The campfire crackled and hissed, throwing sparks with the flow of the wind.  Skinner brushed one off his sleeve, wishing he could move farther from the fire.  They had chained him close, so they could “keep an eye on him.”

       Not that anyone was watching right now.  The gendealer was sleeping off a recent kill, and the other Simes were nowhere to be seen.

       This morning marked the third time he had been used as bait.  Almost the last; the Sime had gotten his tentacles on Skinner and had just taken the fifth contact point when the dealer and his scabby flunkies had pulled him off.

       Skinner’s arms still throbbed from transfer burn; he put them behind himself trying to shield them from the heat.

       Though post from his kill, the cheated Sime had ridden out of camp swearing to come back with a dozen men and take out his due in “iron and blood.”  The gendealer had hastily packed up the caravan and moved a half day’s travel, away from the direction the angry customer had taken.

       Half a day closer to the border.

       This may be the only chance I will ever have.  Gritting his teeth against the pain, Skinner began yanking savagely on the chain fastening his ankle to the wooden post.

       Some time later, exhausted and dripping sweat, he admitted that the stake was too deeply lodged.  There’s got to be a way.  The fire made a loud popping sound and a glowing coal landed near his foot.  Skinner stared at it for moment.  Wood burns.  If he scraped coals onto the stake he might be able to weaken it enough to break.

       There were a pair of boots propped up by the fire, after their forced march through a shallow river.  Gingerly, Skinner pulled the hot leather over his unfettered foot and used it to scrape coals up out of the firepit, piling them on top of the stake.

       The smell of scorched leather gave him a tiny bit of satisfaction.  He thought about tossing both boots into the fire, but it would have been pointlessly petty.  Besides, he’d need the boots if he managed to get free before the Simes came to check on him.  Skinner bent closer to the coals and blew.  The stake glowed in patches, blackened ashy bits floating to the ground.  Skinner put the other boot on his chained foot, managing to lace it loosely around the leg iron.

       He kicked hard against the chain, again and again, scattering the coals.  Still too solid.  He nudged the coals back into place and fetched a few more from the dying fire.

       A liitle corn whisky would come in handy right now, he thought.  Whisky soaked wood would burn in no time.  And he could certainly use a drink.

       Skinner took hold of the chain, preparing to give it another yank when it was suddenly ripped from his hands.  A Sime stood over him, one booted foot one the chain.  “Well, well, trying to get away, are you, boy?” Mik nudged him with the toe of his boot.  “Thinking of making a run for the border?  You can’t imagine,” the man hissed, bending his face down close, “how much I’d love to haul you off to Scobin for a runner and tie you up on that rack and leave you there until the wind scours you right down to the bone.”  The Sime spat on Skinner’s chained leg.  “But the greedy old bastard still plans on using you for bait.  So here’s what I’m going to do.”  The Sime’s tentacles grasped the chain; with hardly a visible effort his broke the stake off.  “Here’s your chance, Gen.”

       He wants me to run, Skinner realized, so that he can chase me down and take me.  He’ll claim I escaped.  I could refuse to run.  I could tell the dealer that Mik engineered it all, that he burned the stake and freed me.  It would only be half a lie, and the gendealer, who wasn’t particularly sensitive, might even believe him.

       I’ll never be this close to the border again.  Skinner weighed his chances.  Under most circumstances there was no way he could outrun a Sime, but Mik was at least three quarters drunk.  Skinner stood.  He towered over Mik; most Gens were taller than Simes.

       Deliberately, he stopped to wind the chain around his leg and tuck the end into his boot.  I’m going to need an edge.  Mik was wearing a knife at his hip and another in his boot.  Skinner stared deliberately over Mik’s shoulder and widened his eyes.  “Shen!”

       Mik’s head whipped around.  Skinner grabbed the knife out of his belt and stabbed the man in the thigh.  As the Sime gasped in pain, Skinner shoved him into the fire and took off running, leaving Mik howling and cursing behind him.

       This is insane.  I’m never going to make it.  The Sime could outrun him, outlast him and zlin him in the dark.  Unless he could find some way to mask his nager he would stand out like a glowing beacon to any Sime within several hundred yards.

       Enough of this, he admonished himself.  Don’t will yourself to fail.  I’m not a Newly Established making my run.  I’ve been around long enough to learn a few tricks.

       The key was visualization.  All he had to do was find the right pattern and visualize it, and his nager would respond.

       Olbin had looked on him as something between a trusted apprentice and a talented pet to whom he taught tricks to amuse or annoy his guests.  He’d always wondered if his ability to manipulate his nager was unique, or if there were other Gens who could do it.

       The biggest problem with experimentation was that he needed a Sime to tell him what his nager was doing, since he couldn’t actually zlin himself.  The Sime didn’t necessarily need to be cooperating; he’d gotten very good at reading his own nager from their reaction.

       The hot night wind blew in Skinner’s face as he ran.  Good thing Simes can’t track by scent.  It was an irrelevant thought.  Got to keep my focus.  The chain banged on his leg, chafing and weighing him down.  Probably be bruised, by morning.

       He risked a glance behind him, but could make out no movement in the moon brightened darkness.  Maybe he’d gotten lucky and killed the Sime lorsh.  Even if that was the case, it wouldn’t buy him much extra time.  They’ll come after me and when they catch me it won’t be any ordinary kill.  They’ll make me last for days.

       His lungs ached and he could hear his own breath rasping loudly.  Got to slow down.  Not used to all this running.

       He cursed the fact that he’d spent most of the past few months sitting in a pen.  Stupid.  I should have tried to be more…accommodating.  Tame Gens were used for manual labor…he could have kept his stamina up that way.

       The shadow of a large rock formation loomed up to his left.  The stone was thick enough that it would shield his nager from any hunting Simes while he rested.  He staggered to the craggy mound of rock and collapsed into a sheltering crack.

       There was another trick that he could try, a trick taught to him by a friend of Olbin’s.  A Sime, but a very odd one.  He had called himself Zimeon, and he hadn’t acted like most of the other Simes Skinner had known.  He had treated Skinner like a person, a real human being.  He hadn’t stayed long, claiming the gypsy in him was too strong for long visits, but before he’d left…

       A Gen’s nager was highly noticeable.  Simes could zlin it through the walls, even if they weren’t particularly sensitive.  Zimeon had showed him how to pull his nager in so close that it couldn’t be zlinned from any other living thing.  How to look like trees and grass.  It wouldn’t do any good if the Sime had spotted you already, or if the wasn’t any life nearby, but here in the dark, surrounded by brush and the occasional night creature…it just might save him.

       …it just might save us…

       A memory thrust itself into his mind.  It had that faraway echo of something he had once known and forgotten, the tight ache of something he had once held close to his heart.  A voice chanting “smooth waters…smooth waters…”  Skinner remembered a lake, wide and blue, surrounded by trees.  There was a light breeze blowing across their faces.

       “Imagine the lake.  The wind blows ripples across it.  The wind is the selyn.  The lake is the nager.  Take control of the wind.  You cannot stop it.  No one can, short of death.  But you can redirect it…up…up…so that no hint of it touches the lake.  Up. Away.  There are no ripples.”

       The speaker was a woman.  Her voice was familiar; Skinner’s eyes stung.  Don’t remember, something in him cried out.  But once it had been opened, that door couldn’t be shut.  “It isn’t concentration.  It’s the opposite.  Picture yourself passively watching it happen; the breeze rises higher, the ripples die down, until the water is glassy calm.  Watch it happen.  Know it will happen.  We can’t sense it like they do, all we can do is observe its effects on others.”

       Mother.  The grief was so deep that for a moment Skinner couldn’t breath.  What happened to you?

       His earliest memories had been of the cage they kept in him, just before he was sold to Olbin.  According to Olbin he’d been a scrawny child, underweight and nervous.  That was why Olbin had bought him, figuring he’d changeover and become Olbin’s apprentice.  The son he never had.  By the time Olbin realized his mistake…

       Skinner had been lucky.  Olbin was a decent man; another Sime would have sold him for the kill.  He would have fetched a good price; already prime kill because of having been treated like a person instead of an animal.

       That was the difference between a prime kill and an ordinary one.  It was more fun to kill a person than an animal.

       Monsters.  Simes were monsters.

       It puzzled him to think about it.  He’d been around Simes all his life, and most of them weren’t monsters, most of them.  Only when they were in need, and then, only toward the Gens they killed.

       And even then…

       He knew Simes who wouldn’t take their Gens unless they had been drugGed to near insensibility.  Simes who abhorred the Choice kill.  It was against the law for parents whose children Established to take them across the border.  And yet…there were those who risked death by attrition to give the chance for life to children who had just become animals in the eyes of the law.

       The pounding of hooves caught him off guard.  Skinner cursed himself for a fool, to get caught daydreaming while he was being hunted.  He pressed himself against the rock, praying that it would shield him from detection.

       From the sounds, Skinner established there were at least two handfuls mounted.  Light played faintly on the ground as they passed; that was odd.  Simes didn’t usually carry torches.

       Then he heard the crack of a rifle shot.

       Only Gens used guns.

       They had to be the Gen Border Patrol.  Skinner flopped down on his belly and squirmed to the edge of the rock.

       Torches bobbed as galloping horses carried their riders in the direction from which he had come.  They were heading for the gendealer’s caravan.  In his haste to avoid his irate customer, the dealer must have strayed farther out-territory than he’d thought.

       It will be a slaughter.  If they were all armed, and the Gen Patrol always was, they would be able to kill the Simes from a distance, without coming within tentacle reach.

       He wondered what Gens did to the pen-bred?  Mercy killing?

       Skinner climbed to his feet.  If he chased after the Gens, he might get shot before the Gens realized he was one of them.  But if he stayed, he missed his chance.  With no food or water, the odds that he’d survive his trek alone were fairly slim.

       There was more shooting as he ran, then a scream and more shooting.  One of the torches fell to the ground and went out; a horse neighed in protest.

       He was badly winded by the time he reached the scene of the disturbance.  A guttered torch lay, barely glowing, beside two bodies.  One was Sime, the other Gen.  Two of the Sime’s tentacles were still draped over the Gen’s arms.  He thought the Sime was Mik but he couldn’t be sure.

       Mik must have been trailing him when the patrol appeared.  His death would have given the camp warning, though how much good it would do them, Skinner couldn’t guess.

       He could see the shapes of mounted men silhouetted against the campfire’s glow.  Suddenly the camp brightened and he heard voices crying out in terror, then screaming.  Men were cursing, someone was shouting orders.  More gunshots.

       Skinner moved past the two corpses, wondering if he should try to go in now, or wait until the screaming died down.  He edged closer to camp.

       After a while, things quieted down.  Skinner rolled his sleeves tightly up his arms, and walked slowly toward the center of camp.

       A sudden flare of torchlight blinded him.  As he squinted his eyes against the glare, he could see a Gen dressed in what was probably the Gen Border Patrol uniform, pointing a gun at him.

       “Don’t shoot!” He lifted his arms to show that they had no tentacles.

       “Go over and stand with the others,” the Gen ordered.  He gestured at one of the caravan’s pens, in which a dozen Gens cowered.

       “I’m not a pen-bred,” Skinner told him, struggling to hide his irritation.

       “I don’t give a shendi-flayed carbon what you are,” the man snarled.  “You’re monster bred as far as I’m concerned.  If I had my way the whole lot of you would be shot.”

       “That’s enough, Zak.”  A taller Gen, whose uniform sported a number of ribbons and symbols, stepped between them.  “Just go and stand in the pen until we get everyone sorted out,” he told Skinner.  “No harm will come to you.

       “Is this how you treat people?  Putting them in cages?  You’re no better than the Simes.” Skinner struggled with a growing sense of anger and betrayal.  Are these the people I’ve been hoping to return to?  Maybe I’d be better of with the monsters.  “At least they only cage their animals, not their own.”

       “That’s what we’re doing,” sneered Zak.  “Caging the animals.  You and those other abominations.”

       “Zak!” the second second man said sharply.  “Go and help Tizzen and Maree search the caravans.  That’s an order, mister!”

       With a last glowering look at Skinner, Zak spun on his heel and strode away.

       The officer turned back to him.  “My name is Major Blain Mercer.  I’m responsible for keeping this unit in order, and for keeping my men safe.  Two weeks ago we caught a gencatcher group within a mile of our border.  We took the Simes captive, intending to make a public example of what we do to trespassers, but one of the Gens who we had freed turned coat.  She freed the Simes and some of them escaped.  Zak’s brother was killed.”

       “I’m sorry for your loss,” Skinner said stiffly.  It certainly explained the first man’s hostility, and the stern security precautions.

       “Policy now is that all Simes will be killed or put in irons, and all Gens must be secured.  I’m sorry, but we aren’t allowed to make exceptions.”

       “So you lock us up in pens.  What happens to us then?”

       “We’ll drive the caravan north.  As soon as we can get to a town we’ll let you out.  You’ll be cared for and integrated into…society.”

       Who says I want to be?  The bitterness was so great Skinner could feel the muscles of his lips twitching.  At least the Simes never disappointed me.  They are what they are.

       “Follow me.”  Major Blain turned on his heel, and after a moment of hesitation Skinner did as he was instructed.  He was led to a wagon which Skinner recognized as having belonged to the gendealer.

       The bodies of three Simes lay stacked like cordwood against a wagon wheel.

       It was ironic.  That’s where Zinah’s body had laid.

       “Can you identify these?” Major Blain pointed to the bodies.

       “That one’s the dealer.  Scobin.  That one…I think his name was Vill.  The other was just hired, I don’t remember a name.  The one out there, that killed one of your men…his name was Mik.”

       “Friend of yours, maybe?  You seem to know a lot about them.  I didn’t think Simes and Gens were on a first name basis on this side of the border.”

       “Depends on the Sime.  Some of them are almost human.  Not that anyone on your side of the border would know about that.”  Skinner knew he shouldn’t be antagonizing the man, but they were already going to lock him in a cage.  Who the shen cared what they thought about him?  This one’s prejudices were as strong as the other one’s, just not as loud.  They expected to find nothing in this camp but monsters, cattle and craven turncoats.  “You’re wasting your time.  No, I’m not sorry they’re dead.  Any of them.  They were all monsters and the world is better off without them.  But before you get too proud of yourself; doing a character study on the corpses you’ve just made is an exercise in futility.  You hear what you like and it’s justification.  You hear what you don’t like and you ignore it.  Either way, it’s a waste of time.”

       “Pretty high-falutin’ philosophy, coming from someone who was basically dinner on the hoof.”

       “You’d be amazed at the level of civilization that your own can achieve.  Especially given what it costs us.”

       “So tell me.  What does it cost to betray your people?”

       “You’d be in a better position to answer that question than I would,” Skinner looked down on the man, feeling his dislike grow with every word.  “Does it ever keep you up at night, putting people in cages?  Or do you do the same thing the Simes do; make yourself feel better by pretending that they aren’t really people?”

       “You’re mighty full of self justification, mister…what do you call yourself?”

       “The Simes call me Skinner.  That’ll do for you.”  It was odd, but Major Blain didn’t seem to be angered by Skinner’s rudeness.  If anything, it seemed to amuse him.

       “Skinner, then.  Tell me exactly why you were running about free in camp while your fellow Gens were locked up.  Were you some sort of special pet?”

       Skinner spat on the ground next to the man’s show, and his fists clenched reflexively.  “They chained me up by the fire, just to remind me of what would happen if I didn’t cooperate.  My guard was drunk so I managed to escape.”  It was close enough to the truth.  “He was chasing me down when you all showed up.”

       “Lucky for you that we did, then.”

       “I suppose.” The admission left a sour taste in Skinner’s mouth.

       “You don’t seem to be particularly glad to see us.”

       I was.  I would have been.  If you’d been what you should.  Skinner knew it was irrational to be so angry.  This man didn’t know him, didn’t owe him anything.  What the shen did I expect?

       Then it came to him what the answer to that question was, and he gave a short, bitter laugh.

       “Something funny, Skinner?”

       “Nothing that would interest you.”

       “You’d be amazed the sort of things that interest me.”

       “It just came to me that most of my adult life I was thinking of the Gen Border Patrol like some sort of…” Skinner snorted at his own naiveté “…great protectors.  Champions of all Genkind. Now I realize that you don’t really give a shit about us over here, you just hate Simes.”

       “You don’t know me well enough to be passing that sort of judgment, Skinner,” Major Blain said quietly.  Genuine anger was stirring behind his eyes.

       Skinner shrugged.  “You may as well put me into the cage with the rest of the dinner crowd,” he said.  “I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other.”

       There was a chuckle from the darkness.  “Uppity Gen.” A man stepped out from the shadows behind the caravan.

       The Major snorted.  “You should know.”

       “I’m surrounded by them,” the man grumbled.  As he moved closer, Skinner could see the outline of tentacle sheaths on his arms.  A Sime?

       Major Blain chuckled at Skinner’s expression.  “Guess you have a lot to learn about this side of the border, hmm?  Tavis…your report?”

       “He hasn’t told you any deliberate untruths yet.  He’s keeping something back about how he escaped, though.”  The Sime’s dorsal tentacles emerged, sweeping the air near Skinner’s face.  “He’s not afraid of tentacles.  Sine I doubt he’s ignorant of the Kill, I’d guess he’s been a Domestic all his adult life, probably a skilled profession.  Skinner, hmm?  Trapper or tanner?”

       “Tanner,” Skinner confirmed, feeling slightly bewildered.  You’re a Sime.  Why don’t they kill you?”

       “Really?” The man examined his arm sheaths.  His eyes widened in mock alarm.  “Shuven, Blain!  I have tentacles.”

       “Uppity Sime,” Blain said, good naturedly.  “One of the benefits of having lots of brothers,” he told Skinner.

       “Besides,” Tavis interjected, “there are a lot of advantages to having a tame Sime that they don’t want to give up.  So, let’s have it.  How did you really escape?”

       “The guard let me loose,” Skinner admitted.  “He wanted to kill me, but he didn’t want the gendealer to know.  So staged it, to make it look like I had escaped.”

       “Why’d you run, then?”

       “Anything was better than staying.”

       Tavis nodded, then turned to Blain.  “I give him a pass.  He knows I’m zlinning his answers and it doesn’t bother him.  If he had anything to hide he’d be more worried.”

       Blain gave a thin smile.  “We’re good, then.  Tavis, you keep him with you until we have time to introduce him around.  Wouldn’t want someone to shoot him by accident.  Tavis, you go round and zlin all the structures, and then do a perimeter sweep.  I want all living bodies identified and accounted for.  Use Skinner if you need to talk to any of the Gens.”

       Tavis clapped the palms of his hands together and bowed mockingly “I live to serve, oh eldest brother and purveyor of plan-ly activities.  C’mon, Skinner.  Why don’t you give me the tour.  Let’s start with where they keep the food and other supplies for their prisoners.  Is there enough for a week long trip?”

       Skinner found the wagon that held supplies; it was fairly well stocked.

Tavis took a quick inventory.  “There’s enough to take us clear to Fort Amber, no problem.  Unless…how many people are we going to be feeding?”

       A lot less than there were four days ago.  “Close to four dozen.”

       “How many pen-bred?”

       “All but two.”

       “Damn.  That’s going to be…challenging.”

       “They’re used to being handled.  And being kept in a cage.”

       “I was thinking of farther down the line.  Almost fifty new mouths are a lot to feed.  They don’t speak the language, and it’ll be a while before some of them start becoming useful.  Fort Amber isn’t large enough to easily bear the weight of so many refugees.  We weren’t expecting to run across a major gendealer this close to the border.  Any idea why?”

       “The gendealer was using me as a lure, to cheat his customers.  He’d wave my nager under their laterals, then shove a pen-bred at them.  He pissed off someone important, the son of somebody, so he had to run.”

       Tavis gave him a curious look.  “You’re a brutally honest man,” he commented.

       “Not much use being otherwise, when you live among Simes.”

       “How did you learn English?”

       Skinner shrugged.  “I’ve always known it, I guess.”

       “Where were you born?”

       “I don’t remember.  You always so nosy”

       “Always,” Tavis answered cheerfully.  “So, you’re a tanner?  That’s good.  Most of our tanning is amateur work; it’ll be nice to have something better.  Do you know dyes?”

       “Some,” Skinner admitted cautiously.  “I’m an herbalist as well.” Olbin’s physician had been fascinated with him, teaching him to read and write, letting him pore through medical texts.  He’d pretty much taken over Olbin’s care, toward the end.  “So, this Fort Amber is where you’re based out of?  How large is it?”

       “Hole in the wall.  Lots of holes, actually. You’ll see.  How about this other Gen?  Does he have a useful profession?”

       “Assuming that the overdose of drugged slop that they’ve been feeding him hasn’t pickled his brain, he’s a brilliant carpenter.  Also a marvelous musician.”

       Tavis brightened up at that.  “How’s his singing voice?  We badly need a male tenor.  And someone who can make, or at least repair, musical instruments.”

       “He can.  I’m not sure what you’d call his voice.  It’s nice.”

       “Well, finding you two was a piece of luck on our part.  Most of the Domestics that we come across aren’t good for much more than hard labor, household duties and riding herd on other Gens.”

       They stopped briefly at another wagon, where Tavis helped Skinner strike the chains from his legs.  Skinner rubbed at the raw patches, grimacing.  “What happens to them?  The pen-bred?”

       “They get adopted into whatever households have room.  Many of them adapt quickly; in a few years you’d hardly know they were anything but normal people.  Stop..!”

       Skinner froze, while Tavis scanned the ambient, his laterals licking out to increase his sensitivity.  “Hmm.  I thought I felt something.  Just jumpy, I guess.  Now, what were we talking about?  Oh, pen-bred.  Speaking of…”

       Ordinarily, most of the Gens in the cages would have been settled down for the night, but the noise and commotion had most of them not only alert but half panicked.

       “I’m sorry we can’t let them out now,” Tavis murmered.  “Not unless you think you can keep them under control.”

       “No.”  Spooked pen-bred tended to stampede and scatter.  “I wouldn’t even try, on a night like this.”

       Tavis’ expression turned serious.  “We really don’t like keeping people in cages, Skinner.”

       “I understand.  I’m…sorry.  For making assumptions about you.  And for some of the things I said.  I hope I didn’t offend your brother too much.”

       “Naw.”  Tavis grinned.  “He was just pushing your buttons so I could get a good reading.  That’s how we work.  So, what can we do to make them more comfortable?”

       “Their sleeping rolls should be around somewhere.” With Tavis helping him search, it didn’t take long to locate the blankets.  Skinner was finding himself more and more drawn to the young Sime.  Tavis was confident, but not arrogant.  Compassionate, but practical.  He had a subtle sense of humor that caught Skinner off-guard more than once.

       “I’d like to let Garrett out, if that’s all right.” The older man’s face was pressed against the bars of the cage, staring vacantly out toward the mountains.

       “He a friend of yours?”

       “He’s the carpenter I was telling you about.”

       “Okay.  You want to go in there or shall I?”

       “I will.  Another Gen won’t panic them.”  The Gens were settling own in their sleeping rolls, wolfing down the extra rations which they had been given.  It was unlikely that the mere presence of a Sime would frighten them too badly, but better not to take chances.  Skinner climbed into the cage, feeling the unwelcome familiarity at the smell of the place.  He picked his way carefully through the mosaic of prone bodies.  “Garrett, come with me.”  With a little gentle coaxing, Skinner persuaded Garrett to leave the cage with him.

       “Is he afraid of being handled?” Tavis asked.  Cautiously, he extended his dorsals to touch Garrett’s arm.

       “He’s too drugged to be afraid of anything right now.  It’ll be a couple of days before he’s able to function normally.”

       Tavis studied Garrett’s face for a moment.  “Can I ask…a personal question?”

       “I suppose,” Skinner answered cautiously, wondering if Tavis would have let be if he’d said no.  Probably not.

       “How can you…live with this?  Being treated like animals, seeing your friends killed, having no future and no hope?  How do you survive it?”

       Skinner’s throat tightened up.  How do we survive?  He leaned back against the bars of the cage.  “We have no choice,” he said, simply.  “Growing up, we all knew there was a chance we would be Gen, but none of us ever let ourselves believe.  We joked about the pen-bred, talked about who we hoped to be apprenticed to.  Every day we inspected our arms, hoping that we’d see the beginnings of Changeover.  But, one by one, we all lost hope.  When someone Established, only the Simes could tell.  Our owner would come in with a couple of men and we’d all pray it wasn’t for us.  A few of us got lucky.  I got sold to a tanner, who was gambling that I’d change over and make him a good apprentice.  He was half right.”

       “Did they ever look back?  The ones who changed over?  Were they different?  Did they see Gens as people?”

       “A few do.  I had a friend who killed himself.  Slashed his ventrals with a knife.  Then opened his own wrists.”

       “Because he didn’t want to be a Sime?”

       “Because they shoved him into a killroom with his best friend.”

       Tavis stared at him in horror.  “How could they..?”

       “Because he bought his friend in order to save him.  I think he was planning on helping him cross.  That’s against the law.”

       “They tell us stories about what monsters they are on the other side of the border, but I always thought most of them were…” Tavis shook his head disbelievingly “…like the lies and exaggerations you tell kids to make them behave.” His shoulders slumped.  “Most people look at me like I’m a monster.  If I didn’t have seven brothers in the patrol I’d probably be dead.”

       “It’s good to have family,” Skinner said wistfully.

       “Do you?  Have family?  You speak English…did they take you in a raid? “

       “I don’t know where I grew up,” Skinner said truthfully.  “My memory of it is mostly gone.  I remember living by a lake.  My mother…I don’t know if she was Sime or Gen.”

       Travis made a sympathetic sound, brushing Skinner’s arm with his fingertips.  “Maybe you can find her.”

       She’s dead.  The echo of that certainty brought tears to Skinner’s eyes.  He brushed them away, continuing gruffly “My earliest clear memories are of being transported in a high walled wagon, like a cage but with no bars.  They pushed food and water in through the slats.  We had to use holes in the floor for pissing and shitting.  I was trained for three months before they sold me to a gendealer specializing in children.”

       “Trained?  To do what?” Travis’ eyes held a kind of horrified fascination.

       “The kind of training you’d give any animal.  Do what we want, you get a treat.  Don’t do what we want and you get beaten.  They whipped us for trying to maintain our personhood or sense of dignity.  We weren’t allowed to have names.  They tortured us and killed us in front of each other, to drive home our sense of powerlessness.  Obedience was rewarded.  Treachery to our own kind was rewarded.  Once they were certain we were too cowed to rebel, they sold us.  I was a skinny kid, short for my age and fairly quick to make myself useful.  That’s why they figured I’d Changeover, so they sold me as an apprentice.”

       “They don’t apprentice Gens?  Not even their own children?”

       “Haven’t you been listening?” Skinner snapped, overcome with shame at having to explain to this young man who had never known what it was like to live among Simes.  “Gens aren’t people, over there.  They’re…pets.  Not even pets.  Livestock.  Possessions.  Even though Olbin used me the same way he’d use a Sime apprentice, I never was.  I didn’t have rights…he could have killed me or sold me whenever he wanted…”

       Tavis winced, raising a hand as if to ward off a blow.  “Skinner, please don’t…”

       “Sorry.”  Skinner quickly damped his nager.  “How do you survive, living among Gens?  The ambients must drive you wild.”

       Tavis lowered his arm.  “It’s not so bad, most of the time.  My brothers and the rest of the patrol work on controlling their nagers, and they keep me insulated from outsiders when they can.  When I’m not on patrol I keep my sleeves rolled down and try to stay in familiar territory.”

       Skinner hesitated for a moment, then said “Can I ask you a personal question?”

       “Fair’s fair,” Tavis tried to grin, but the expression never reached his eyes.  “Criminals.”

       “What?”

       “You want to know where I get my selyn.  My brothers made an arrangement with the other patrols.  Instead of execution by shooting or hanging, they bring Gen criminals to me.” Tavis looked away, bitterness lining his face.  “They even pay me for it.  A salary, for being the territory executioner.  It doesn’t make me popular, but it beats dying of attrition.”

       “Well…that wasn’t the question I was about to ask you, but I had wondered.  I’m sorry.  I’m sure it must be difficult for you, living your life separated from everyone around you.  It must have been as…hateful for you, turning Sime, as it was for me realizing that I never would.”

       “That never occurred to me but, yes, you’re right.”  Some of the bitterness left Tavis’ face.  “You really don’t see me as a monster.  A freak.  Being Sime is…normal, to you.”

       “You’re not a monster, Tavis.  Far from it.  You’re one of the few Simes I’ve met who wasn’t.  And probably the only Sime I’ve met that saw me as an equal.”

       “I envy you,” Tavis sighed.  “All Gens, really.  I’d give anything to be free of this…need.  It gnaws at me constantly.  And then when the need is gone there’s the guilt.  I’d give anything to be normal.”

       “Normal depends on what side of the border you’re from,” Skinner remarked.  “In-territory, you’d be the normal one.  Normal isn’t always something to strive for.”

       “I guess.  So, what was your question, anyway?  I can’t…” Tavis suddenly tensed.  “What the…”

       Mounted horsemen burst into the camp.  A pistol cracked and one of them tumbled from his horse.  “Shen!” another yelled.  “It’s Patrol!  What are they doing here?!”

       “Take cover!” Tavis shouted to Skinner and then with an impossible leap he was grappling with another of the riders.