Killashandra

Chapter 3

Trag had timed Killashandra’s departure well for she and the three crates of white crystal were on board a freighter bound for the Rappahoe Transfer Satellite within four hours of their confrontation. She didn’t think about it at the time for she was totally immersed in the strong emotions of self-sacrifice, remorse for her effect on Lanzecki, and a perverse need to redeem herself in Trag’s eyes. Even though she had permitted herself to be borne on the tide of circumstance, she kept hoping that Lanzecki might somehow get wind of her defection and abort the mission.

To insure that her whereabouts were known, she rummaged through the shopping area of Shanganagh Base like a mach storm. She bought necessities, fripperies, and foodstuffs, accompanying each purchase with a running dialogue at the top of her voice and spelling out her name for every credit entry. No one could fail to know the whereabouts of Killashandra Ree. After adding a few items of essential clothing to the garments she had stuffed into her carisak, her keen instinct for survival asserted itself in the base’s victualers. She had vivid memories of the monotonously nutritious diet on the Selkite freighter and the stodge supplied by the Trundomoux cruiser. She did have to consider her palate and digestive system.

Sadly, no deferential shopkeeper tapped her on the arm to tell her of an urgent call from the Guild Master. In fact, people seemed to keep their distance from her. A chance glimpse of her gaunt, harrowed face in a mirror provided one explanation – she’d have needed no cosmetic aids to play the part of any one of a number of harried, despairing, insane heroines. At that point her humor briefly reasserted itself. She had often thought that the make-up recommended for, say, Lucia, or Lady Macbeth, or Testuka and Isolde was totally exaggerated. Now, at last having had personal experiences with the phenomenon of losing one’s great love through selfless sacrifice, she could appreciate the effect which grief could have on one’s outward appearance. She looked awful! So she purchased two brilliant multihued floating kaftans of Beluga spider-silk, and hastily added their fingerlength cases to her bulging carisak, then a travel-case of fashionable cosmetics. She’d nine days to travel on the first freighter and it would only be civil to remedy her appearance.

Then the boarding call for the Pink Tulip Sparrow was broadcast and she had no option but to proceed to the loading bay. In an effort to delay the inevitable, she walked at a funereal pace down the access ramp.

“Singer, we’ve got to get moving! Now, please, hurry along.”

She made an appearance of haste but when the Mate tried to take her arm and hurry her into the lock, her body arched in resistance. Abruptly he let go, staring at her with an expression of puzzled shock – his arms were bare, and the hairs on them stood erect.

“I’m awaiting purchases from Stores.” Killashandra was so desperate for a last-minute reprieve that any delay seemed reasonable.

“There!” The Mate conveyed frustrated disgust and impatience as he pointed to a stack of odd-size parcels littering the passageway.

“The crystals?”

“Cartons all racked and tacked in the special cargo hold.” He made a move as if to grab her arm and yank her aboard, but jingled his hands with frustration instead. “We’ve got to make way. Shanganagh Authority imposes heavy fines for missed departure windows. And don’t tell me, Crystal Singer, that you’ve got enough credit to pay ‘em.” Abruptly she abandoned all hope that Lanzecki, like the legendary heroes of yore, would rescue her at the last moment from her act of boundless self-sacrifice. She stepped aboard the freighter. The airlock closed with such speed that the heavy external hatch brushed against her heels. The ship was moving from the docking bay before the Mate could lead her out of the lock and close the secondary iris behind them.

Killashandra experienced an almost overpowering urge to wrench open the airlock and leap into the blessed oblivion of space. But as she had deplored such extravagant and melodramatic actions in performances of historical tragedy, integrity prevented suicide despite the extreme anguish which tormented her. Besides, she had no excuse for causing the death of the Mate who seemed not to be suffering at all.

“Take me to my cabin, please.” She turned too quickly, stumbled over the many packages in the passageway and had to grab the Mate’s shoulder, to regain her balance. Ordinarily she would have cursed her clumsiness, and apologized but cursing was undignified and inappropriate to her mood. From the pile, she chose two packages with the victualer’s logo, and waved negligently at the remainder. “The rest may be brought to my cabin whenever convenient.”

The Mate wended a careful passage through the tumbled parcels as he passed her to lead the way. She noticed that the hair on his neck, indeed the dark body hairs that escaped the sleeveless top he wore, were piercing the thin stuff, all at right angles to his body.

This was no longer an amusing manifestation. Just another fascinating aspect of crystal singing that you don’t hear about in that allegedly Complete Disclosure! It should be renamed “A Short Introduction to what’s really in store for you!” One day, no doubt, she would be in the appropriately damaged state to give All the Facts.

The Mate had stopped, flattening himself against the bulkhead, and gestured toward an open door.

“Your quarters, Crystal Singer. Your thumbprint will secure the door.” He touched his fingers to a spot above his right eye and disappeared around the corner as if chased by Galormis.

Killashandra pressed her thumb hard into the door lock. She was pleasantly surprised by the size of the cabin. Not as big as any accommodation she had enjoyed on Ballybran but larger than her student room at Fuerte and much more spacious than that closet on the Trundomoux cruiser. She slid the door shut, locked it, and put the packages down on the narrow writing ledge. She looked at the bunk, strapped up to the wall in its daytime position. Suddenly she was light-headed with fatigue. Strong emotion is as exhausting as cutting crystal, she thought. She released the bunk and stretched herself out. She exhaled on a long shuddering sob and tried to relax her taut muscles.

The hum of the ship’s crystal drive was a counterpoint to the resonance between her ears, and both sounds traveled in waves up and down her bones. At first her mind did a descant, weaving an independent melody through the bass and alto, but the rhythm suggested a three-syllable word – Lan-zec-ki – so she changed to an idiot two-note dissonance and eventually fell asleep.

Once she got over the initial buoyancy of self-sacrifice aboard the Pink Tulip Sparrow, Killashandra vacillated between fury at Trag and wallowing in despair at her “Loss.” Until she concluded that her misery was caused by Lanzecki – after all, if he hadn’t made such a determined play for her affections, he wouldn’t have become so attached to her, nor she to him, and she wouldn’t be on a stinking tub of a freighter. Well, yes, she probably would. If all Trag had told her about the Optherian assignment was true. In no mood to be civil to either the crew or the other passengers, she stayed in her cabin the entire trip.

At Rappahoe Transfer Point, she boarded a second freighter, newer and less unpleasant than the Pink Tulip Sparrow, with a lounge for the ten passengers it carried. Eight were male and each of them, including the only attached man, stood quickly at her entrance. Plainly they were aware that she was a crystal singer. Equally apparent was the fact that they were willing to put scruples aside to discover the truth of the space flot about singers. Three of them desisted after their first hour of propinquity. Two more during the first evening’s meal. To have one’s hair constantly standing on end seems like a little thing but so is a drop of water patiently wearing away a stone. The bald Argulian was the most persistent. He actually grabbed her in the narrow companionway, pressing her close to his body in an ardent embrace. She didn’t have to struggle for release.

He dropped his arms and slid away, flushing and trembling. “You’re shocking.” He scrubbed his arms and brushed urgently at those portions of his body which had been in contact with her. “That’s not a nice thing to do to a friendly fellow like me.” He looked aggrieved.

“It was all your idea.” Killashandra continued on to her quarters. And another singer legend is spawned!

The female captain of the third freighter, which she boarded at Melorica, bluntly informed her that, under no circumstances, would she tolerate any short term disruption of the pairing in her all-female crew.

“That’s quite all right, captain. I’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”

“What for?” the captain demanded, raking Killashandra with an appraising scrutiny. “Religious or professional?”

“Neither. I shall be true to one man till I die.” Killashandra was pleased with the infinitesimal tremor of pathos in her voice.

“No man’s worth that, honey!” The captain’s disgust was genuine.

With a sad sigh, Killashandra asked if the ship’s library had much in the way of programs for single players and retired to her quarters, which had been getting smaller with each ship. Fortunately this was the shortest leg of her space hike to Bernard’s World.

By the time Killashandra reached the Bernard’s World Transfer Satellite, she entertained doubts about Trag’s candor. The journey seemed incredibly long for a modern space voyage, even allowing for the fact that freighters are generally slower than cruisers or liners. She’d logged five weeks of interstellar travel and must somehow endure another five before she reached the Optherian system. Could Trag have done a subtle job recruiting her because no other singer would consider the assignment? No, the fee was too good – besides. Borella, Concera, and Gobbain had been trying for it.

In the orbital position of a small moon, the Transfer Satellite inscribed a graceful forty-eight-hour path about the brilliant blue-and-green jewel of a planet. The satellite was a marvel of modern engineering, with docking and repair facilities capable of handling FSC cruisers and the compound ships of the Exploration and Evaluation Corps, felicitously sited at the intersection of nine major space routes. Fresh fruit and vegetables were grown in its extensive gardens, and high quality protein was manufactured in its catering division: sufficient in quantity and diversity to please the most exacting clients. Stores of the basic nutrients were available for five other star-roving species. Additional nodules accommodated small industries and a thriving medical research laboratory and hospital. In the transient quadrant, there were playing fields, free-ball and free-fall courts, spacious gardens, and a zoo housing a selection of the smaller life forms from nine nearby star systems. As Killashandra perused the directory in her room, she noted with considerable delight that a radiant fluid tank was one of the amenities in the gymnasium arc.

Although she was certain that there had been some decrease of the resonance in her body, she ached for the total relief provided by an hour or so in the radiant fluid. She booked the room and, fed up with the reaction of “ordinary” people to her proximity, took the service route to it. She had also decided that she was not going to spend the five weeks on the cruise ship enhancing crystal singer myths. Just then her bruised and aching heart had no room for affection, much less passion. And crystal neutralized passing fancy or pure lust

If she could reduce the hair-standing phenomenon to a minimum, she intended to adopt a new personality: that of an aspiring young musician traveling to Optheria’s Summer Festival, and required by economics to travel off-season and on the cheaper freight lines. She had spent long hours preparing the right make-up for the part, affecting the demeanor of the very young, inexperienced adult and recalling the vocabulary and idiom of her student days. So much had transpired since that carefree time that it was like studying for an historic role. In such rehearsals, Killashandra found that time passed quickly. Now if her wretched body would co-operate . .

After nine hours of immersions over the course of three days, Killashandra achieved her goal. She acquired a suitable modest wardrobe. On the fifth day on the Bernard’s World Transfer Station, in wide-eyed and breathless obedience to the boarding call, she presented her ticket to the purser of the FSPS Liner Athena, and was assigned a seat on the second of the two shuttles leaving the station to catch the liner on its parabolic route through the star system. The shuttle trip was short and its single forward viewscreen was dominated by the massive orange hulk of the Athena. Most of the passengers were awed by the spectacle, babbling about their expectations of the voyage, the hardships they had endured to save for the experience, their hopes for their destinations, anxieties about home-bound relatives. Their chatter irritated Killashandra and she began to wish she had not posed as a student. As the respected member of a prestigious Guild, she would have been assigned to the star-class shuttle.

However, she’d made the choice and was stuck with it, so she grimly disembarked onto the economy level of the Athena and located her single cabin in the warren. This room was the same size as her Fuertan student apartment but, she told herself philosophically, she wouldn’t be so likely to step out of character. Anyway, only the catering and lounge facilities differed with the price of the ticket: the leisure decks were unrestricted.

The Athena, a new addition to the far-flung cruise line Galactica, Federated, was on the final leg of its first sweep round this portion of the Galaxy. Some of the oh’s and ah’s that Killashandra breathed were quite genuine as she and other economy class passengers were escorted on the grand tour of the liner. A self-study complex included not only the schoolroom for transient minors but small rehearsal rooms where a broad range of musical instruments could be rented – with the notable exceptions of a portable Optherian organ – a miniature theater, and several large workshops for handicrafters. To her astonishment, the gymnasium complex boasted three small radiant fluid tanks. Their guide explained that this amenity eased aching muscles, overcame space nausea, and was an economical substitute for a water bath since the fluid could be purified after every use. He reminded people that water was still a rationed commodity and that two liters was the daily allowance. Each cabin had a console and vdr, linked to the ship’s main computer bank which. their escort proudly told them, was the very latest FBM 9000 series with a more comprehensive library of entertainment recordings than many planets possessed. The FSPS Athena was a true goddess of the spaceways.

During the first forty-eight hours of the voyage, while the Athena was clearing the Bernard’s World system and accelerating to transfer speed, Killashandra deliberately remained aloof, in her pose of shy student, from the general mingling of the other passengers. She was amused and educated by the pairings, the shiftings and realignments that occurred during this period. She made private wagers with herself as to which of the young women would pair off with which of the young men. Subtler associations developed among the older unattached element.

To Killashandra’s jaundiced eye, none of the male economy passengers, young or old, looked interesting enough to cultivate. There was one absolutely stunning man, with the superb carriage of a dancer or professional athlete, but his classic features were too perfect to project a hint of his character or temperament. He made his rounds, a slight smile curving his perfect lips, well aware that he had only to nod to capture whichever girl, or girls, he fancied. Lanzecki might not have been handsome in the currently fashionable form but his face was carved by character and he exuded a magnetism that was lacking in the glorious young man. Nevertheless, Killashandra toyed with the idea of luring the perfect young man to her side; rejection might improve his character no end. But to achieve that end she would have had to discard her shy student role.

She discovered an unforgivable lack in the Athena’s appointments the first time she dialed for Yarran beer. It was not available, although nine other brews were. In an attempt to find a palatable substitute, she was trying the third, watching the energetic perform a square dance, when she realized someone was standing at her table.

“May I join you?” The man held up beakers of beer, each a different shade. “I noticed that you were sampling the brews. Shall we combine our efforts?”

He had a pleasant voice, his ship-suit was well cut to a tall lean frame, his features were regular but without a distinguished imperfection; his medium length dark hair complimented a space tan. There was, however, something about his eyes and a subtle strength to his chin that arrested Killashandra’s attention.

“I’m not a joiner myself,” he said, pointing one beaker at the gyrating dancers, “and I noticed that you aren’t, so I thought we might keep each other company.”

Killashandra indicated the chair opposite her.

“My name is Corish von Mittelstern.” He put his beers down nearer hers as he repositioned the chair to permit him to watch the dancers. Killashandra turned ever slightly away from him, not all that confident of the remission of resonance in her body, though why she made the instinctive adjustment she didn’t know. “I hail from Rheingarten in the Beta Jungische system. I’m bound for Optheria.”

“Why, so am I!” She raised her beer in token of a hand clasp. “Killashandra Ree of Fuerte. I’m – I’m a music student.”

“The Summer Festival.” Then a puzzled expression crossed Corish’s face. “But they have a Fuertan brew – ”

“Oh, that old stuff. I might have to travel off-season and economy to get to Optheria but I’m certainly not going to waste the opportunities of trying everything new on the Athena.”

Corish smiled urbanely. “Is this your first interstellar trip?”

“Oh, yes. But I know a lot about traveling. My brother is a supercargo. On the Blue Swan Delta. And when Mother told him that I was making the voyage, he sent me all kinds of advice” – and Killashandra managed a tinkling giggle – “and warnings.”

Corish smiled perfunctorily. “Don’t ignore that sort of advice. Fuerte, huh? That’s a long way to come.”

“I think I’ve spent half my life traveling already,” Killashandra said expansively while she tried to compute how long she ought to have been traveling if her port of embarkation had been Fuerte. She hadn’t done enough homework. Though she couldn’t imagine that Corish would know if she erred. She took a long sip of her beer. “This is a Bellemere, but it’s too sour for me.”

“The best beer in the galaxy is a Yarran brew.”

“Yarran?” She regarded Corish with keener interest. If Corish came from Beta Jungische, he was a long way from a regular supply of Yarran beer. Killashandra’s curiosity rustled awake.

“The Yarran brewmasters have no peers. Surely your brother has mentioned Yarran beer?”

“Well, now. it’s possible that he has,” Killashandra said slowly, as if searching her memory. “But then, he told me so much that I can’t remember half.” She was about to giggle again and then decided that, not only did her giggle nauseate herself but it might repel Corish and she wanted to satisfy this flicker of curiosity about him. “Why are you traveling to Optheria?”

“Family business, sort of. An uncle of mine went for a visit and decided to become a citizen. We need his signature on some family papers. We’ve written several times and had no reply. Now. he could be dead but I have to have the proper certification if he is, and his print and fist on the documents if he isn’t.”

“And you have to come all the way from Beta Jungische for that?”

“Well, there’s a lot of credit involved and this isn’t a bad way to go.” He enscribed a half circle with his beaker, including the ship as well as the dancers, and smiled at Killashandra over the rim as he sipped. “This Pilsner’s not all that bad, really. What have you there?”

She went along with Corish’s adroit change of subject and with the beer sampling. Although singing crystal brought with it an inexhaustible ability to metabolize alcohol without noticeable affect, she feigned the symptoms of intoxication as she confided her fake history to the Jungian, whenever necessary embellishing her actual experiences at the Arts Complex. Thus Corish learned that she was a keyboard specialist, in her final year of training, with high hopes that the Optherian Festival would provide her with sufficient data for an honors recommendation. She had credentials of sufficiently high caliber to gain entrance into the Federal Music Conservatory on Optheria where she hoped she’d be allowed to play on an Optherian organ.

“An hour is all I need,” she told Corish, blinking in her simulation of advancing inebriation, “for the purposes of my dissertation.”

“From what I hear about their precious organ, you’d be lucky to get within spitting distance.”

“Even half an hour.”

“I hear that only Federal licensed musicians are allowed in the organ loft.”

“Well, they’ll have to make an exception in my case because I have a special letter from Fuerte’s President – he’s a friend of my family’s. And a sealed note from Stellar Performer Dalkay Mogorog . . .” She paused deferentially at the mention of that august personality, who was evidently unknown to Corish, “and I’m sure they’ll concede. Even fifteen minutes?” she asked as Corish continued to shake his head. “Well, they’ll just have to! I haven’t come all this way to be refused. I’m a serious student of keyboard instruments. I won a scholarship to the Federated Sentient Planets Conservatory on Terra. I’ve been permitted to play on a Moartian clavier, a Handelian spinet, Purcell’s harpsichord, a Bach organ, and a Beethoven pianaforte and – ” She hiccuped to mask the fact that she was running out of prestigious composers and instruments.

“So? Which beer do you prefer now?”

“Huh?”

Corish solicitously conducted her to her cabin and arranged her on her bunk. As he drew a light blanket over her, she felt the static leap from her shoulder to his hands. He hesitated briefly, then quietly left.

As Killashandra gave him time to leave her passage-way, she reviewed her “performance” and decided that she hadn’t dropped from character, even if he had. It was rather nice of him, too, not to have “taken advantage” of her. When she felt secure, she slipped from her cabin and down to the gymnasium level. At that hour, it was empty and she enjoyed an hour’s luxuriating in the radiant fluid.

They met the next morning at the breakfast hour, Corish solicitously inquiring after her health.

“Did I fall asleep on you?” she asked with wide-eyed dismay.

“Not at all. I just saw to it that you were safely in your own cabin before you did.”

Critically, she held her hands out in front of her. “Wel1, at least, they’re steady enough to practice.”

“You’re going to practice?”

“I practice every day.”

“May I listen””

“Well . . . it can be quite boring-I have to spend at least an hour on the preliminary finger exercises and scales before I can do any interesting music . . .”

“If I’m bored, I’ll leave.”

As she led the way to the practice rooms, she wondered if she had slipped up in her characterization. Why else should he be curious enough to want to listen to her practice?

Killashandra was rather chuffed to discover that the old drills came easily to her fingers as she addressed the keyboard with every semblance of true authority. Corish departed after fifteen minutes but she left nothing to chance and played on, making remarkably few errors for someone who had not played in three years.

As she had established her credentials with him, he continued to project the image of an amiable young man on a journey to protect family interests. He sought her out at mealtimes, helped her evade the organizers of team sports, directed her investigations of the caterer’s potential with the amused tolerance of the mature traveler, and accompanied her to shipboard activities. On one or two occasions, she had the urge to shock him with her true identity just to see how he might react, but she repressed that whimsy.

Then, after a particularly bibulous evening, when she had taken an extra long radiant bath. she encountered him in the gymnasium. He was sweating profusely, working out against a hefty weight on the apparatus with apparent ease. Stripped as he was for the exercise, Killashandra could appreciate that Corish’s lean frame was suspiciously well muscled and fine tuned for his public image.

“I didn’t know you were a gymnast!”

“It’s only smart to keep fit, Killashandra Ree.” He whipped a towel about his shoulders and mopped his face. “Where’ve you been?”

Killashandra managed a blush of embarrassment, dropping her eyes and affecting mortification

“ I tried that radiant stuff. In the tank, “ and she pointed vaguely in the right direction. “That blonde girl from Kachachurian was saying that it was good for hang-overs!” She kicked at the apparatus base with her toe, eyes still downcast.

“Well, is it?”

“I think it is.” She allowed some doubt in her tone. “At least that awful spinning has stopped . . . and the nausea!” She put one hand to her head and the other to her stomach. “I think I may have to go back to Fuertan beer. I could always drink as much of that as I wanted. Or is it something to do with traveling in space? My brother did say something about that . . .” She looked up at Corish. “Isn’t this a funny time to be working out?”

“That’s how I work alcohol out of my system,” Corish said, pulling on his shirt. “I’ll see you back to your cabin. You really shouldn’t be wandering about the ship at this hour. Someone might get the wrong impression about you.”

As Killashandra permitted him to escort her back, she wondered why he was rushing her out of the gym. She felt she had deftly accounted for her presence. And naively accepted his explanation. Safely returned to her cabin, she agreed to meet him as usual for breakfast the next morning, and dutifully went to bed.

Waiting for sleep, she reflected on his extraordinary fitness and the stealth in which he kept it. Could Corish possibly be an FSP agent? It struck her as unlikely that the Federation would choose to send only one observer – an inexperienced one at that – into a planetary society that was being investigated. She chuckled to think that, out of the eighteen hundred passengers and crew on the Athena, Corish should attach himself to her. Of course, in her eager-student guise, she might constitute an integral part of his shipboard cover. Unless he had been advised of her extra assignment by his superiors. If he was a Federal agent, he would also know the capabilities of crystal singers, and the subtler ways to identify them.

No matter! In her concentrated efforts to recall her days as an impecunious and ardent music student, she had been able to shelve the more recent, painful episode. Seriously now, Killashandra considered Antona’s advice to record incidents in detail. Who knew when she might find it necessary to adopt the role of the student again?