The Farris Channel (7 page)

Rimon braced himself, knowing how the youth would resist what Solamar was about to try and how dangerous that resistance would be for the exhausted channel who already seemed like a friend. Solamar’s whole attention remained on the Raider as he too gathered and braced himself, and Rimon felt that penetration between them deepen. It was almost as if he, himself, were prepared to shove selyn into the Raider’s depleted body.

Now.

Abruptly, Solamar waxed high field Gen and rammed adrenalin pumping fear into the fields.

The youth arched back in shock, body bowed nearly in half, and his tentacles whipped around Solamar’s arms. The laterals extended, moist pink-gray tiny by comparison to his handling tentacles and found their place between the interlaced tentacle grip. As the contact seated, the Raider lunged forward. Still unconscious, he sought the necessary fifth contact point with his lips, and Solamar obliged, bending low to touch his lips to the boy’s.

Rimon zlinned the flash of the first spark of selyn drawn from Solamar’s body and then the fields went wild as the Raider’s Kill conditioned system rebelled against the channel’s freely offered selyn.

The Raider needed to rip selyn from a resisting Gen, forcing that Gen to give up life, taking not accepting the gift of another month of life.

Rimon moved closer flicking aside Bruce’s apprehension. Bruce moved with him, steadying down into full concentration, holding the fields steady for Rimon, so Rimon could watch every detail of the abort as if his own body were channeling selyn to the Raider.

The selyn that had begun flowing from Solamar’s secondary system to the Raider did not cut off abruptly. It was more like a piece of woven fabric tearing, one thread at a time, and with each thread’s snap, selyn whipped back into Solamar. The backlash produced a rapid-fire burning sizzle that crackled through Solamar’s nerves and induced the same painful burning sensation throughout Rimon’s body.

One second, he was watching, and the next he was into the transfer abort, taking it all into himself. His Sime perceptions flared blazing white, then suddenly he was standing in his father’s treatment room, the log walls hung with heavy rugs to cut the drafts. Each colorful hanging held a poignant memory, a scent of home and love.

His father was bent over a scrawny Freeband Raider who was bleeding onto one of the treatment couches. The girl looked as lice infested and malnourished as the Raider boy.

“Delri!” snapped Zeth Farris. “Pay attention now. Zlin this carefully. You won’t get a second chance.” His father bent to create the fifth contact point, lip to lip, initiating selyn flow into the Raider’s debilitated system.

Delri zlinned, each ebb and whiplash reversal of the selyn flow his father commanded, the dodge and weave against the Raider’s abort reflex, the interlacing with fear like a delicate spice, the slow bleed of selyn into those raw nerves conditioned to accept nothing but a Kill.

He zlinned it all. He understood it all, and even believed it while knowing that Raider had arrived long before his changeover into an adult with the ability to zlin.

* * * * * * *

Solamar felt the searing agony of the abort backlash, the reflexive spasm of every muscle in his body. His heart squeezed shut and wouldn’t move. His lungs emptied and wouldn’t fill. His hands clenched, his throat closed. The effect was all too familiar to him, but he was only peripherally aware of his body.

His mind awoke in a cozy room filled with neat counters over cabinets closed with curtains, open cupboards and several beds on high pedestals. There was a fire in the hearth, colorful wall hangings and matching rugs, several fat candles. He’d never seen the place before, but it sang of home, love, security.

A Farris man bent over a scrawny, filthy renSime girl, driving a transfer into her behind a shimmering haze of the impenetrable Farris nageric wall.

On the other side of the bed, just barely zlinnable through the working channel’s nager stood Del Rimon, transfixed by the scene before him.

Solamar blinked.

He lunged to a sitting position on the cold packed dirt floor of the underground shelter, head and gut screaming that he was falling, falling forever and landing would hurt.

Bruce knelt beside Rimon who was prone on the floor, and all Bruce’s formidable attention centered on his channel. It was almost as if there were no Gen in the shelter at all.

Finally, Solamar’s diaphragm unlocked and he dragged in one long, sobbing breath while his eyes began to blink again, and his heart thud-thuttered into motion. A thought formed among the ice crystals clogging his mind. “What have I done?”

He was unaware he’d said it out loud until Bruce whipped around, the searchlight of Companion’s attention sweeping across Solamar, assessing his condition, then flicking back to Rimon. “Solamar, help me!”

Solamar found he could indeed move. Their patient was still comatose, apparently not much worse for the aborted attempt at getting selyn into him.

Solamar got his knees under him and crawled across to Rimon, setting aside the blossoming headache. Unconscious, the Farris was much more readable. “Not as bad as it looks,” he told Bruce as he dusted off his hands and wiped them on his shirt. “Give me some space here.”

Bruce widened the disciplined cone of his concentration and Solamar moved in to cradle Rimon’s forearms in his hands, extending his own laterals to make a brief contact. As he’d suspected, the problem wasn’t physical. Rimon had leapt out of his body and was still standing in his father’s treatment room in another time.

Solamar took a deep, steadying breath, then another, extending his consciousness, reaching for that long gone room and its vibrant occupants. “Rimon—Del Rimon Farris, you must come back now.”

Three times he called, and the third time he heard a forlorn, “Father....”

Rimon fell back into his body, terrified beyond measure by the falling sensation.

Solamar gathered the jerking, twisting Farris up, turning him over and folding him into a bracing hug. “You’re all right. We’re all unharmed. Nothing here to be afraid of.” He kept murmuring reassurance until he felt Rimon’s awareness center downward and finally make contact with Bruce’s reaching nager.

Those two are perfectly suited.
He wormed himself out of the way to let Bruce work on his channel with that neatly meshed precision one could only admire.

“You all right?” asked Bruce over his shoulder, his attention never wavering from Rimon.

“Sure. Nothing much more than I expected except Rimon caught the edge of it at just the wrong angle and it really knocked him over.”

“He doesn’t do that often,” muttered Bruce and went to work supporting Rimon’s effort to breathe normally and get his internal selyn flows collimated again.

In Solamar’s experience, Farrises could be incredibly tough, soak up the most improbable abuse to a channel’s dual selyn system, and shrug it all off, then fall down unconscious at the most minor fritz in the fields. Bruce was no doubt used to the routine. However, the Gen didn’t know what had really ripped through this Farris.

Solamar retreated against the cot with their unconscious patient. Sitting on the dirt, he lowered his pounding head to his knees and wrestled his own fields back into order, very carefully avoiding any thought of Losa and how she would have smoothed the process for him.

Kahleen is as good. Better even. I’ll be all right here.
He repeated it until he almost believed it and resolved to think about what he’d done to Rimon later.
It won’t happen again. He’ll be all right too.

Barely two minutes later, Rimon struggled to his feet, giving Bruce a hand up and apologizing profusely for fainting. He paused to zlin Solamar, and waited while Solamar relaxed his showfield, inviting scrutiny.

The Farris attention swept through him like a warm light, then Rimon offered him a hand up. “You almost had it there. I think I can do it on the next try.” Seeing Solamar’s worry, he added as he turned to the Raider, “I’m fine. Bruce is miraculously good at this. We practice a lot, though not on Raiders.”

Solamar met Bruce’s gaze, but the Gen’s attention stayed wholly focused on his channel.
Kahleen will be that good, too.

Rimon edged onto the cot and took the Raider in transfer position in one smooth motion. A bare moment later, it was over and the youth’s body was seething with rich selyn and starting to heal itself.

Rimon stood and said to Bruce, “This kid has a long way to go, particularly with the concussion, but he should regain consciousness in an hour or two. Stay here with him and I’ll send someone down to relieve you before he wakes.”

Bruce nodded. “I could use some rest. You gave me a good scare there. I’m glad Solamar could help.”

With a vast grin, Rimon turned to Solamar, gathering him up with a gesture. Together they moved toward the far end of the shelter. Rimon spoke to both of them as he sidled down the narrow aisle. “So am I. One second I was watching the Raider abort, and the next Solamar was shoving my fields back into order. I would have expected a crashing headache, but I’m fine.”

Solamar found himself facing the wall of cabinets at the far end of the shelter. “Where are we going?”

“Upstairs.” Rimon shoved a lever up and dragged the rack of cabinets forward exposing a stairway. “Channeling staff is housed right over this shelter, just in case of emergency. We have to get cleaned up, find out what’s going on, and get ready for the funerals.”

Solamar followed Rimon up and directly into his office. It was a spacious room with a high ceiling. The hearth was ablaze, and the window let in dull gray sunlight. Someone was rummaging through a file cabinet, and someone else was stacking slates on the large desk.

Rimon strode in asking questions: who was assigning quarters to the arriving channels, was the damage report ready, who was arranging the funerals, where was the casualty list, and was there a selyn ration assessment yet. The answers flooded in as more people rushed into the office supplying information punctuated with more questions: where is this person, where is that person. All too often the answer was “dead.” The name Clire peppered the answers.

After a few minutes Solamar found himself escorted to a room in a wing jutting out behind the office. Nageric silence descended as they entered the short hallway. The split log construction of the main part of the building here gave way to fitted stone walls, opaque to most selyn fields.

His escort, a young child, chattered tensely, “This is where all the channels sleep most of the time. Most of the Companions live right over there with the channels’ families. We’re still really crowded. We’re going to build a whole lot more buildings in the spring, well even more than that because now there are all these Tanhara people.”

“Where are the Tanhara channels housed?”

“Oh, here and there. Benart is making a list. You’re supposed to sleep here this morning until we find you a place. This is Rimon’s room,” he said opening a door. “I just brought in a bucket of warm water, and I’ll be getting another as soon as it’s hot, so go ahead and bathe. Rimon said you should find something of his to change into. Just chuck your clothes out here and I’ll see they’re burned.”

Solamar gazed down at what he was wearing. Blood caked and crusted sleeves and thighs. Rips sliced this way and that, often joining two or more wear holes he’d grown used to on the trail. A few cuts, bruises, and some scrapes adorned his exposed skin. His hair felt like greasy spikes.

A little stunned at the efficiency and hospitality of it all, Solamar nodded. It had been months since he’d stood inside a building, and then it had been hardly more than a ruin. “Thank you very much. I’ll get cleaned up.”

“Benart said to send Kahleen in to you as soon as she wakes. Is that all right?”

“Yes, that would be fine. Thank you.”

The boy cocked his head to one side. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a channel. Would you teach me?”

Taken aback, Solamar could only smile. “Well, if the Farrises want me to, I will do all I can.”

“You think you should do what a Farris says?”

“Well, usually, but certainly where training a channel is concerned.”

Suddenly the child grinned more brightly than ever. “Welcome to Fort Rimon. I’m BanSha. We’re going to be great friends.”

He scampered away laughing.

Solamar gazed after him, feeling his own smile fade slowly as he puzzled over that odd conversation. Then he went into the comfortably appointed room.

Though he understood this was not Rimon’s home, but only the room where he slept when he had to be close to the infirmary, it felt like a home. There was a magnificent quilt hung on the wall over the head of the bed, an ingenious thing created from what appeared to be a baby’s quilt in the center, surrounded by tightly woven ultra fine silky black angora fabric. By touch, it seemed the quilt had been stuffed with wool fibers and stitched to a backing just as fine as the front.

The only image on the quilt was a long triangle topped with the arc of the moon’s horns with an odd third peak in the middle. It was made of a single piece of bright blue cloth on a field of what had probably been white at some time. The baby’s quilt was worn, scuffed and much mended while the rest of the quilt was newer. The material was top quality, the stitching perfect and the thing had to be worth a fortune beyond its sentimental value. Just touching the corner infused him with a sense of awe.