Killashandra

Chapter 4

As the Athena plunged toward the Optherian primary for the deflected hyperbolic pass that would bring it close to the one inhabited planet of the system. the passengers who were disembarking went through the rituals of leave-taking from their shipboard acquaintances. That strange magic of voyaging which could make total strangers into confidantes and lovers had lost none of its potency in the space age.

As they waited in the airlock for the shuttle that would take them to the surface, Killashandra found herself prattling on at Corish about how they must meet and share their adventures: that they couldn’t part and never meet again while they were on the same planet. She’d want to know how he’d made out with his uncle and she hoped she’d be able to tell him of her success, invading the Optherian musical hierarchy. Of course that sort of chatter was in character with her role. What astonished Killashandra was that she meant what she said.

“That’s very sweet of you, Killa,” Corish replied, patting her shoulder in a condescending fashion that returned her instantly to her own personality.

“If I don’t get a place at the Music Center hostel, I’ll go to the Piper Facility,” she said, ducking away from his hand as she fumbled with the fastening on the side pocket of her carisak. She tendered the small plastic card distributed by the Facility with its communit codes. “The Optherian Traveler’s Guide says they’ll take messages for visitors. You could leave word for me there.” She smiled up at him with tremulous wistfulness. “I know that once we leave Optheria, we’ll never meet again, Corish, but at least while we’re still on the same planet, I was hoping we could stay friends.” She broke off, ducking her head and dabbing at her eyes which, on cue, had filled with moisture. She let him have just a confirming glimpse of her teary face, although why she was prolonging their association, she hadn’t a notion. One can get too wrapped up in role-playing.

“I promise you, Killa, that I’ll leave word at the Piper for you.” And Corish put a finger under her chin and lifted her head to his gaze. He had a rather engaging half-smile, she thought, though it wasn’t a patch on Lanzecki’s. She managed to squeeze out a few more tears on the strength of that comparison. “No need for tears, Killa.”

Just then the shuttle clanged against the Athena’s side and conversation became impossible with the noise of lock engagement and the excited crescendo of farewells. Then crewmen were officiously directing passengers to move to the port side of the lock. Killashandra was crammed rather tightly between two large men and separated from Corish by another sideways push.

“What’s the delay?” one of her cushions demanded.

“They’re loading some crates,” was the indignant reply. “Must be something special. There’re seals and impregtape all over them.”

“I shall complain to the Cruise Agent. I was under the impression that people got preference over commodities on this Line!”

As suddenly as it had begun, the press eased off and everyone was shuffling toward the ramp into the shuttle. Killashandra didn’t see Corish among the passengers already seated but she couldn’t fail to miss three large foam boxes that contained the white crystal, for they occupied the first three rows of seats on the shuttle’s starboard side.

“They must be immensely valuable,” the first cushion-man said. “Whatever could it be? Optherians don’t import much.”

“Too right,” his companion said in an aggrieved tone. “Why those are Heptite Guild seals.”

The shuttle attendant had taken complete control of seating arrangements, peremptorily filling the rows as he backed down the main aisle. He gestured Killashandra to an inside seat and the two cushions obediently settled in the next two. She caught a brief glimpse of Corish as he passed, but he was assigned a seat on the other side of the aisle.

“Not wasting any time, are they?” the first man said.

“Have none to waste in a parabolic orbit,” his friend replied.

“There mustn’t have been any outgoing passengers.”

“Probably not. Optherians don’t leave their planet and the tourist season hasn’t really started.”

A rather ominous rumbling, issuing from the floor plates, startled them. This was quickly followed by additional metallic complaints, causing further vibrations under their feet.

Two distinct thuds signaled the closing of the cargo bays. Then Killashandra felt the air compress as the main passenger lock was shut and secured. Through the skin of the hull beside her, she heard the snick of the grapple release so she was prepared for the stomach-wrenching motion of the shuttle’s falling away from the Athena. Her seatmates were not and gasped in reaction, clutching the arm rests as the shuttle’s engines took hold and pushed the passengers into the foam of their seats.

The transfer from liner to planetary surface was a relatively short run, though Killashandra’s seatmates complained bitterly about the discomfort and duration all the way down. Killashandra accounted the landing smooth but the two cushions found fault with that as well, so she was immensely grateful when the port opened again, flooding the shuttle with the crisp clean cool air of Optheria. She inhaled deeply, clearing her lungs of the Athena’s recycled air. For all the craft’s modern amenities, it had not quite solved the age-old problem of refreshing air without the taint of deodorizers.

No sooner had the first passengers filed into the arrival area than the public address system began a recorded announcement, scrolling through the same message in all major Federated Planets languages Passengers were requested to have travel documents ready for inspection by Port Authorities. Please to form a line in the appropriately marked alphabetic or numeric queues. Aliens requiring special life support systems or supplies would please contact a uniformed attendant. Visitors with health problems were to present themselves, immediately after Clearance, to the Port Authority Medical Officer. It was the hope of the Tourist Bureau of Optheria that all visitors would thoroughly enjoy their holiday on the planet.

Killashandra was relieved to see that she would be able to present her I.D. in some privacy, for the Inspectors presided in security booths. Those waiting their turn in the queue could not observe the process. She kept glancing to the far right of the line where Corish should be waiting but he was not immediately visible. She caught sight of him just as it was her turn to approach the Inspector.

Killashandra suppressed a malicious grin as she slid her arm and its I.D. bracelet under the visiplate. The blank expression of the Inspector’s square face underwent a remarkable change at the sight of the Heptite Seal on his screen. With one hand he pressed a red button on the terminal in front of him and with the other urgently beckoned her to proceed. Quitting the booth, he insisted on relieving her of her carisak.

“Please, no fuss,” Killashandra said.

“Gracious Guildmember,” the Inspector began effusively, “we have been so concerned. The cabin reserved for you on the Athena – ”

“I traveled economy.”

“But you’re a Heptite Guildmember!”

“There are times, Inspector,” Killashandra said, bending close to him and touching his arm, “when discretion requires that one travel incognito.” The hair stood up on the back of his hand. She sighed.

“Oh, I see.” And clearly he did not. He unconsciously smoothed the hair back down.

They had walked the short distance to the next portal, which slid apart to reveal a welcoming committee of four, three men and a woman, slightly breathless. “The Guildmember has arrived!” The Inspector’s triumphant announcement left the distinct impression that he himself had somehow conjured her appearance.

Killashandra stared apprehensively at them. They had a disconcerting resemblance to each other, not only a sameness of height and build but of coloring and feature. Even their voices were pitched in the same sonorous timber. She blinked, thinking it might be some trick of the soft yellow sunshine pouring in from the main reception area. Then she gave herself a little shake: all were government employees, but could any bureaucracy, Optherian or other, hire people on the basis of their uniform appearance?

“Welcome to Optheria, Guildmember Ree,” the Inspector said, beaming as he ushered her past the portal, which whispered shut behind them.

“Welcome, Killashandra Ree, I am Thyrol,” the first and oldest man said, taking one step toward her and bowing.

“Welcome, Killashandra Ree, I am Pirinio,” said the second, following the example of the first.

In unvarying ceremony, Polabod and Mirbethan made themselves known to her. Had they practiced long?

“I am truly welcomed,” she said with a gracious semibow. “The crystal? It was aboard the shuttle.”

All four looked to her right, left hands rising from their sides at the same instant, to indicate the float appearing through a second portal. Nullgravs suspended float and cartons above the gold-flecked marble floor but proper guidance apparently required six attendants, each wearing an anxious frown of concentration. A seventh man directed their efforts, dancing from one side to the other to be certain that nothing impeded their progress. These citizens of Optheria were reassuringly mismatched in size, form, and feature.

“We four,” Thyrol began, indicating his companions with a twist of his hand, “are to be your guides and mentors during your stay on Optheria. You have only to state your wishes and preferences and we – Optheria – will provide.”

The four bowed again, like a wave from right to left. The Inspector beside her also bowed. Thyrol lifted one eyebrow and the Inspector, bowing again as he surrendered Killashandra’s carisak to Pirinio, formally receded until the portal hissed apart and then closed. Killashandra wondered if the Inspector’s euphoria would extend to lesser breeds, those without Guild affiliation, when he resumed his booth in Immigration.

“If you will step this way, Guildmember Ree.” Thyrol made another of his graceful gestures.

When she moved to walk beside him, he altered his stride to keep a deferential meter from her. The others fell in behind. Killashandra shrugged, accepting the protocol. Not having to chat with her escort gave her a chance to glance about the shuttle port. The facility was functional and decorated with murals of Life on Optheria: the main attraction of the Summer Festival – the organ – was not depicted. Nor did the vaulted arrivals hall appear to have any catering areas apart from one narrow bank for beverage dispensing. Conspicuous by their absence were curio and souvenir booths. Not even a ticket bank was to be seen. And only one lounge area. At the wide exit, the doors sighed aside for Killashandra and Thyrol, who quickly walked down the wide shallow steps to a broad, intricately patterned apron of flat stones. Beyond was the roadway where the crew had just finished stowing the three foam crates in a large ground effect machine.

Suddenly an arc of light flashed on behind Killashandra and a muted alarm sounded. Guards materialized from inconspicuous booths on both sides of the main entrance and approached the three Optherians of the reception committee who were walking behind Killashandra and Thyrol.

“Please do not be disconcerted, Guildmember Ree.” Thyrol waved to the guards and they retreated back into their stations. The arc of light disappeared.

“What was that all about?”

“Merely a security precaution.”

“For my leaving the shuttle port?”

Thyrol cleared his throat. “Actually, for Optherians leaving the shuttle port.”

“Leaving?”

“This is our vehicle, Guildmember,” Thyrol said, smoothly urging her across the flagstone plaza. She allowed herself to be diverted because it was obvious that, whoever left the Shuttle Port was first obliged to enter: the alarm would work in both directions. But how could the device distinguish Optherians from other humans? No mutation had been mentioned in her perusal of the Encyclopedia Galactica entry for the planet: most ingenious for a warning device to differentiate between residents and nonresidents. But surely it got a bit noisy and confusing when Optherians were escorting tourists to the shuttle port. Or was that the reason for this broad flagstone area? She would have to check on FSP regulations about security measures restricting citizens of their planets.

As her vehicle glided forward, the first of the shuttle passengers began to emerge. On cue, fat accommodation buses filed out of the parking area to the flagstone curb. Craning her neck slightly, Killashandra took due note of the fact that the security system did not respond to the foreigners’ exits.

Already the vehicle was climbing out of the valley which contained the shuttle port and the clutter of maintenance buildings. The place looked bleakly ordered and preternaturally neat in comparison to what Killashandra recalled of Fuerte’s busy space port. Perhaps when the tourist season started . . . Even the clumps of trees and bushes which softened the harder lines of the buildings had a regulated look. Killashandra wondered how often the plantings had to be replaced. Shuttle emanations had a disastrous effect on most vegetation.

“Are you comfortable, Guildmember?” Mirbethan asked from her seat behind Killashandra.

“Of necessity the shuttle port was placed close to the City,” Pirinio took up the conversation, “but is screened by these hills which also absorb much of the noise and bustle.”

Noise and bustle, his tone of voice told Killashandra, were the unpleasant concomitants of space travel. “How wise of you,” Killashandra replied.

“Optherian’s founding fathers planned for every contingency,” Thyrol said smugly. “No effort has been spared to conserve our planet’s natural beauty.”

The vehicle had reached the top of the gap and Killashandra had an unimpeded view of the broader valley below them, in which nestled the felicitous arrangement of pastel colored buildings, domes, and round towers that comprised Optheria’s capital settlement, known as the City. From that height, the impressive view drew a surprised exclamation from Killashandra.

“It is breathtaking!” Thyrol chose to interpret her response his way.

Beautiful was a fair adjective, Killashandra thought, but breathtaking, no! Even at that distance something was too prim and proper about the City for her taste.

“None of the indigenous trees and bushes were removed, you see,” Thyrol explained, gesturing with his whole hand rather than a single finger, “when the City was constructed, so that the natural, unspoiled landscape could be retained.”

“And the river and that lake? Are they natural features?”

“But of course. Nature is not distorted on Optheria.”

“Which is as it should be,” Polabod added. “The entire valley is as it was when Man first landed on Optheria.”

“The City Architect planned all the buildings and dwellings in the unoccupied spaces,” Mirbethan said proudly .

“How exceedingly clever!” Killashandra was wearing the contact lenses recommended for Optheria’s sunlight and wondered if the planet would be improved, viewed via augmented Ballybran vision. Just then it was very, very, blah! Killashandra had to delve a long way for an adequate expression which, tactfully, she did not voice. Would Borella have restrained herself? Would she have noticed? Ah, well, Beauty is said to be in the eye of the beholder! For Optheria’s sake, she was glad that someone loved it.

While it might have been laudable of the Founding Fathers to wish to preserve the entire valley as it was when Man first landed, it must have given the architects and construction crews a helluva lot of trouble. Buildings wrapped around copses of trees, straddled brooks, incorporated boulders and ledges. Probably the floors on upper levels were even but it must have been bumpy going at ground level. Fortunately the airfoils of her vehicle were up to the uneven surface in the suburbs but the ride became rather bouncy as they proceeded deeper into the City.

Pausing at the intersection of a huge open square – open except for the many thorn bushes and scrawny trees – Killashandra could not fail to notice that the ground floor of one corner building made uneven arches over repulsively greasy-looking bushes whose thorny branches were obviously a hazard to pedestrians; something was to be said for the curtailment of natural “beauty.” She could learn to hate the City quite easily. No wonder some of the natives were restless. Just how did the Summer Festival compensate for the rest of the Optherian year?

Once past the open square, the road climbed gently to a cluster of buildings evidently uninhibited by natural beauties, for they seemed to have an architectural integrity so far lacking in the City.

“It was necessary,” Thyrol said in a muted voice, “to add the merest trace of a ramp to ascend to the Music Center.”

“I wouldn’t have known it if you hadn’t told me,” Killashandra said, unable to restrain her facetiousness.

“One ought to approach on foot,” Pirinio went on in a repressive tone, “but some latitude is permitted so that the audience may assemble punctually.” His gesture called Killashandra’s attention to the many small switchback paths to one side of the promontory.

Killashandra repressed a second facetious remark which Pirinio’s tone provoked. It wouldn’t be the installation on Optheria, not the organ, nor the planet which were hazardous: once again it was the inhabitants. Was she always to encounter such intolerant, inflexible, remorseless personalities?

“What sort of local brew do you have here on Optheria?” she asked, keeping her tone casual. If the reply was “none,” she’d book out on the next available craft.

“Well, ah, that is, possibly not at all to your taste, Guildmember.” Mirbethan’s startled reply was hesitant. “No beverages can be imported. I’m sure you saw the notice in the Port Authority. Our brewmasters produce four distinct fermented beverages: quite potable, I’m told. Spirits are distilled from the Terran grains which we have managed to adapt to Optherian soil, but I’ve been told that these are raw to educated palates.”

“Optheria produces excellent wines,” Pirinio said rather testily, with a reproving glance at Mirbethan. “They cannot be exported and indeed, some do not travel well even the relatively short distance to the City. If wine is your preference, a selection will be put in your quarters.”

“I’ll try some of the brews, too.”

“Wine and beer?” Polabod exclaimed in surprise.

“Crystal singers are required to keep a high blood-alcohol content when absent from Ballybran. I’ll have to decide which is the best for my particular requirement.” She sighed in patient forebearance.

“I wasn’t informed that members of your Guild required special diets.” Thyrol was clearly perturbed.

“No special diet,” Killashandra agreed, “but we do require larger intakes of certain natural substances from time to time. Such as alcohol.”

“Oh, I see,” Thyrol replied, although clearly he did not.

Does no one on this repulsive planet have a sense of humor? Killashandra wondered.

“Ah, here we are so soon,” Pirinio said, for the vehicle had swung down the curving drive to the imposing main entrance of the largest building on this musical height

In orderly fashion but in decorous haste, a second welcoming committee formed itself on the wide and shallow marble steps under the colonnaded portico that shielded the massive central doors of the edifice. Although large urns had been planted with some sort of weeping tree to soften the harsh architecture, the effect was forbidding, rather than welcoming.

Killashandra emerged from the vehicle, ignoring Thyrol’s outstretched hand. The Optherian’s obsequious behavior could quickly become a major irritant.

She had just straightened up and turned to step forward when something slammed hard into her left shoulder and she was thrown off balance against the vehicle. The fleshy point of her shoulder stung briefly then began to throb. Thyrol began to bellow incoherently before he attempted to embrace her in the misguided notion that she needed his assistance.

For the next few moments total chaos erupted: Thyrol, Pirinio, and Polabod dashed about, issuing conflicting orders. The throng of dignitaries turned into a terrified mob, splintering into groups which fled, stood paralyzed, or added their shouts to the tumult. A flock of airborne sleds reared up from the plateau to hover above the Music Complex, darting off on diverse errands.

Mirbethan was the only one able to keep her wits. She tore a strip from the hem of her gown, and despite Killashandra’s protestations that she required no aid, bound the wound. And it was she who discovered the weapon, imbedded in the upholstery of the back seat.

“That’s a businesslike piece of wickedness,” Killashandra remarked as she studied the asterisk-bladed object, three of its lethal blades buried in the seat back. The one which had wounded her pointed outward, a strand of her sleeve material laid neatly along the cutting edge.

“Don’t touch it” Mirbethan put out her hand to prevent such action.

“No fear,” Killashandra said, straightening up. “Local manufacture?”

“No.” Mirbethan’s voice took on a note of indignant anger. “An island implement. An outrage. We shall spare no effort to discover the perpetrator of this deed.”

There was a subtle, but discernible, alteration in Mirbethan’s tone between her first two remarks and the last which Killashandra caught but could not then analyze, for the rest of the committee suddenly recalled that there had been a victim of this “outrage” and more attentions were showered on Killashandra by the concerned. Despite her protestations, she was carried into the vaulting entrance hall of the main building, and whisked along a corridor, lined floor to ceiling with portraits of men and women. Even in her swift passage she noticed that they all smiled in the same tight, smug way. Then she was conducted to a lift while dignitaries bickered about who should accompany her in the limited space.

Once again, Mirbethan won Killashandra’s approval by closing the door on the argument. They were met at their destination by a full medical convention and Killashandra was made to lie on a gurney and was wheeled into diagnostics.

At the moment of truth. when the temporary bandaging was reverently unwound from the injury, there was a stunned silence.

“I could have spared everyone a great deal of unnecessary effort,” Killashandra remarked dryly after she glanced at the clean, bloodless cut. “As a crystal singer, I heal very quickly and am not the least bit susceptible to infection. As you can see.”

Consternation was rampant, with all the medics exclaiming over the wound, and others cramming forward in an attempt to witness this miracle of regeneration. Glancing up, Killashandra saw the very smug smile on Mirbethan’s face, so very like the smiles on the portraits.

“To what agency do you attribute such remarkable healing properties?” asked the eldest of the medical people in attendance.

“To living on Ballybran,” Killashandra replied. “As you must surely be aware, the resonance of crystal slows down the degenerative process. Tissue damage regenerates quickly. By this evening this minor cut will be completely healed. It was a clean swipe and not all that deep.”

She seized the opportunity to slip off the gurney.

“If we may take a sample of your blood for analysis,” the elder medic began, reaching for a sterilely packaged extractor.

“You may not,” Killashandra said and again felt a wave of incredulous dismay and surprise from her audience. Was contradiction forbidden on Optheria? “The bleeding has stopped. Nor will analysis isolate the blood factor which slows degeneration,” she went on with a kind smile. “Why waste your valuable time?”

She strode purposefully toward the door, determined to end this interlude. Just then, Pirinio, Thyrol, and Polabod arrived, breathless in their haste to rejoin her.

“Ah, gentlemen, you are just in time to escort me to my quarters.” And when there were stumbled explanations about receptions and Music Center faculty waiting and the prospect of attendance by the Elders, she smiled gently. “All the more reason for me to change . . .” and she gestured to the torn sleeve.

“But you’ve not been attended!” Thyrol cried, astonished to see an unbandaged slash.

“Very well, thank you,” she said and walked past him into the corridor. “Well?” She swung round to face a throng of very confused people. “Will no one escort me to my quarters?” This farce was beginning to pall

The corridor, too, had its occupants, mostly in the universal green garb of the medical profession. Therefore, the young man, clad in a dark tunic, his bronzed legs bare to the soft leather ankle boots, stood out among them.

Lanzecki might swear that the Ballybran spore did not confer any psychic enhancement but Killashandra was entertaining severe doubts on that score. She had definitely caught conflicting emotional emanations from Mirbethan, from the other worthies, and now, from this young man – a curious flash of green, annoyance, interest, and anticipation far too strong to be the casual reaction to a visitor. And flash was all it could be, for Thyrol and Pirinio bore down on her, all apologies for their discourtesies real and imaginary. Mirbethan firmly took her place at Killashandra’s right, edging the three men out of position and motioning their guest down the hall. When Killashandra was able to glance back to the young man, he was striding down a side corridor, head down, shoulders sagging as if weighed down by some burden. Guilt?

Then she was swept into the lift, down to the guest level, and into the most sumptuous quarters which had ever been allotted to her. Having agreed to descend to the reception as soon as she had changed gave her time for only the most cursory examination of the apartment. She’d been guided through a large, elegant reception room suitable for formal affairs. A smaller room was evidently to be used as a studio or office. They hurried past two bedchambers, one of them quite modern, before she was ushered into a main room so vast that she had to stifle a chuckle. Mirbethan indicated the toilet and the slightly open closet panel where her clothes had been hung. Then the woman withdrew.

Stripping off the torn garment, Killashandra flicked open one of the Beluga spider-silk kaftans which ought to be suitable for any reception: certainly a foil against the predominantly white or pale colors which the Optherians seemed to prefer. Except for that brooding young man.

Killashandra dwelt briefly on him as she washed hastily. Then she couldn’t resist a peek into the other hygiene rooms. One contained a variety of tubs, massage table, and exercise equipment while the third boasted a radiant-fluid tub and several curious devices which Killashandra had never before encountered but which left an impression of obscenity.

Back in the bedchamber, she heard a soft rapping at the door.

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” she cried, masking irritation with a lilt in her voice.