"You think maybe I was meant to be Marji's Companion?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps you'll both be channels. God does not act without purpose—even if it's sometimes difficult to discern that purpose. He does not offer us certainty, Zeth, but observing His moves, we can find confidence and security in the goodness of His purpose. Whatever happens, it is for the best—when you've placed your trust in God."

But have I? Zeth always felt uncomfortable when Mr. Veritt spoke of his God. His parents respected the strange beliefs of Fort Freedom, but taught that the Creator of the world required nothing of man but to know Him through His works, and gave nothing to man but the capacity to gain such knowledge.

"I think I placed my trust in God when I prayed for Owen to be Gen. But I don't see what good it's done him—or me. I know you've placed your trust in God-I tried to tell Marji that when she was going on about you being a demon. But—I don't see what good it's done you. You still—oh, shen!" He's in need. Why can't I remember that!

Veritt didn't even admonish him for his language, though. "What's this about Marji?"

Zeth recounted his brief conversation with her after lunch. "You're not possessed by any evil spirit!"

"Yes, you are right. The need to kill comes from within me—not from any outside entity. I alone am responsible for the fact that despite years of effort I remain joined to the kill."

"Joined—?"

"While I've been recovering these last two weeks, I found it hard to zlin. The nerve-burn made me hypersensitive and it was like coming out of a dark cave into bright sunlight every time I went hyperconscious. But when I did zlin other Simes, I found a ... thread ... a characteristic binding all of us who have been unable to turn wholly to channel's transfer."

"How come my dad never noticed?" asked Zeth.

Veritt shook his head. "He took it for granted. He's zlinned it all along; when I pointed it out to him, his reaction was, so what? Perceiving a common characteristic in the nager of all Simes who kill is no help in teaching them not to kill."

"I don't understand."

"Other Simes say we are unnatural. Surely the purity of the nager of Simes who have never killed is the natural state. The mark of the killer is the mark of corruption—it unites all those who bear it, from the most vicious of Freehand Raiders to those who struggle to kill only once or twice a year.

"To be a killer is to be joined to the kill. Junct. Each of us must break free of this bond, Zeth. We must become disjuncted! Yes, that's the right word for it."

"But why make up a new word?"

"The word is the symbol for the thing. Most Simes can't perceive the thing itself. I could not until my injury left me oversensitive for a while. I—" He glanced over at Zeth and seemed to come back from a far distance. "Zeth, what I want you to understand is that our faith doesn't claim to make life easy. But by putting our trust in God, we find the effort of living becomes tremendously worthwhile. Owen is a treasure in our community. Thanks to your efforts, he has found a purpose in life. You did this for him, and for our whole community, when you put your trust in God."

They were crossing the wooden bridge to the road through the small town, riding toward Slina's pen with the crisp green flag flying above its buildings.

The town had changed, even in Zeth's lifetime. There was still a saloon, but it was no longer part of a ramshackle row of buildings. Now there were neat shops, a bank, and the magistrate's office at Slina's pen. Three years ago they had succeeded in getting this end of the Territory declared a county, so there was now at least nominal law and order. The transients who used to gamble and carouse here, and raid across the border, had been driven to find a new stamping ground.

Nonetheless, it was a community of killer Simes. Feelings toward Fort Freedom ranged from sympathy to grudging respect. Either community would rally to support the other, but the feeling here, even to a child, was entirely different from the easy give-and-take of life at home.

For these Simes had no Gens living with them in day-today camaraderie. Slina's Gens were all drugged into complacency, their nagers neither irritating nor soothing.

Slina was irritated anyway, nervous and edgy even though Zeth could not see any symptoms of actual need in her. "Well, I'm glad you finally got here!" she greeted them.

"Zlin me, Slina," said Veritt. "I'm now technically in need and can legally claim the boy. Yesterday—"

"Shen, I'd've fixed the papers! I wish you'd've took him yesterday. I don't want that sort of thing here!"

"What sort of thing?" Veritt asked.

"Come on—I'll show you."

Slina led them to a holding room where one boy sat alone on the bench. He jumped up with a smile when Slina entered.

The boy was twelve or thirteen, a head taller than Zeth and as sturdily built as Owen. He had curly dark brown hair and bright brown eyes—obviously undrugged and alert. He looked them all over curiously, but his engaging smile was for Slina. It was easy to see why she could not let him be killed.

"He seems completely recovered," Veritt observed, and Zeth realized this must be the boy the channels had cured of an intestinal infection.

"Yeah—he was tearing up the infirmary, so I put him in here till you came. This morning I thought I'd give him one last dose of fosebine. Watch." Slina filled a wooden bowl with cloudy fluid and approached the boy. He backed off, then tried to push the bowl away, screwing up his face.

"Come on, drink it," said Slina. "It's good for you." She grasped the boy's hands, twining tentacles about them.

"No!" exclaimed the boy, shaking his head. "No, no!"

Slina dropped his hands and backed away, trembling. "That's what he did this morning. Shen and shid! Ain't never seen one come to life right here! And I never want to see it again—take him out of here, all right?"

"God be praised!" said Mr. Veritt. "He's been undrugged only—how long?"

"Nigh three weeks now, but he was so sick the first week he was unconscious most of the time."

Zeth wasn't surprised. He'd seen a number of pen-grown Gens learn to talk once released from drugs. " 'No' is always their first word," he said.

"So it seems, Zeth," said Mr. Veritt, "but it's usually months before they speak. Has this boy had special treatment?"

"Not till he took sick," Slina replied. "Just get him out of here, will you, Abel?"

But the boy wanted to stay. "You've been kind to him," said Veritt as he pried the boy away from the Gendealer.

"Ain't kindness—just protectin' my property. Your property now, and your problem."

Zeth held the chain attached to the boy's collar while Slina made over his papers to Mr. Veritt. Ill establish, I'll have to come here for papers that say I'm someone's property. That say I'm not a person. Owen had such papers, sealed with Slina's dagger-shaped mark.

Such legalities meant nothing to the people of Fort Freedom—but they did to the Territory Government. So if I'm Sime, I'll be dependent on Gens. And if I'm Gen, I'll be someone's property unless I want to cross the border.

As they took the new boy out to the horses, Zeth remained buried in his own thoughts. But the words "Freehand Raiders" caught his attention.

"... over in the west part of the Territory," Slina was saying. "Militia chased 'em over the border—they come back across beyond Ardo Pass, but the Wild Gens, they don't know Freehand Raiders from any other Simes. They come swarmin' across 'long about where the Raiders first crossed. Word is, Farris was hit real hard.''

"Rimon's father—?"

"Oh, he's all right. We'd've heard if anything'd happened to Syrus Farris."

As they tried to get the Gen boy up onto a horse, he began to fight them. Slina and Mr. Veritt had to overpower him with sheer Sime strength.