Jean Lorrah - Best of Fools

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BEST OF FOOLS

Jean Lorrah

"Why do you introduce me as Tonyo?" demanded Zhag Paget's young

protege. "My name is Tony."

"That's a Gen name," Zhag replied.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I am Gen."

"I mean, it's an out-Territory name," Zhag explained.

"In case you hadn't noticed..." Tonyo repeated, voice and energy field

dripping sarcasm.

Zhag sighed. "It makes you sound like a Wild Gen."

Annoyance resonated in the boy's field as he threatened, "You want to

see wild? Dammit, Zhag, I'm me, you don't own me, and you can't change my

identity!" Abruptly he got up and stomped out, a frequent response to their

disagreements. Was Tonyo used to someone who wouldn't listen?

The Gen went only as far as the woodpile. Zhag picked up his shiltpron

and went to sit on the rickety steps of his house. Snatches of melody churned

up in his mind, disconnected phrases that would not form a tune. He plucked

the notes anyway, knowing that music often soothed away his Gen's

annoyance.

Tonyo was chopping wood for the cookstove Zhag had never used--the

extent of his "cooking" was to make tea over an oil burner. The Sime had

learned to avoid disparaging comments about Gens and sharp instruments.

He didn't want to provoke the boy again, but he was relieved when Tonyo

carried the wood inside and returned to sit at the other end of the step.

Tonyo's nager--the field of life energy that surrounded all humans, Simes like

Zhag and Gens like Tonyo--precisely echoed the notes Zhag played.

Zhag let go of the senses he shared with Gens, except for hearing, and

zlinned the boy with Sime senses. Perhaps Tonyo's golden field would provide

the inspiration to compose something. Anything. Just one more song before

he died.

Or killed.

Zhag was prepared to die, but if he were to kill again--

That's need depression talking, he told himself. The loss of creative

energy was the worst effect of Zhag's chronically unsatisfied need. When

Tonyo was nearby--and not frustrated--he could almost...almost...feel normal.

But normal for Zhag was creating new music, not merely playing at

Milily's Shiltpron Parlor. Since Tonyo had joined him, he frequently felt well

enough to improvise--as the Gen was doing now, vocalizing variations around

Zhag's new riff. But Tonyo had not warmed up his voice. He reached

for a note--and missed. His field followed his voice out of tune, a jolt to

Zhag's wide open systems. When he next skidded flat, Zhag stopped playing.

"Follow your nager with your voice."

"What?" Gen confusion.

"Your nager has perfect pitch," Zhag explained. "You think of yourself

as a singer, Tonyo, but it's your field Simes 'listen' to."

"I know that," the boy said.

"You know it, but you don't feel it," Zhag told him. The way I know I

will never kill again, but can't feel it--can't trust that I'm not deluding myself.

"Well, I'm Gen!" Tonyo protested. "I can't zlin."

Zhag searched for words. "When you were listening, your field matched

every note--before you started singing."

Tonyo pondered. "I was thinking those notes."

"That's it, then, isn't it?" Zhag suggested. "Follow your inner voice."

The Sime played the riff again--then deliberately raised the key. The

Gen met the challenge nagerically, but when he tried to follow with his voice,

it cracked. He waved a hand. "I know. I'll get it. Play it again."

Zhag did...and Tonyo's voice sailed up the scale, well above his normal

range before it cracked again. Unmindful of Zhag's wince, the young Gen

laughed. "This is wonderful!"

"Not to me!" Zhag said through gritted teeth. "You're still thinking

about your voice."

"But it's my voice I'm trying to improve," Tonyo said with impeccable

Gen logic...something that theoretically couldn't happen when he was

speaking Simelan. The boy frequently managed to be equally dense in either

language.

Zhag had no words to explain what he could have demonstrated to

another Sime. "Try again," he said, "and...focus on your field instead of your

throat."

Tonyo echoed the riff in different keys, voice and nager in synch until he

ran out of his range and again shredded Zhag's nageric comfort. Oblivious to

the Sime's reaction, he asked, "What's the rest of the song? Does it have

words?"

"There isn't any more," Zhag told him. "I haven't been able to compose

since-- For a long time now. At this time of month it's not possible anyway."

"Maybe after your transfer," Tonyo suggested. "When's your

appointment?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"No wonder you don't feel creative." Tonyo got up, stretching. "We're

out of food." This close to hard need, the boy's hunger made Zhag faintly ill.

"It's market day," said the Sime. "Come on--let's get you something to

eat."

Zhag had to wonder how he could keep the Gen. It wasn't so much the

risk of having a high-field Gen nearby--Tonyo was as easy to be near as a

Householding Companion. But Zhag's earnings at the shiltpron parlor would

not pay his Pen Taxes--Selyn Taxes, as they were called since Unity--and also

feed a growing Gen. Until there were new laws, Tonyo was here only as a

visitor. Since using up his small supply of money, he was dependent on

Zhag...unless he became a selyn donor.

It was the obvious solution. Tonyo had donated twice before arriving in

Norlea, but donating selyn, the life energy that Gens produced and Simes

needed to live, would reduce Tonyo's glorious field. No low-field Gen Zhag

had ever zlinned could hold a roomful of Simes spellbound.

They had been performing together for over a month now, drawing

more customers each week. Zhag had wangled a raise out of Milily, but not

enough to keep his Gen fed, let alone clothed. The denims he wore today

were practically threadbare.

In the public forum of Norlea's market, Tonyo kept his nager carefully

neutral. Nevertheless, when the boy stopped at a citrus stand Zhag sensed

bristling annoyance in Sime customers. Tonyo picked up a lemon--

"You!" It was Zhag the proprietor addressed. "Make your Gen stop

squeezing the fruit!"

Feeling outrage rolling off Tonyo, Zhag stepped between him and the

vendor, saying, "He's not my property."

Zhag won a smile from Tonyo--but sneers from nearby Simes. One

muttered, "Don't look like Householders," for Zhag referred to Tonyo with

the pronoun for a male Sime...as, despite protests, he called the boy by the

Simelan version of his name.

Zhag said, "Tonyo is a guest in Gulf Territory. Under the law he has the

same rights as a Sime."

"Shenned Tecton law!" said a woman in bright calico. "Can't kill Gens

anymore, but we don't have to live with 'em!"

Mutters of agreement were backed with nageric static. Tonyo,

wide-eyed but with his field under tight control, put the fruit back and edged

away.

Zhag shared the boy's consternation: there were always Gens in

Norlea's streets. Usually they were ignored, but today the ambient nager rang

with hostility. These juncts didn't care where the boy came from--to them he

was need denied.

Life denied.

Zhag had not killed for far longer than most Simes, nor did he want to.

He had chosen another way two years before Tonyo wandered into Milily's

and brought that shining nager to brighten Zhag's ever-bleaker existence.

Simes always gravitated toward Tonyo, but usually it was a positive

response. The only Gens his age they saw were breeders on the Genfarms,

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Jean Lorrah - Best of Fools

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