Instantly, the bitterness was gone. "It's all right. You made me realize I can still do anything I really want—and what I really want is to give transfer. That's why I stayed away from Fort Freedom. To be around Simes in need, wanting to help and not being allowed to—"
Zeth squirmed under that painful frustration. It was more than knowing how Owen felt—it was feeling it.
Owen fixed Zeth with a piercing stare, all tension resolved. "They say Gens can't feel what Simes do. Well, Simes can't feel what Gens do, either, or your father would never have forbidden me transfer. This is what I was born for. I've found myself. This is what I need, Zeth."
Zeth, giving himself up to Owen's certainty, realized that his friend's awkwardness was gone. He was Gen-graceful now, precise slowness in his every move, evoking in Zeth a
trust he had never known before. For the first time, he really believed Owen could serve any need, even Zeth's.
"Rest now," said Owen. "Sleep some more if you can. Save your strength for breakout."
"I'm too excited to sleep. Did anyone tell you why I came?"
"Mr. Bron told me. You were very brave to come for help, Zeth . . . and when they see us after our transfer, you'll get it. I wish I'd been here when you arrived! You really gave me a scare, going into stage four without the slightest visible sign of tentacles—but you've come back to a normal pattern now."
Normal for another Sime, maybe, Zeth thought, but normal for me? His need was deepening, but his tentacles showed no sign of being ready to emerge.
"Where were you so late?" he asked to change the subject.
"I left the Nortons in plenty of time to get here by dark, but I ran into some soldiers from the garrison. Bunch of fools!"
"Why would Gen soldiers stop you? You're Gen."
"They knew that, and they knew I wasn't running guns or Gens. They just thought they'd have some fun tormenting a one-armed kid—and I had to put up with their questions 'cause if they'd searched me and found my tags I'd be in real trouble."
"But what did they want? Do they know you go back and forth across the border? Owen, what if they'd arrested you?"
"Will you relax?" Owen's field soothed Zeth. "They didn't arrest me. They were drunk. When I told them I'd been visiting a girl, they wanted to know all about Sue."
Zeth remembered Mr. Bron mentioning a girl Owen was interested in. "Are ... are you gonna marry her?"
"Not unless I can persuade her to move to Fort Freedom," Owen replied. "Especially now that I'm going to be your Companion! But my Uncle Glian and Ed Norton would like us to get married. Ed lost his son to changeover, and Uncle Glian has no kids, so I'm his closest kin. Their ranches border on each other, and they've got it all planned that Sue and I should get married and unite the two ranches!"
"But ... do you really want to get married?"
"I'm not ready. It's not even a year since I established . . . but ... I really like Sue. Zeth, an awful lot of girls pity me, because of my arm. Sue's different. Reminds me of Jana, the
way she speaks her mind. We're comfortable together. Friends."
"How did you get away from the soldiers?" Zeth asked.
"Oh, they let me go after they'd had their laugh. It was late by then—I thought about going back to the ranch, or I might have camped out if it hadn't gotten so cold. Something told me to come on to Mountain Chapel." He turned to Zeth. "I'm the one feeling cold now. There's a warm robe hanging on the door—see? I'm not leaving you, Zeth. I'm just going to take off my shirt and put that robe on. Otherwise I'll have to put on a sweater, and we'll have a real tangle when it's time for your transfer."
As his need deepened, Zeth was terrified to have his Companion move the slightest distance from him, but Owen's field was so reassuring that he gave a grim nod to the common-sense suggestion. Besides, Owen's shivers were renewing his own.
Despite his handicap, Owen quickly skinned out of shirt and undershirt, and shrugged into the robe, wrapping it properly and tying the sash with the aid of his teeth. It was not in Owen to be sloppy—even when they were kids, Zeth and Jana might have run around with their shirttails out, but never Owen.
Owen sat on the edge of the bed, facing Zeth, glowing. Zeth blinked, but it was still there, not just the morning sunlight glinting off his friend's blond hair, but a golden glow suffusing his whole body. He realized it was the same sensation he had been—zlinning?—all along, but this was the first time Owen had sat still, completely in his field of vision. In his dreams, Zeth had seen his mother glow like that.
Owen examined Zeth's forearms again, and the newly formed tentacles squirmed slightly, sending new sensations through Zeth's nerves. "Good," said Owen, "they're forming nicely now that we've got you warm. Here—take my arm between both of yours. See if my field can encourage faster development."
Zeth did as he was told, pushing back the sleeve of Owen's robe, and felt conflicting sensations: the proximity of his developing laterals to the source of life-promise was keenly sweet, while the touch of Owen's skin was somehow rough against his swollen, oversensitive forearms. The swelling increased, and soon it felt as if the fluids in which the tentacles writhed were boiling, burning him alive.
He sucked in his breath through gritted teeth, and convulsively pulled his arms against his chest, clenching his fists in helpless spasms.
"No, Zeth!" Owen said warningly. "Not yet!" He pried one hand open, but the moment he let go to reach for the other, Zeth's fist clenched uncontrollably. "Shen!" muttered Owen. "I thought I was over wishing for two hands!"
Somehow, that struck Zeth as immensely funny. He broke into giggles, watching Owen try to capture both his hands in his one. "What's so shenned funny?" Owen demanded.
"If you had two hands, we wouldn't be here. You'd be a Companion, but my father'd be giving me First Transfer, if I'd stayed in Fort Freedom."
Owen s anger evaporated. "Yeah. And I have the feeling . . . it's almost going to be worth it!"
Yesterday, that idea would have been incomprehensible. Today, hovering on the brink of Simehood, experiencing the growing void of need as unbearable pleasure because Owen was there to fill it, Zeth understood. The experience was all—and it had to be with Owen. If his father walked through that door right now, he would fight him off, tooth and nail.
His spasms had relaxed. He placed both hands on Owen's forearm and looked into his friend's eyes. "When this is over," he promised, "you won't say 'almost.' "
With Owen coaching him, Zeth saved his strength until the actual breakout contractions began. Then he worked with the spasms, feeling his newly formed tentacles writhe and press against the wrist openings, where the membranes swelled but did not break. That pain was good pain, negligible beside the agony/bliss of his growing need.
For seconds at a time, the world blotted out before his emptiness and Owen's undefined but potent presence.
Owen shoved a corner of the blanket into Zeth's hands. The rough texture of the wool triggered even stronger contractions.. The membranes covering the wrist orifices bulged, and Zeth grunted and strained to break them, ran out of breath, and fell back panting.
"Zeth!" said Owen. "Come on now! I can't do it for you!"
A Sime could have wrapped tentacles about Zeth's arms to force the fluids against the membranes. A Gen could have done almost as well with fingers—but it had to be done to both arms at once.
"Here—hang on to me," said Owen, thrusting his arm against Zeth's palms. Zeth's fingers dug into the hard Gen muscle for the final contraction. It had to be the last one, or he'd surely die of attrition before breakout.
"Owen—" he cried, helpless before the pain, but the cry cut off as he strained once more, tentacles burning in the searing fluids, pressure too much to bear.