. It will drain Gen and Sime alike of every drop of selyn and still NEED more. It cannot be satisfied. It cannot be fulfilled. It is an eternal hunter. It is the CREEPING NEED.
BE NOT AFRAID, by Marjorie Robbins
“Be Not Afraid” originally appeared in A Companion in Zeor #10, (1990) and can be found in Rimon’s Library http://www.simegen.com/sgfandom/householding/chanel/afraid.html
Kley’s favorite time of day was early morning. The world was hushed and still in that quiet predawn moment before the sun would peek its rosy face above the horizon to begin its slow ascent into the daytime sky.
For just a moment Kley studied his reflection in the still-darkened windowpanes. His unruly red hair was, for once, under some semblance of control. His dark eyes glowed with pride as he fingered the Chanel crest stitched to the breast pocket of his new crimson uniform.
With a contented sigh he picked up his text on the psychology of disjunction and bent again to his studies.
A few moments later his door flew open with an alarming crash. Startled, Kley jumped to his feet. He’d been so absorbed in the text he’d failed to zlin the approach of three renSimes. Two wore the uniform of the Tecton police. They were dragging with them a young girl whose nager was defiant and hostile.
“Hajene Kley?” asked one of the officers. At the channel’s nod of acknowledgment, he went on apologetically. “Sorry to disturb you, but the duty channel said to bring her to you.”
“What’s the problem?”
Kley had taken control of the rather discordant fields and was working to calm the youngster. She glared defiantly as his field engaged hers. “You shendi-flayed lorsh! Let me go!”
“We caught her trying to leave the grounds of the Center. Since we know she’s a disjunction candidate, we brought her back. Your duty channel said the Controller is busy and asked that you deal with her. She was hunting Gens.”
That wasn’t surprising. Though he was not yet officially assigned to the disjunction ward of the Cedar City Sime Center, Kley had some training and did occasionally help out with counseling and routine transfers while he continued the study of psychology, his House’s specialty that he had started while in First Year School.
“It’s all right. She can stay with me.” Smiling, he moved towards the girl. “Relax, honey. No one’s going to hurt you.”
She struggled futilely in the tight grasp of her captors. “Make those lorshes let go of me.”
“Let her go. And you, young lady, stop augmenting. You’re wasting selyn.”
The girl struggled a moment longer then went limp, almost falling as the officers released her. “Her name’s Arla,” supplied one of the renSimes as they started for the door.
“Thanks.” Kley dismissed the police with a wave then turned his full attention to the girl, who was regarding him defiantly. She was tiny, abnormally thin even for a Sime. She had very delicate features and extremely long jet-black hair that lay in a rumpled mess on her shoulders. Her legs were covered with tiny scratches.
Evidently she had come in contact with the many hedges on the Center’s Grounds.
She was also very close to hard Need, so Kley raised his showfield to the pure Gen enticement of a working channel. Shutting the door he held out his hands to the girl.
“I don’t want transfer,” she muttered, staring at the floor.
The channel was surprised. He hadn’t thought it possible for a renSime that deep into Need to resist a channel’s field. Strengthening his contact with the girl, he took a few steps in her direction. “Come to me, Arla,” he crooned softly.
“You bloody-shen lorsh!” she screamed. “I can do what I want.”
“Perhaps, but you may not go out and find a Gen. The Tecton won’t allow it.” Kley carefully kept his tone neutral, letting his nager speak for him. He knew that regardless of what Arla thought she wanted, her instincts would soon overrule her and she would attack him.
“I don’t want a Gen!” screamed Arla, genuine revulsion in her field. “What do you think I am, a murderer? That man lied. I wasn’t hunting.”
This thoroughly confused the channel. “Well then, if you don’t want to Kill, why run? There are plenty of channels to choose from here.”
Arla sank into a seat, her nager taking on a frightening resignation. “I don’t want a channel, either.” She buried her face in her hands, surrendering to a cold despair that sent shivers coursing up and down the channel’s spine as he zlinned her.
Unbidden, a well-known image swelled up in Kley’s mind: the surface of a deep blue sea, moving restlessly, the long swells swiftly getting bigger as their color darkened ominously. Oh, no! She’s suicidal! The channel was all too familiar with the anguish radiating from the youngster before him.
Something in him ached to reach out and comfort her. But the danger to his own peace of mind was too great. Keeping a firm grasp on his field, Kley willed the waters to calm, the darkness to return to placid blue. No way was he going to confront what lay under those waters.
Seeking to hide his turmoil from Arla, he said gruffly, “It’s obvious something’s bothering you. Talk to me. Perhaps I can help.”
“I don’t want your help. I don’t require it. Nothing’s wrong. Just leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that.” Kley took a deep breath. He knew he was going about this all wrong. “All right,” he admitted softly. “You don’t have to talk to me. But I can’t let you go until you’ve had transfer.”
He shrugged as the girl shook her head in determined denial. “Very well. I’m not going to force you to take transfer. But I do have work to do. Let me know when you change your mind.” Resuming his seat behind his desk, he opened the textbook and started to read, though his professional attention remained fixed on the girl. She was stunned and trying unsuccessfully to hide it from the channel.
The next half hour passed exceedingly slowly for Kley. Though he couldn’t think of anything else to do short of grabbing her and forcing transfer on her, he wasn’t at all sure that his tactics were going to work.
Fervently he wished that Sectuib Aran was available. But he could easily be tied up for hours. Not only was he Chanel’s Sectuib, he had just taken over as Controller of the Sime Center across the street from Chanel headquarters.
Keeping his eyes firmly on the book in his hands, though he really wasn’t reading much, Kley carefully monitored the girl. As he had expected, she remained resistant until the last possible moment, pacing restlessly up and down, fighting unsuccessfully to keep her agitated laterals in their sheaths.
Finally, however, she went hyperconscious, springing at the channel and knocking the book out of his hands.
Kley made no resistance as she roughly pulled him into transfer position. The girl had no will of her own now, but had surrendered to the Killer instinct, her tentacles whipping quickly into place on his arms. Kley deftly entwined tentacles with her, his laterals meeting hers, ready and willing to feed her voracious hunger.
She began her draw swiftly, but faltered after a bare moment. Before the channel could react, Arla had pulled away, reeling in flaming shen to lean weakly against the wall, arms held tightly to her chest, nager clenched in hopeless despair.
Moving swiftly, while she was still hyperconscious, Kley pried her arms free and again took her into position. She didn’t resist as he entwined laterals. Doing his best to simulate the fear and panic a Gen feels in the Kill, Kley began to push selyn into her at a speed slightly less than her previous draw speed. At first she resisted and the channel thought sure he’d be shenned again. The waters rose in his mind, muddy-brown and moving restlessly, pouring fear and helpless into his thoughts, spilling over into his snowfield. Before he could suppress this, Arla’s field changed. She was responding. Weakly, but she was responding.
Arla began a listless draw that only increased momentarily when Kley offered the feigned resistance that should have brought her satisfaction. It didn’t.
Nearing repletion, Arla ceased even her token draw, leaving it to the channel to terminate the flow and break contact.
Immediately Arla began to cry hysterically. “Let me die! Oh, God, why didn’t you just let me die!”
Kley waited a moment, then put a tender arm around her, crooning soft words of reassurance. At first she resisted, but after a few moments she let him lead her to a seat.
Still in tears, she cuddled against the channel and cried for a long time. Kley zlinned deeply and unobtrusively, discovering that her physical condition was very poor. Her selyn system was in knots. He also noted dark spots in her digestive tract that he suspected were ulcers. Considering the tremendous tension she was carrying, that wasn’t surprising.
Kley debated deepening his contact with her to work on those dark spots, then decided against it. Undoubtedly she was already getting channel’s therapy. And in any case, she was calming down, starting to draw away. To insist on therapy now might provoke more hostility.
Handing her his handkerchief, he asked softly, “Feeling better?”
Arla scrubbed the tears from her eyes. “Stupid question. I want to go back to my room now.”
“Why not tell me what’s bothering you?” asked Kley, hoping to take advantage of her momentary calm.
Instantly Arla’s nager returned to its former hostile state. “Shut up! I told you I don’t want to talk to you. You’re a lorsh like all channels. Leave me alone.” Rising, she retreated to the opposite corner, silently daring the channel to do anything further.
“Very well.” Kley went to the door and ordered a passing renSime to go for a Donor to escort Arla back to her room. Picking up the book that had gotten tossed on the floor, he returned to his seat behind the desk. “If you decide you want to talk to me later, just tell one of the attendants. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
Nager radiating total rejection, Arla turned away without answering. Kley shrugged. So much for the idea that he might have been able to reach her.
They waited in uncomfortable silence for the arrival of Arla’s escort. As the door opened the room filled with a dull grey nager dotted with silver-blue speckles.
The rolling waters quickly turned an angry black, huge waves crashing against the shores of Kley’s mind. This can’t be, he thought fighting down panic. That nager, that voice… No! that was another time another place. Rising, he forced the fierce waves back. “You’re…?”
“Verlyn ambrov Alger at your service,” the Gen said cheerfully. “Arla, what are you doing here? You missed language class.” When the girl didn’t answer he glanced over at the channel. His green eyes widened as he shifted into a standard working mode. “Is something wrong, Kley? Should I…?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine. Just take Arla back to her room.”
The Donor shook his head. “No, Hajene. You’re upset about something.” Crossing the room, he took Kley’s hands, closely studying the channel’s face.
Kley took a deep breath, forcing himself to stand still to endure the Gen’s uncomfortable touch. After all Verlyn was only doing his job. “Just put it down to turnover jitters,” he said as calmly as he could. The waves were crashing wildly now, threatening to spill up onto the shore the dark things they were supposed to be covering.
