Killashandra

Chapter 1

Winters on Ballybran were generally mild, so the fury of the first spring storms as they howled across the land was ever unexpected. This first one of the new season swept ferociously across the Milekey Ranges, bearing before its westward course the fleeing sleds of crystal singers like so much jetsam. Those laggard singers who had tarried too long at their claims were barely able to hold their bucking sleds on course as they bolted for the safety of the Heptite Guild Complex.

Inside the gigantic Hangar, its baffles raised against the mach winds, ordered confusion reigned. Crystal singers lurched from their sleds. half deafened by windscream, exhausted by their turbulent flights. The Hangar crew, apparently possessed of eyes in the backs of their heads, miraculously avoided injury as they concentrated on the primary task of moving incoming sleds off the Hangar floor and into storage racks, clearing the way for the erratic landings of the stream of incoming vehicles. The crash claxon pierced even storm howl as two sleds collided, one to dip over the baffle and land nose down on the plascrete while the other veered out of control like a flat rock skipping across water, coming to a crumpling halt against the far wall. A tractor zipped in to fasten grapples on the upside-down sled, removing it only seconds before another sled skimmed over the baffle.

That sled almost repeated the nose dive, pulling up at the last second and skidding across the Hangar floor to stop just inches away from the line of handlers carrying the precious cartons of crystal in to Sorting. Only a near miss, the incident was disregarded even by those who had barely escaped injury.

Killashandra Ree emerged from the sled, taking as a good omen the fact that her sled had skidded to a halt so close to the Sorting Sheds. She caught the arm of the next handler to pass her and firmly diverted him to her cargo door, which she flung open. She didn’t have much crystal, so every speck she had cut was precious to her. If she didn’t earn enough credit to get off-planet this time . . . Killashandra ground her teeth as she hurried her carton into the Sorting Shed.

As the man she had pressed into her service quite properly put her carton down at the Hangar end of a line of ranked containers, Killashandra’s patience evaporated. “No, over here!” she shouted. “Not there! It’ll take all day to be sorted. Here.”

She waited until he had deposited her carton in the indicated row before adding her own. Then she strode back to her sled for a second load, commandeering two more unencumbered handlers on the way. Only after eight cartons were unloaded did she permit herself to pause briefly, coping with the multiple fatigues that assailed her. She had worked nonstop for two days, desperate to cut enough crystal to get off Ballybran. Crystal pulsed in her blood and bones, denying her rest in sleep, surcease by day, no matter how she tried to tire her body. Her only respite was immersion in the radiant fluid bath. But no one cut crystal from a bathcube! She had to get off-planet to ease the disturbing thrum.

For over a year and a half, ever since the Passover storms had shattered Keborgen’s old claim, she had searched unremittingly for a workable site Killashandra was realist enough to admit to herself that the probability of finding a new claim as important and valuable as Keborgen’s black crystal was very low. Still, she had every right to expect to find some useful, and reasonably lucrative, crystal in Ballybran’s Ranges. And, with each fruitless trip into the Ranges, the credit balance she had amassed from her original cutting of Keborgen’s site and from the Trundomoux black crystal installation had eroded beneath the continuous charges the Heptite Guild exacted for even the most minor services rendered a crystal singer.

By fall, when everyone else she knew – Rimbol, Jezerey and Mistra – had managed to get off-planet, she had labored on, unable to make a worthwhile claim in any color. During the mild winter, she had doggedly hunted in the Ranges, returning to the Complex only long enough to replenish food packs and steep her crystal-weary body in the radiant fluid.

“You really ought to take a week or two up at Shanganagh Base,” Lanzecki had said, intercepting her on one of her brief visits.

“What good would that really do?” she had replied, almost snarling at him in her frustration. “I’d still feel crystal and I’d have to look at Ballybran.”

Lanzecki had given her a searching look. “You’re in no mood to believe me,” and he paused to be sure that he had her attention, “but you will find black crystal again, Killashandra. Meanwhile, the Guild has pressing needs in any shade you can find. Even the rose you so despise.” A gleam shone in his black eyes and his voice turned lugubrious as he said, “I am certain that you will be distressed to learn that the Passover storms destroyed Moksoon’s site, too.”

Killashandra had stared at him a moment before her sense of the ridiculous got the better of her and she laughed. “I am inconsolable!”

“I thought you might be.” His lips twitched with suppressed amusement. Then he reached down and pulled the plug on the radiant fluid. “You’ll find more crystal, Killa.”

It had been that calm and confident statement which had buoyed her flagging morale all during the next trip. Nor had it been entirely misplaced. The third week out, after disregarding two sites of rose and blue, she discovered white crystal but very nearly missed the vein entirely. If she had not been bolstering her spirits with arousing aria, causing the pinnacle under her hand to resonate, she might have missed the shy white crystal. Consistent with her long run of bad luck, the while proved elusive, the vein first deteriorating in quality and then disappearing entirely from the face at one point, resurfacing half a mile away in fractured shards. It had taken her weeks to clear the fault, digging away half the ridge before she got to usable crystal. Only the fact that white crystal had such a variety of potentially lucrative uses kept her going.

Forewarned of the spring storm by her symbiotic adaptation to Ballybran’s spore, Killashandra had cut at a frenzied pace until she was too hoarse to key the sonic cutter to the crystal. Only then had she stopped to rest. She had continued to cut until the first of the winds began to stroke the dangerous crystal sound from the Ranges. Recklessly, she had taken the most direct route back to the Complex, counting on the fact that she’d be the last singer in from the Ranges to protect her claim.

She had almost cut her retreat too fine: the hangar doors slammed shut against the shrieking storm as soon as her sled had cleared the baffles. She could expect a reprimand from the Flight Officer for her recklessness. And probably one from the Guild Master for ignoring the storm warnings.

She forced several deep breaths in and out of her lungs, dredging sufficient energy to complete the final step necessary to leave Ballybran. On the last breath, she grabbed the top carton and walked it into the Sorting Room, depositing it on Enthor’s table just as the old Sorter turned toward the shed.

“Killashandra! You startled me.” Enthor’s eyes flicked from normal to the augmented vision that was his adaptation to Ballybran. He reached eagerly for the carton. “Did you find the black vein again?” His face fell into lines of disappointment as his fingers found no trace of the sensations typical of the priceless, elusive black crystal.

“No such luck.” Killashandra’s voice broke on weary disgust. “But I devoutly hope it’s a respectable cut.” She half sat on the the table, needing its support to keep on her feet, as she watched Enthor unpack the crystal blocks from their plastic cocoons.

“Indeed!” Enthor’s voice lilted with approval as he removed the first white crystal shaft and set it with appropriate reverence on his work table. “Indeed!” He subjected the crystal to the scrutiny of his augmented eyes. “Flawless. White can so often be muddy. If I am not mistaken – ”

“That’ll he the day,” Killashandra muttered under her breath, her voice cracking.

“Never about crystal.” Enthor shot her a glance from under his brows, blinking to adjust his eyes to normal vision. Killashandra idly wondered what Enthor’s eyes saw of human flesh and bone in the augmented mode. “I do believe, my dear Killa, that you’ve anticipated the market.”

“I have?” Killashandra pulled herself erect. “With white crystal?”

Enthor lifted out more of the slender sparkling crystal shafts. “Yes, especially if you have matched groupings. These are a good start. What else did you cut?” As one, they retraced their steps to the storage, each collecting another carton.

“Forty-four – ”

“Ranked in size?”

“Yes.” Enthor’s excitement triggered hope in Killashandra.

“Forty-four, from the half centimeter – ”

“By the centimeter?”

“Half centimeter.”

Enthor beamed on her with almost as much enthusiasm as if she had brought him more black crystal.

“Your instinct is remarkable, Killa, for you could not have known about the order from the Optherians.”

“An organ group?”

Enthor gestured for Killashandra to help him display the white shafts on the workbench.

“Yes, indeed. An entire manual was fractured.” Enthor awarded her another of his beams. “Where are the rest? Quickly. Get them. “If there’s so much as one with a cloud —

Killashandra obeyed, stumbling against the swinging door. By the time the crystal was sparkling on the table, she was shuddering and had to cling to the bench to keep upright. It took a century for Enthor to evaluate her cut.

“Not a single cloudy crystal, Killashandra.” Enthor patted her arm and, taking up his little hammer, cocked his ear to the pure sweet notes each delicate rap coaxed from the crystal.

“How much, Enthor? How much?” Killashandra was hanging onto the table, and consciousness, with difficulty.

“Not as much, I fear, as black.” Enthor tapped figures into his terminal. He pulled at his lower lip as he waited for the altered display. “Still, 10,054 credits is not to be sneezed at.” He raised his eyebrows, anticipating a pleased response.

“Only ten thousand . . .” Her knees were collapsing, the muscles in her calves spasming painfully. She tightened her grip on the table’s edge.

“Surely that’s enough to take you off-planet.”

“But not far enough or long enough away.” Blackness was creeping across her sight. Killashandra released one hand from the table to rub her eyes.

“Would Optheria be far enough?” a dry, amused voice asked from behind her.

“Lanzecki . . .” she began, turning toward the Guild Master, but her turn became a spin, down into the darkness which would no longer be evaded.

“She’s coming round, Lanzecki.”

Killashandra heard the words. She could not understand their sense. The sentence, and the voice, echoed in her mind as if spoken in a tunnel. At the softest repetition, comprehension returned.

The voice was Antona’s, the Chief Medical Officer of the Heptite Guild.

Sensation returned then, but sensation was limited to feeling something under her chin and a restraint about her shoulders. The rest of her body was deprived of feeling. Killashandra twitched convulsively and felt the viscous resistance of radiant fluid. She was immersed – that explained the need for chin support and the shoulder restraint.

Opening her eyes, she was not surprised to find herself in the tank room of the Infirmary. Beyond her were several more such tanks, two occupied. judging by the heads visible above the rims.

“So. you’ve rejoined us, Killashandra!”

“How long have you been soaking me, Antona?”

Antona glanced at a display on the tank. “Thirty-two hours and nineteen rinses.” Antona shook a warning finger at Killashandra. “Don’t push yourself like this, Killa. You’re stretching your symbiont’s resources. Abuses like this now can cause degeneration problems later on. And it’s later on you really need protection. Remember that!” A mirthless smile crossed Antona’s classic features. “If you can. Well, at least put it in your memory banks when you get back to your room,” she added, with a sigh for the vagaries of singer recall.

“When can I get up?” Killashandra began to writhe in the tank, testing her limbs and the general response of her body.

Antona shrugged, tapping out a code on the terminal of the tank. “Oh, anytime now. Pulse and pressure readout’s strong. Head clear?”

“Yes.”

Antona pressed a stud and the chin support and shoulder harness released Killashandra. She caught the side of the tank, and Antona handed her a long robe.

“Do I need to tell you to eat?”

Killashandra grinned wryly. “No. My stomach knows I’m awake and it’s rumbling.”

“You’ve lost nearly two kilos, you know. Can you remember when you last ate?” Antona’s voice and eyes were sharp with annoyance. “No use asking, is it?”

“Not the least bit.” Killashandra replied blithely as she climbed out of the tank, the radiant fluid sheeting off her body, leaving her skin smooth and soft. She pulled the robe on. Antona held up a hand to balance her down the five steps.

“How much crystal resonance do you experience now?” Antona poised her fingers above the tank’s small terminal.

Killashandra listened attentively to the noise between her ears. “only a faint trace!” Her breath escaped her lips in a sigh of relief.

“Lanzecki said that you cut enough to go off-world.”

Killashandra frowned. “He said something else, too. But I forget what.” Something important, though, Killashandra knew.

“He’ll probably tell you again in good time. Get up to your quarters and get some food into you.” Antona gave Killashandra’s shoulder an admonitory squeeze before she turned away to check on the other patients.

As Killashandra made her way up from the Infirmary level, deep in the bowels of the Guild Complex, she puzzled over the memory lapse. She had been reassured that most singers had several decades of unimpaired recall before memory deteriorated, but no fast rule determined the onset. She had been lucky enough to have a Milekey Transition ending in full adaptation to Ballybran’s spore, an adaptation that was necessary for those inhabiting thc planet Ballybran. That kind of Transition held many benefits. not the least of which was avoiding the rigors of Transition Fever, and was purported to include a longer span of unimpaired memory. In this one instance, she could, perhaps, legitimately blame fatigue.

As the lift door opened on the deserted lobby of the main singer level, not a singer was in sight. The storm had blown itself out. She paused to glance through to the dining area and saw only one lone diner. Pulling the robe more tightly about her, she hurried down the corridor to the blue quadrant and her apartment.

The first thing she did was call up her credit balance, and felt the knot that had been tightening in her belly dissolve as the figures 12,790 rippled onto the screen. She regarded the total for a long moment, then tapped out the all-important query: how far away from Ballybran would that sum take her?

The names of four systems were displayed. Her stomach rumbled. She shifted irritably in her chair and asked for details of the amenities in each system. The replies were not exciting. In each system the Terran-type planets were purely industrial or agricultural, having, at best, only conservative leisure facilities. From comments she had overheard, Killashandra gathered that because of their proximity the locals had seen quite enough of their neighbors from Ballybran and tended to be either credit crunchers or rude to the point of dueling offense.

“The only thing that’s good about any of them.” Killashandra said with disgust, “is that I haven’t been there yet.”

Killashandra had thought to take her long-overdue holiday on Maxim, the pleasure planet in the Barderi system. From all she’d heard, it would be very easy to forget crystal resonance in the sophisticated amusement parks and houses of hedonistic Maxim. But she hadn’t yet the credit to indulge that whimsy.

Exasperated, she rubbed her palms together, noticing that the thick calluses from cutter vibrations had been softened by her long immersion. The numerous small nicks and cuts that were a singer’s occupational hazard had healed to thin white scars. Well, that function of her symbiont worked efficiently. And the white crystal would assure her some sort of an off-planet holiday.

White crystal! Enthor has said something about a fractured manual! Optherian sense organs used white Ballybran crystals and she had cut forty-four from the half centimeter on up in half-centimeter gradients.

Lanzecki had asked her a question.

“Would Optheria be far enough?” The words, remembered in his deep voice, sprang to mind.

She grinned with tremendous relief at retrieving that question and turned to the viewscreen to punch up his code.

“ – Killa?” Lanzecki’s hands were poised over his own terminal, surprise manifested by his raised eyebrows. “You haven’t used the catering unit.” He frowned.

“Oh, programmed to monitor that, did you?” she replied with a genuine smile at that reminder of their amorous alliance before her first trip into the Ranges. On her return from the Trundomoux System, they had had only a few days together before Lanzecki was swamped with work and she had to venture back into the Ranges. Since then, she had returned to the Complex only to replenish supplies or wait out a storm. Their reunions had consequently been brief. It was reassuring to realize that he wished to know when she was back.

“It seemed the ideal way to make contact. After thirty-two hours in a tank, you should be ravenous. I’ll just join you. if I may . . .” When she nodded assent, he typed a quick message on his console and pushed his chair back, smiling up at her. “I’m hungry, too.”

As further reassurance of her unimpaired memory. Killashandra had no trouble remembering Lanzecki’s tastes. She grinned as she ordered Yarran beer. Though her stomach gurgled impatiently, she’d had no desire for food in so long that she was as glad to be guided by Lanzecki’s preferences.

She was just slipping a brilliantly striped robe over her head when her door chimed an entry request. “Enter!” she called. On the same voice cue, the catering slot disgorged her order. The aroma of the dishes aroused her already voracious appetite.

She wasted no time in taking the steaming platters from the dispenser, grinning a welcome at Lanzecki as he joined her.

“The Commissary has asked me to relay a few well-chosen words of complaint about the sudden fad for Yarran beer,” he said, taking the pitcher and the beakers to the table. He seated himself before filling the two glasses. “To your restoration!” Lanzecki lifted his glass in toast, his expression obliquely chiding her for that necessity.

“Antona’s already scolded me. but I had to cut enough marketable crystal to get off-planet this time.”

“You’ve certainly succeeded with that white.”

“Don’t I remember you saying something about Optheria just as I passed out?”

Lanzecki took a swallow of the Yarran beer before he replied. “Quite likely.” He served himself a generous helping of fried Malva beans.

“Don’t the Optherians utilize white crystal in that multi-sense organ of theirs?”

“They do.”

So Lanzecki chose to be uncommunicative. Well, she could be persistent. “Enthor said that an entire manual was fractured.” Lanzecki nodded. She continued. “And you did ask me would Optheria be far enough?”

“I did?”

“You know you did.” Killashandra hung on to her patience. “You never forget anything. And the impression I got from your cryptic comment was that someone, and the inference was me” – she pressed her thumb into her chest – “would have to go there. Am I correct?”

He regarded her steadily, his expression unreadable. “Not long ago you gave me to understand that you would not undertake another off-world assignment – ”

“That was before I’d been stuck on this fardling planet – ” She noticed the wicked gleam in his eyes. “So, I’m right. A crystal singer does have to make the installation!”

It was a shocking incident,” Lanzecki said diffidently as he served himself more Malva beans. “The performer who damaged the organ was killed by the flying shards. He was also the only person on the planet who could handle such a major repair. As is so often the case with such sensitive and expensive equipment, it is a matter of planetary urgency to repair the instrument. It’s the largest on the planet and is essential to the observances of Optheria’s prestigious Summer Festival. We are contracted to supply technicians as well as crystal.” He paused for a mouthful of the crisp white beans. He was definitely baiting her, Killashandra knew. She held her tongue. “While the list of those qualified does include your name . . .”

“The catch can’t be the crystal this time,” she said as he purposefully let his sentence dangle unfinished. She watched his face for any reaction. “White crystal’s active, reflecting sound . . .”

“ – Among other things,” Lanzecki added when she paused.

“If it isn’t the crystal, what’s the matter with the Optherians, then?”

“My dear Killashandra, the assignment has not yet been awarded.”

“Awarded? I like the sound of that. Or do I? I wouldn’t put it past you, Lanzecki, to sucker me into another job like that Trundomoux installation.”

He caught the finger she was indignantly shaking at him, pulling her hand across the laden table to his lips. The familiar caress evoked familiar responses deep in her groin and she tried to use her irritation with his methods to neutralize its effect on her.

Just then a communit bleep startled her. With a fleeting expression of annoyance, Lanzecki lifted his wrist unit to acknowledge the summons.

A tinny version of Trag’s bass voice issued from the device. “I was to inform you when the preliminary testing stations reported,” the Administration Officer said.

“Any interesting applicants?”

Although Lanzecki sounded diffident, even slightly bored, the curious tension about his lips and eyes alerted Killashandra. She pretended to continue eating in a courteous disregard of the exchange, but she didn’t lose a syllable of Trag’s reply.

“Four agronomists, an endocrinologist from Theta, two xenobiologists, an atmospheric physicist, three former spacers” – Killashandra noted the slight widening of Lanzecki’s eyes which she interpreted as satisfaction – “and the usual flotsam who have no recommendations from Testing.”

“Thank you, Trag.”

Lanzecki nodded his head at Killashandra to indicate the interruption was concluded and finished off the dish of fried Malva beans.

“So what is the glitch in the Optherian assignment? A lousy fee?”

“On the contrary, such an installation is set at twenty thousand credits.”

“And I’d be off-world as well.” Killashandra was quite impressed with the latitude such a credit balance would give her to forget crystal.

“You have not been awarded the contract, Killa. I appreciate your willingness to entertain the assignment but there are certain aspects which must be considered by the Guild as well as the individual. Don’t commit yourself rashly.” Lanzecki was being sincere. His eyes held hers steadily and a worried crease to his brows emphasized his warning. “It’s a long haul to the Optherian system. You’d be gone from Ballybran nearly a full year . . .”

“All the better . . .”

“You say that now when you’re full of crystal resonance. You can’t have forgotten Carrik yet.”

His reminder conjured flashing scenes of the first crystal singer she had met: Carrik laughing as they swam in Fuerte’s seas, then Carrik wracked by withdrawal fever and finally the passive hulk of the man, shattered by sonic resonance.

“You will in time, I’ve no doubt, experience that phenomenon,” Lanzecki said. “I’ve never known a singer who didn’t try to push himself and his symbiont to their limits. A major disadvantage to the Optherian contract is that you would lose any resonance to your existing claims.”

“As if I had a decent claim among the lot.” Killashandra snorted in disgust. “Rose is no good to anyone and the blue petered out after two days’ cutting. Even the white vein skips and jumps. I cut the best of the accessible vein. With the kind of luck I’ve been enjoying, the storm has probably made a total bollix of the site. I am not – not, I repeat – spending another three weeks in a spade and basket operation. Not for white. Why can’t Research develop an efficient portable excavator?”

Lanzecki cocked his head slightly. “It is the firm opinion of Research that any one of the nine efficient, portable and durable,” a significant pause, “excavators already field-tested ought to perform the task for which it was engineered . . . except in the hands of a crystal singer. It is the opinion of Research that the only two pieces of equipment that do not tax the mechanical aptitude of a singer are his cutter – though Fisherman does not concur – and his sled, and you have already heard section and paragraph from the Flight Engineer on that score. Haven’t you?”

Killashandra regarded him stolidly for a few moments, then remembered to chew what was in her mouth.

“Overheard him,” she said, with a malicious grin. “Don’t try to distract me from this Optherian business.”

“I’m not. I am bringing to your notice the several overt disadvantages to an assignment that involves a long absence from Ballybran for what might, in the long run, be inadequate compensation.” His expression changed subtly. “I’d rather not be professionally at odds with you. It interferes with my private life.”

His dark eyes caught hers. He reached for her hands, lips curved in the one-sided smile that she found so affecting. She no longer shared a table with her Guild Master hut with Lanzecki the man. The alteration pleased her. On numerous occasions, during sleepless nights in the Milekey Ranges, she had fondly remembered their love-making. Now, seated opposite the charismatic Lanzecki, she found that her appetite for more than food had been completely restored.

Her smile answered his and together they rose from the little table and headed for the sleepingroom.