Killashandra

Chapter 12

The idyll lasted another full day and into the early morning of the third, during which time Killashandra would have been quite willing to forego all the prestige of being a crystal singer to remain Lars’s companion. A totally impossible, improbable, and impractical ambition. But she had every intention of enjoying his companionship as long as it was physically possible. She was haunted by memories of Carrik and, as such traumas can, they colored, and augmented, her responses to Lars.

It was the change in the weather which necessitated their return to society. The drop in barometric pressure woke Killashandra just before dawn. She lay, wide awake, Lars’s lax arms draped about her, his legs overlapping hers, wondering what had returned her so abruptly to full consciousness. Then she smelled a change in weather on the early morning breeze. It had not occurred to Killashandra that her Ballybran symbiont would he agitated by other weather systems. And she pushed her sensitivity as far as she could, testing what the change might herald.

Storm, she decided, letting symbiotic instinct make the identification. And a heavy one. In these islands a hurricane more likely than not. A worrisome phenomenon for a reasonably flat land mass. No, there were heights on what Lars had termed the Head. She smiled, for yesterday, in between other felicitous activities, he had given her quite a history and geography lesson pertinent to the island economy.

“This island gets its name from the shape of the land mass,” he explained and drew a shape on the wet sands with a shell. They had just emerged from a morning swim. “It was seen first from the exploratory probe and named long before any settlers landed here. There’s even a sort of a halo of islets off the Head. We’re at the Wingtip. The settlement lies in the wing curve . . . see . . . and the western heights are the wings, complete with the ridge principle. This side of the island is much lower than the body side. We’ve two separate viable harbors, north and south, the angel’s outstretched hands completing the smaller, deeper one. My father’s offices are there, as the backbone sometimes interferes with reception from the mainland. You can’t see it from here because of Backbone Ridge, but there’s rather an impressive old volcano topping the Head.” He grinned mischievously, giving Killashandra an impression of the devilish child he must have been. “Some of us less reverent souls say the Angel blew her head when she knew who got possession of the planet. Not so, of course. It happened eons before we got here.”

Angel was not the largest of the islands but Lars told her that she’d soon see that it was the best. The southern sea was littered Lars said, with all kinds of land masses: some completely sterile, others bearing active volcanoes, and anything large enough to support polly plantations and other useful tropical vegetation did so.

“We were a race apart from the mainlanders, and we’ve remained so, Carrigana. They listen to what the Elders dish up for them, dulling their minds with all the pap that’s performed. Islanders still have to have their wits about them. We may be easygoing and carefree, but we’re not lazy or stupid.”

She had discovered an unexpected pleasure in listening to Lars ramble on, recognizing that his motive was as much self-indoctrination as explanation for her benefit. His voice was so beautifully modulated, uninhibited in its expressiveness that she could have listened to him for years. He made events out of small incidents, no matter that all were aimed at extolling the islands, subtly deprecating mainland ways. He was not, however, an impractical dreamer. Nor was his rebellion against mainland authority the ill-considered antagonism of the disillusioned.

“You sound as if you don’t want to leave Optheria even if you are trying to pave the way off for these friends of yours,” Killashandra was prompted to remark late that second evening as they finished a meal of steamed mollusks.

“I’m as well off here as I would be anywhere else in the galaxy.”

“But your music – ”

“It was composed to be played on the Optherian organ and I doubt that any other government allows them to be used, even if the Elders and Masters would permit the design to be copied.” He shrugged off that consideration .

“If you could compose that, you have a great gift – ”

Lars had laughed outright, ruffling her hair – he seemed fascinated by the texture of her hair.

“Beloved Sungirl, that took no great gift, I assure you. Nor do I have the temperament to sit down and create music – ”

“Come on, Lars – ”

“No, seriously, I’m much happier at the tiller of a ship – ”

“And that voice of yours?”

He shrugged. “Fine for an island evening sing-song, my girl, but who bothers to sing on the Mainland?”

“But, if you get the others off the planet, why don’t you go, too? There are plenty of other planets that would make you a Stellar in a pico – ”

“How would you know?”

“Well, there have to be!” Killashandra almost screamed in her frustration with the restrictions imposed by her role. “Or why are you trying to crack the restriction?”

“The height of altruism motivates me. Besides, Sunny, Theach and Brassner have valid contributions to make within the context of the galaxy. And once a person has met Nahia, it’s obvious why she must be let free. Think of the good she could do.”

Killashandra murmured something reassuring since it was called for. She felt an uncharacteristic pulse of jealousy at the reverence and awe in Lars’s voice whenever he mentioned this Nahia. Lars had perfectly healthy contempt for Elder and Master alike, indeed all federal officials with the exception of his father. And while he spoke of the man with affection and respect, Nahia occupied a higher position. Quite a few times Killashandra noted a nearly imperceptible halt in the flow of Lars’s words as if he exercised a subtle discretion, so subtle that all she caught was its echo. Just as he had stopped short of admitting the abduction of the crystal singer. And, now that she understood his motivation, she marveled at his quick-witted opportunism. Did the others in his subversive group know what he had done? Had they approved of it? And what would the next step be? She could just imagine the furor caused in the Heptite Guild! Or maybe she was supposed to rescue herself? Which she had.

Lars was weather-sensitive, too, for she had only just completed her analysis when he woke, equally alert. With a loving tug at her hair and a smile, he stood up, sniffing at the breeze now strong enough to ruffle his hair, turning slowly. He stopped when he faced in the direction she had.

“Hurricane making, Carrigana. Come, we’ll have a lot to do.”

Not so much that they didn’t start the morning with a quick passage at arms, not the least bit perfunctory despite the brevity. Then they had a quick swim, with Lars keeping a close watch on the dawn changes in the sky.

“Making up in the south so it’ll be a bad blow.” He stood for a moment as the active waves of the incoming tide flounced against his thighs. He looked southwest, frowning and, dissatisfied by his thoughts, started inshore, taking her hand as if seeking comfort.

She thought nothing of his brief disappearance as she cleared up the camp site. Lars pushed his way past the bush screen, an odd smile on his face as he came up to her, two garlands of an exceptionally lovely blue and white flower in his hands. “This will serve,” he said cryptically, gently draping one around her neck. The perfume was subtly erotic and she stood on tiptoe to kiss him for his thoughtfulness. “Now you must put mine on.”

Smiling at his sweetness, she complied and he kissed her, exhaling a gust as if he had acquitted himself nobly.

“C’mon now,” and he gave her the basket, slung the blanket with their clothing over his shoulder, and grabbing her hand, led her back through the underbrush.

Though the sun was not yet up over the horizon, there was considerable activity on the beach when they arrived. Torches were lit outside all the waterfront buildings, and torchlit groups of scurrying people pushed handcarts Bobbing lights on the harbor, too, indicated crews on their way to anchored ships. The schooner was gone but Killashandra had not really expected to find the big ship still at Angel Island.

“Where can they take the boats?”

“Around to the Back. We’ll just check to see how much time there is before the wind rises. There’ll be a lot to do before we can take the Pearl Fisher to the safe mooring.”

Killashandra glanced up and down the picturesque waterfront, for the first time seeing just how vulnerable it was. The first line of buildings was only four hundred meters from the high-tide mark. Wouldn’t they be just swept away in hurricane driven tides?

“They often are,” Lars startled her by saying as they strode purposefully toward the settlement. “But mostly polly floats. After the last big blow, Morchal salvaged the complete roof. It was floating in the bay, he just dried it out and reset it.”

“I should help Keralaw,” Killashandra suggested tentatively, not really wanting to leave his side but ignorant of what island protocol expected of her in the emergency. Lars’s hand tightened on her elbow.

“If I know Keralaw she has matters well in hand. I’m not risking you from my side for an instant, Carrigana. I thought I’d made that plain.”

Killashandra almost bridled at the possessive tone of his voice but part of her rather liked the chauvinism. She had too hearty a respect for storm not to wish to be in the safest place during one. Common sense told her that was likely to be in Lars Dahl’s company.

Men and women were filing in and out of the tavern. Lars and Killashandra entered and found a veritable command post. The bar was now dispensing equipment and gear which Killashandra could not readily identify. Along the back wall, the huge vdr screen was active, showing a satellite picture of the growing storm swirling in from the south. Estimated times of arrival of the first heavy winds, high tide, the eye, and the counter winds were all listed in the upper left hand corner. Other cryptic information, displayed in a band across the top of the screen, did not mean much to her but evidently conveyed intelligence to the people in the bar. Including Lars.

“Lars, Olav’s on line for you,” called the tallest of the men behind the bar, and he jerked his head toward a side door. The fellow paused in his dispensations, and Killashandra was aware of his scrutiny as she followed Lars to the room indicated.

However rustic the tavern looked from the outside, this room was crammed with sophisticated equipment, a good deal of it meteorological, though not as complex as instrumentation in the Weather Room of the Heptite Guild. And all of it printing out or displaying rapidly changing information.

“Lars?” A young man turned from the scanner in front of him and, screwing his face in an anxious expression almost pounced on the new arrival “What are you going to do – ”

Lars held up his hand, cutting off the rest of that sentence, and the young man noticed the garland. He threw an almost panic stricken look at Killashandra.

“Tanny, this is Carrigana. And there’s nothing I can do with this storm blowing up.” Lars was scrutinizing the duplicate vdr satellite picture as he spoke. “The worst of it will pass due east. Don’t worry about the things you can’t change!” He gave Tanny a clout on the shoulder but the worried expression did not entirely alter

Killashandra kept the silly social smile on her face as Tanny accorded her the briefest of nods. She had a very good idea what, or rather whom, they were discussing so obliquely. Her. Still trapped, they thought, on that chip of an island.

“Tanny’s my partner, Carrigana, and one of the best sailors on Angel,” Lars added, though his attention was still claimed by the swirling cloud mass.

“What if the direction changes, Lars?” Tanny refused to be reassured. “You know what the southern blows are like . . .” He made an exaggerated gesture with both arms, nearly socking a passing islander, who ducked in time.

“Tanny, there is nothing we can do. There’s a great big polly on the island that’s survived hurricanes and high tides since man took the archipelago. We’ll go have a look as soon as the blow’s gone. All right?”

Lars didn’t wait for Tanny’s agreement, guiding Killashandra back into the main room. He paused at the counter, waiting his turn, and receiving a small handset. ‘A light one will do me fine, Bart,” he added and Bart set a small antigrav unit on the counter. “Most of what I own is either on the Pearl or on its way back to me from the City. Grab a couple of those ration packs, will you, Carrigana,” he added as they walked out on the broad verandah where additional emergency supplies were being passed out. “Might not need them but it’s less for them to pack to the Ridge.”

As Lars turned her west, away from the settlement, she caught sight of Tanny, watching them. his expression still troubled. The wind was picking up and the water in the harbor agitated. Lars looked to his right, assessing the situation.

“Been in a bad one yet?” he asked her, an amused and tolerant grin on his face.

“Oh, yes,” Killashandra answered fervently. “Not an experience I wish to repeat.” How could Lars know how puny an Optherian hurricane would be in comparison to Passover Storms on Ballybran. Once again she wanted to discard her borrowed identity. There was so much she would like to share with Lars.

“It’s waiting out the blow that’s hard,” Lars said, then grinned down at her. “We won’t be bored this time, though. My father said that Theach came with Hauness and Erutown. I wonder how they managed the travel permits?” That caused him to chuckle. “We’ll know how the revised master plan is working.”

Killashandra was very hard put to refrain from making any remarks but, of a certainty, waiting out this blow would be extremely interesting. She might not be getting on with the primary task of her visit to Optheria, but she was certainly gaining a lot of experience with dissidents.

His place was on a knoll, above the harbor, in a grove of mature polly trees. It reflected an orderly person who preferred plain and restful colors. He produced several carisaks which had been neatly stored in a cupboard, and together they emptied the chest of his clothes, including several beautifully finished formal garments. He cleared his terminal of any stored information and when Killashandra asked if they shouldn’t dismantle the screen, he shrugged.

“Federal issue. I must be one of the few islanders who use the thing.” He grinned impiously. “And then not to watch their broadcasts! They can never appreciate that islanders don’t need vicarious experiences.” He gestured toward the sea. “Not with real live adventures!”

The pillows, hammocks, what kitchen utensils there were, the rugs, curtains, everything compacted into a manageable bundle to which Lars attached the antigrav s traps. the entire process hadn’t taken them fifteen minutes.

“We’ll just attach this to a train, grab something to eat and then get the Pearl to safety.” He gave his effects a gentle shove in the proper direction.

When they returned to the waterfront, Killashandra saw what he meant by train. Numerous personal-effects bundles, all wrapped and weightless, were being attached to a large floater on which families with small children perched. As soon as it had reached capacity, the driver guided it away, along a winding route toward the distant Ridge.

“Catch you next trip, Jorell?” Lars called to the man steering the harbor boat out toward the anchored ships.

“Gotcha, Lars!”

“There’s Keralaw,” Killashandra said, pointing to the woman who was ladling hot soup from an immense kettle into bowls.

“You can always count on her hospitality,” Lars said and they altered their path to meet her.

“Carrigana!” Keralaw paused in serving a family group and waved one arm energetically to catch their attention. “I’d no idea where you’d – ” She halted, eyes goggling a bit at the garland about Killashandra’s neck, staring at Lars’s matching one. Then she smiled. She patted Killashandra’s arm approvingly. “Anyway, I put your carisak with mine on the float to the Ridge. Will I see you two there?” Her manner bordered on the coy as she handed them cups from the bag at her side, and poured the hot soup.

“After we’ve sailed the Pearl to the Back,” Lars said, easily but Killashandra thought his expression a trifle smug, as if he liked surprising Keralaw. He blew on his soup, taking a cautious sip. “As good as ever, Keralaw. One day you must pass on your secret recipe. What’ll Angel do in a crisis without you around to sustain us!”

Keralaw made a pleased noise, giving him a dig in the ribs before she sidled up to Killashandra. “You did better on the shore than I did from the ship!” she murmured, winking and giving Killashandra an approving dig in the ribs. “And,” she added, her expression altering from bawdy to solemn, “you’re what he needs right now.”

Before Killashandra could respond to that cryptic comment, Keralaw had moved off to the next group.

“With Keralaw in the know,” Lars said between sips, “storm or not, the rest of the island will be informed.”

“That you and I have paired off?” Killashandra gave him a long stare, having now decided what the special blue garlands must signify in island custom. It was presumptuous of him, but then, he was also presuming her acquaintance with island ways. The account, when rendered from her side, was going to be heavy. “You’re remarkably well organized here . . .” She let her sentence dangle, implying that she’d been elsewhere to her sorrow.

“Angel’s not often in the direct path, and the storm may veer off before it hits, but one doesn’t wait until the last moment, not on Angel. Father doesn’t permit inefficiencies. They lose lives and cost credit. Ah, Jorell’s back. Hang on to your cup. We’ll need them later.”

The harbor skip waited for them and its other passengers in the choppy waters. Lars bent to rinse out his cup and Killashandra followed suit, before swinging over the gunwales of the water taxi. Willing hands pulled them aboard.

There was a lot of activity on those ships still left in the harbor, but many had already started for the safety of the protected bay. Lars chatted amiably with the other passengers, naming Killashandra once to everyone. The approaching storm worried them all, despite the well-drilled exodus. It was considered early in the season for such a big blow: odds were being given that it would veer west as so many early storms tended to do: relief was felt that neither of the nearer two moons was at the full, thus affecting the height of the tides. The pessimist on board was sure this was the beginning of a very stormy winter, a comment which caught Killashandra’s interest. Winter? As far as she knew, she’d arrived in Optheria in early spring. Had she missed half a year somehow?

Then the taxi pulled alongside a sleek-lined fifteen meter sloop-rigged ship, and Lars was telling her to grab the rope ladder that flopped against its side. She scrambled up, almost falling over the life-railing, which she hadn’t expected. Then Lars was beside her, cheerfully shouting their thanks to Jorell as he deftly hauled the ladder inboard and began to stow it away.

“We’ll rig the cabin before we sail,” Lars said, nodding astern toward the hatch.

Killashandra didn’t know much about ships of this class but the cabin looked very orderly to her, arranged as it was for daytime use. She went to the forward cabin, and decided that she had been in the top right-hand bunk. She turned back, to approximate the view she would have had, and decided that the Pearl Fisher had conveyed her to that wretched little island.

“Update!” Lars said as he came down the companionway, talking to the handset. He listened as he did a cursory inspection of the nearest cupboards, smiling as he turned toward her. “Alert me to any changes. Over.”

He put the handset down and, in one unexpected sweep, hauled her tightly into his arms. His very blue eyes gleamed inches above her face. His face assumed thc expression of a sex-mad fiend, his eyes wide in exaggerated ferocity, as he bent her backward in one arm his other hand stroking her body urgently. “Alone, at last, m’girl, and who knows when next we have the privacy I need to enjoy you to good advantage.”

“Oh, sir, unhand me!” Killashandra fluttered her eye lashes, panting in mock terror. “How can you ravish an innocent maid in this hour of our peril?”

“It seems the right thing to do, somehow,” Lars said in a totally different tone, releasing her so abruptly she had to catch herself on the table. “Curb your libido long enough for me to make the bed you’re about to be laid in.” He flipped the table onto its edge, gestured for her to take the other side of the seat unit which pulled out across the deck.

Simultaneously they fell onto the bed, and Lars began his assault on her willing person.

The summons of the handset brought them back to reality that had only peripherally impinged on their activities. Lars had to steady himself in the lurching ship to reach the handset. He frowned as he heard the update.

“Well, beloved, I hope you’re a good sailor, for it’s going to be a rough passage around the wing. That storm is hurrying to meet us. Neither a veer nor a pause! Grab the wet weather gear from that cupboard. Temperature’s falling and the rain’s going to be cold.”

Fortunately Lars gave clear instructions to his novice crew and Killashandra coped with her tasks well enough to gain his nods of approval. The Pearl Fisher was fitted to be sailed single-handed, with the sheet lines winched to the cockpit and other remotes to assist in the absence of a human crew. Lars beckoned Killashandra to join him in the stern as the anchor was lifted by remote. Another hauled the sloop’s mainsail up the mast, Lars’s pennon breaking out as the clew of the sail locked home.

The wind took the sail, and the ship, forward, out of the wide mouth of the harbor, which was now clear of all craft. Nor did there seem to have been anyone to notice their delay. The beach was empty of people. The shuttered shops and houses had an abandoned look to them. The tide was already slopping into the barbecue pits and Killashandra wondered just how much would be left on the waterfront when they sailed back into Wing Harbor.

Killashandra found the speed of the Pearl Fisher incredibly exhilarating. To judge by the rapt expression on his face, so did Lars. The fresh wind drove them across the harbor almost to its mouth, before Lars did a short tack to get beyond the land. Then the Pearl was gunwale deep on a fine slant as she sped on a port tack toward the bulk of the Wing.

It was an endless time, divorced from reality, unlike cutting crystal where time, too, was sometimes suspended for Killashandra. This was a different sort of time, that spent with someone, someone whose proximity was a matter of keen physical delight for her. Their bodies touched, shoulder, hip, thigh, knee, and leg, as the canting of the ship in her forward plunge kept Killashandra tight against Lars. Not a voyage, she realized sadly, that could last forever but a long interval she hoped to remember. There are some moments, Killashandra informed herself, that one does wish to savor.

The sun had been about at the zenith when they had finally tacked out of the Wing Harbor. It was westering as they sailed round the top of the Wing with its lowlands giving way to the great basalt cliffs, straight up from the crashing sea, a bastion against the rapidly approaching hurricane. And the southern skies were ominous with dark cloud and rain. In the shelter of those cliffs, their headlong speed abated to a more leisurely pace. Lars announced hunger and Killashandra went below to assuage it. Taking into account the rough water, she found some heat packs which she opened, and which they ate in the cockpit, companionably close. Killashandra found it necessary to curb a swell of incipient lust as Lars shifted his long body against hers to get a better grip on the tiller.

Then they rounded the cliffs and into the crowded anchorage which sheltered Angel’s craft. Lars fired a flare to summon the jitney to them, then he ordered Killashandra forward with the boat hook to catch up the bright-orange eighty-two buoy to starboard. He furled the sail by remote and went on low-power assist to slow the Pearl and avoid oversailing the buoy.

Buoy eighty-two was in the second rank, between two small ketch-rigged fisherboats, and Killashandra was rather pleased that she snagged the buoy first try. By the time Lars had secured the ship to ride out the blow, the little harbor taxi was alongside, its pilot looking none too pleased to be out in the rough waters.

“What took you so long, Lars?”

“A bit of cross-tide and some rough tacks,” Lars said with a cheerful mendacity that caused Killashandra to elbow his ribs hard. He threw his arm about to forestall further assaults. Indeed they both had to hang on to the railings as the little boat slapped and bounced.

For a moment, Killashandra thought the pilot was driving them straight into the cliff. Then she saw the light framing the sea cave. As if the overhang marked the edge of the sea’s domination, the jitney was abruptly on calmer waters, making for the interior and the sandy shore. Killashandra was told to fling the line to the waiting shoremen. The little boat was sailed into a cradle and this was drawn up, safely beyond the depredations of storm and sea.

“Last one in again, eh Lars?” he was teased as the entire party made its way out of the dock and started up the long flight of stairs cut in the basalt. It was a long upward haul for Killashandra, unused to stairs in any case and, though pride prevented her from asking for a brief halt, she was completely winded by the time they reached the top and exited onto a windswept terrace. She was relieved to find a floater waiting, for the Backbone towered meters above them and she doubted her ability to climb another step.

Polly and other trees lined the ridge, making a windbreak for the floater as it was buffeted along, ending its journey at a proper stationhouse Killashandra had profited by the brief rest and followed Lars’s energetic stride into the main hall of the Backbone shelter.

“Lars,” called the man at the entrance, “Olav’s in the command post. Can you join him?”

Lars waved assent and guided Killashandra to an ascending ramp, past a huge common room packed with people. They passed an immense garage, where hundreds of packets resembling some strange form of alien avian life dangled weightless from their antigravs.

There was a storm chill in the air and Killashandra was aware of symbiont-generated inner tension as her body sensed the impending arrival of the hurricane.

“The command post is shielded, lover,” Lars said, catching her hand in his and stroking it reassuringly. “Storm won’t affect you so much there. I feel it myself,” he added when she looked up in surprise at his comment. “Real weather-sorts, the pair of us!” The affinity pleased him.

They reached the next level, predominantly storage to judge by the signs on the door on either side of the wide corridor. Lars walked straight for the secured portal at the far end, put his thumb on the door lock which then slid open. Instinctively Killashandra flinched, startled by the sight of the storm-lashed trees, and the unexpected panoramas, north and south, of the two harbors. Lars’s hand tightened with reassurance. On both sides of the door, the walls were covered by data screens and continuous printout as the satellites fed information to the island’s receivers. The other three sides of the command post were open, save for the circular stairs winding down to the floor below.

Olav was on his feet, walking from one display to the next, making his own estimate of the data. He looked up at Lars and Killashandra, noting with the upward lift of one eyebrow the bruised garlands they wore. He indicated the circular stairway and made a gesture which Killashandra read as a promise to join them later.

They crossed the room, Lars pausing to read the displays at the head of the staircase. He made a noncommittal grunt and then indicated that she should precede him. Therefore she was first in the room, grateful that only large windows north and south broke its protection from the elements without, while a fire burned in a wide hearth on the eastern wall. The western wall was broken by four doors, the open one showing a small catering area. But Killashandra’s attention was immediately on the occupants of the room, three men and the most beautiful woman Killashandra had ever seen.

“Nahia! How dare you risk yourself!” cried Lars, his face white under his tan as he brushed past Killashandra. To her complete amazement, he dropped on one knee before the woman, and kissed her hand.