done collections of short stories by each of us. Now finally, with this volume, polished for this new market, they will have all the Sime~Gen Novels extant in print simultaneously.
All this has taken so long that we lost touch with many of the Founding 400+ subscribers who want this novel, and one fan in Australia has set up a SimeGen Group on facebook to try to connect with them. The List of the 400 is appended to the end of this volume.
If you know any of these folks who have lost touch, please tell them The Farris Channel is now available.
CHRONOLOGY OF THE SIME~GEN UNIVERSE
The Sime~Gen Universe was originated by Jacqueline Lichtenberg who was then joined by a large number of Star Trek fans. Soon, Jean Lorrah, already a professional writer, began writing fanzine stories for one of the Sime~Gen ’zines. But Jean produced a novel about the moment when the first channel discovered he didn’t have to kill to live which Jacqueline sold to Doubleday.
The chronology of stories in this fictional universe expanded to cover thousands of years of human history, and fans have been filling in the gaps between professionally published novels. The full official chronology is posted at
http://www.simegen.com/CHRONO1.html
Here is the chronology of the novels by Jacqueline Lichtenberg and Jean Lorrah by the Unity Calendar date in which they are set.
-533—First Channel, by Jean Lorrah & Jacqueline Lichtenberg
-518—Channel’s Destiny, by Jean Lorrah & Jacqueline Lichtenberg
-468—The Farris Channel, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
-20—Ambrov Keon, by Jean Lorrah
-15—House of Zeor, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
0—Zelerod’s Doom, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg & Jean Lorrah
+1—To Kiss or to Kill, by Jean Lorrah
+1—The Story Untold and Other Sime~Gen Stories, by Jean Lorrah
+132—Unto Zeor, Forever, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
+152—Mahogany Trinrose, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
+224—“Operation High Time,” by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
+232—RenSime, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
+245—Personal Recognizance, by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
Sime~Gen:
where a mutation makes the evolutionary
division into male and female
pale by comparison.
PROLOGUE
“NOW IS THE TIME”
“I, Xigram Klairon Farris, Last Sectuib in Zeor, commend this narrative to the permanent record of the Zeor Archives.”
A subliminal stir wafted through in the vast amphitheater packed with the members of Zeor. Xigram faced them from the stage and spoke in measured tones. He knew they saw an elderly man, white haired, frail, with the typical black Farris eyes, and a sufficient hint of the Zeor Farris nose, lips, chin.
In one hand he held a magnificently bound volume from which he was about to read. The formal cloak of the Head of this, the Last Householding still functioning in the galaxy, draped his shoulders. It was the bright blue of Zeor, with the distinctive black edging of the Farris, the hem thrown back over his shoulders to expose the white lining designating the Sectuib. All the primitive, time-honored and hallowed symbolism was echoed in the garb of everyone in the audience.
They all knew they were about to hear the very private, never before transcribed story of the Founding of Zeor. They had all grown up on this bedtime story, and the amphitheater’s ambient vibrated with the warm, secure feeling of childhood’s bedtime.
But this telling would be different. This time they would hear it told as the Sectuib in Zeor Received it from his predecessor and Delivered it to his successor. This was the real story, not the fairy tale. Today, they would all Receive Zeor and take it away to give to the galaxy.
The stage behind the Last Sectuib was set with the archeological treasures of Zeor. Foremost was the remains of the stone on which the names of the first martyrs had been inscribed. Around that oldest symbol of Zeor were arrayed the plaques and monuments that had been added to the Memorial to the One Billion over the centuries. A huge glowing image of Zeor’s stylized dagger symbol dominated the background.
The Lamp had been lit within a bubbling fountain’s pure water brought from Earth for this ceremony. Over the last ten days, the Roll of Martyrs had been read by the Officers of Zeor in a round-the-clock marathon before an audience that was never less than a third of the crowd Xigram now faced.
Xigram Klairon Farris took a deep breath, gathering himself before plunging across the point-of-no-return. For once he had recorded the full, unedited narrative into the Archive read aloud before Zeor in his own voice as he had Received it, he would extinguish the Lamp of Zeor for all time.
Zeor has served its purpose; the Vision has been made real for all humanity. So why, then, did his throat close up tight over the words? As the narrative instructs, this must be my last duty or my soul, the souls of all who have ever been ambrov Zeor, will never know peace.
He swallowed hard and began as thousands of parents for thousands of generations had begun.
“This is the Ideal of Zeor.
“This is the Heart of Zeor.
“This is the Spirit of Zeor.
“This is the Reality of Zeor.”
He opened the great volume he had written with his own hand and began to read in a voice strangely not his own:
CHAPTER ONE
FATEFUL DECISION
Del Rimon Farris, ranking channel in Fort Rimon, rose behind his desk as people boiled through his door and more pushed in behind.
He had never had so many shouting people cram into his office before. In such a babble, he strained to understand what they were yelling about.
Simes and Gens alike, those who had come here to homestead with him, and the refugees they’d taken in, all emitted clashing emotional fields which charged the ambient nager with determination, maybe rage, and all of it directed at him, personally, pounding his Sime senses.
As close as he could figure it, the refugees desperately wanted to avoid another disaster such as had destroyed their homes and left them begging Fort Rimon for shelter. The Fort Rimon natives wanted to defend their homes from the refugees’ panic.
Del Rimon eased down into his desk chair, braced his elbows on the arms, and calmly laced his fingers and tentacles into an arch. Acutely aware of the painting of Fort Freedom that hung on the wall behind him, framing him in two generations of tradition as he sat there, he worked to spread calm through the room.
Benart, a big Gen who was Fort Rimon’s chief record keeper, edged through the crowd to sit on a tall stool at the corner of Delri’s desk. He took up a slate on which he usually scrawled notes of meetings. His muscles tightened, his chalk screeched jerkily across the slate.
Fear will be the end of us all. Panic will destroy us.
Del Rimon’s Companion, a supremely talented Gen, focused steady attention on Rimon. That let him work on the emotional turmoil with his special channel’s talent. He made eye contact with several key individuals, one after another, and they began helping calm the ambient.
With that bit of local quiet, he zlinned the distance beyond the building. Far outside their little walled compound they dubbed with the grandiose name, Fort Rimon after Del Rimon’s grandfather, smoke plumed from behind the hill that separated them from Shifron, the local junct town.
Even from within the shielded office, Del Rimon Farris was sure he was zlinning the death of the town of Shifron at the hands of a huge