The chandelier responded to the vibrations of her passage and picked up the tone of her voice. From the resonance of the chiming artform, Killashandra knew the woman was making demands. What surprised Killashandra more was that the Guild woman did not pay any attention, her head remaining bent over the module. The angry space worker repeated her question, sharp enough now for Killashandra to hear that the woman was demanding to be taken immediately for testing as a Guild candidate.
Suddenly, one of the Guildsmen, excusing himself from his conversation with a buyer, touched the programmer on her arm, directing her gaze to the now irate space worker. Another angry spate of words jarred the crystal drops, although the Guild programmer seemed not the least disturbed either by her discourtesy or the space worker’s ire. In the next moment, the panel at the back of the room opened again, and the space worker moved toward it, her head set at an aggressive angle, her stride jarring her slender frame. The panel closed behind her.
A sigh attracted Killashandra’s attention, and she turned to find a young man standing beside her. He would have deserved a second look anywhere, for be possessed close-curled red hair, a recessive trait rarer now than the true blond. He had evidently watched the interchange between the space worker and the Guild programmer as if he had anticipated such a confrontation. His sigh had been one of relief.
“She made it,” he murmured under his breath, and then, noticing Killashandra, smiled at her. His unusually light-green eyes twinkled in mischief. The antipathy Killashandra had instinctively felt for the space worker was replaced by an instant affinity to the young man. “She’s been in a snit, that one, the whole journey here. Thought she’d go through the debarkation arch like a projectile when it started laying on the formality. And after all that . . .” He spread his hands wide to express his astonishment at her ease.
“There’s more to it than going through a doorway,” Killashandra said.
“Don’t I just know it, but there was no telling Carigana. For starters, she was annoyed that I got to do the prelim at Yarro on Beta VI. As if it were a personal affront to her that she had to come all the way here.” He stepped closer to Killashandra as a knot of people, buyers from their varied manner of dress, entered. “Have you taken the plunge yet?” And then he held up his hand, grinning so winningly when Killashandra stiffened at such a flagrant breach of privacy that she couldn’t, after all, take offense. “I’m from Scartine, you know, and I keep forgetting manners. Besides, you don’t look like a buyer”—his comment was complimentary for he gestured with good-humored contempt at the finery of most of the other occupants of the hall—“and transients would never venture further than the catering area, so you must be interested in crystal singing . . .” He raised his eyebrows as well as the tone of his voice in question.
It would have taken a far more punctilious person than Killashandra to depress his ingenuous manner, but she answered with the briefest of smiles and a nod.
“Well, because I’ve been through the prelim, I’ve only to report my presence, but if I were you, though I’m not, and it’s certainly not my wish to invade your privacy, I’d give Carigana a chance to get organized before I followed her in.” Then he cocked his head, grinning with a sparkle at odds with his guilelessness. “Unless you’re hanging back with second thoughts.”
“I’ve thoughts but none of them seconds,” Killashandra said. “You did the prelim at Yarro?”
“Yes, you know the tests.”
“SG-1’s, I hear.”
He shrugged diffidently. “Medigear feels the same for all levels, and if you’re adjusted, the psych is nothing. Aptitude’s aptitude and a fast one, but you look like you’ve done tertiary studies, so what’s to knot your hair over?” His expression was sharp as his eyes flicked to the wall through which Carigana had passed. “If you’ve got hair!”
“Those tests—they’re not complicated, or painful, or anything?. . .” The tall nervous young man had sidled up to them without either noticing his approach.
Killashandra frowned slightly with displeasure, but the other young man grinned encouragingly.
“No sweat, no stress, no strength exerted, man. A breeze,” and he planed his hand in a smooth gesture indicating ease. “All I got to do now is go up to the panel, knock on the door, and I’m in.” He snapped the shoulder strap of his carisak.
“You’ve been given the full disclosure?” the dark-haired man asked.
“Not yet.” The red-head grinned again. “That’s the next step and only done here.”
“Shillawn Agus Vartry,” the other said formally, raising his right hand, fingers spread in the galactic gesture that indicated cooperation without weapon.
“Rimbol C-hen-stal-az” was the red-head’s rejoinder.
Killashandra wasn’t in the mood to be drawn into further conversation about applying for Guild membership, not with this Shillawn swallowing and stammering his way to a decision. She accorded Rimbol a smile and the salute as she backed away courteously before veering toward the module with more assurance than she felt. Once there, she spread her fingers wide where the movement would catch the woman’s eye.
“I’d like to apply for membership to the Heptite Guild,” she said when the woman raised her head. Killashandra had meant to say she wanted to become a Crystal Singer, but the words had shifted in her mind and mouth with uncharacteristic discretion. Perhaps Carigana’s very bad example had tempered her approach.
The programmer inclined her head in acknowledgment of the request, her fingers flashing across the terminal keys. “If you will proceed through that entrance.” She motioned toward the opening panel in the wall.
Killashandra could just imagine how anticlimactic that mild phrase must have been for the storming Carigana. She smiled to herself as the panel closed behind her without so much as a sigh. Exit Killashandra Ree softly and with no fanfare.
She found herself in a short corridor, with a series of color-coded and design-patched doors on either side, and made for one that opened quietly. Just as she entered the room from one door, a man with an odd crook to one shoulder entered from another. He gave her such a quick searching look that she felt certain he had had to greet Carigana.
“You agree to submit to SG-1 examinations of physical, psychological, and aptitudinal readiness? Please state your name, planet of origin, and whatever rank you hold. This information is being processed under the Federated Sentient Planets’ conditions regarding admission into the Heptite Guild of Ballybran.” He ran through the speech in two breaths, staring expectantly at her while her mind caught up with his rote comments.
“Yes, I, Killashandra Ree of Fuerte, agree to the examinations. Rank, tertiary student in performing arts, released.”
“This way, please, Killashandra Ree.” She followed him into an anteroom, the usual examination facility. The panel on one door blazed red, and Killashandra supposed that Carigana was within, being subjected to the same tests she was about to undergo.
She was shown to the next cubicle, which held the couch and hood that were standard physical diagnostic equipment for her species. Without a word, she settled herself on the couch as comfortably as possible, inured since childhood to the procedures, to the slightly claustrophobic sensation as the upper half of the diagnostic unit swung down over her. She didn’t mind the almost comforting pressure of the torso unit or the tight grip across one thigh and the hard weight on her left shin, but she never could get used to the constricting headpiece and the pressures against eyes, temple, and jaw. But cerebral and retinal scanning were painless, and one never felt the acupuncture that deadened the leg for the blood, bone marrow, and tissue samples. The other pressures for organ readings, muscle tone, heat and cold tolerances, sound sensitivity, were as nothing to the final pain-threshold jolt. She had heard about but never experienced the pain-threshold gamut—and hoped never to have to do so again.
Just as she was about to scream from the stimuli applied to her nerve centers the apparatus abruptly retracted
. As her nervous system tingled with the aftereffect, she did groan and massaged the back of her neck to ease muscles that had tensed in that split second of measurable agony.
“Take this restorative now, please,” the meditech said, entering the room. He gave her a glass of carbonated green liquid. “Set you right. And if you’ll just sit here,” he added as a comfortable padded chair rolled to the center of the room while the medigear slid to the left. “When you are recovered, press the button on the right chair arm, and the psychological test will begin. A verbal address system is used. Responses are, of course, recorded, but I’m sure you’re familiar with the procedures by now.”
The drink did clear the last miasma of the threshold test from her senses, making her feel incredibly alert. All the better preparation for psychological testing.
Killashandra had always had mixed feelings about that sort of evaluation—so much might depend on one’s frame of mind at that particular hour, day, and year. She experienced her usual halfhearted desire to give all the wrong answers, but this was coupled with the keen awareness of self-competition. Too much depended on the exams. She had no need to play any of the games she might have risked at other levels and times. She could not, however, comprehend the purpose of some questions that had never been asked during any other evaluation session. Of course, she’d never applied to the Heptite Guild before, so their criteria were bound to be different. Nor had she undergone a computerized verbal address psych test before, which was generally conducted face to face with a human examiner.
Toward the last few moments of the session, the speed of questioning increased to the point where she was actually sweating to produce answers to the displayed questions in an effort to keep up the pace.
She could still feel her heart racing when the Guild man returned, this time bearing a tray with steaming food packs.
“Your aptitude tests will be presented after you’ve eaten and rested. You may request entertainment from the fax or sleep.” At his words, a contour couch appeared from a storage area. “When you are ready, inform the computer and the final examination will begin.”
Killashandra was ravenous and found the nutritious meal delicious. She sipped the hot beverage slowly and asked for soothing Optherian “balances” to clear her mind of the tensions caused by the last portion of the psych tests.
In her previous evaluation sessions, the manner of the human attendants had often indicated the level of her performance—and she was accustomed to scoring high. But the Guild tech had been so impersonal, she couldn’t guess how she was doing.
After she’d finished her meal, she elected to continue and signaled her readiness. Whereupon she was tested for pitch, the severest evaluation of that faculty she’d ever endured, including estimates of vibrational errors and unnerving subliminal noises below 50 and above 18,000 cycles. That recorded, the testing moved on to deceptively complex hand-eye coordinations that again left her drenched with sweat. She was run through a series of depth-perception exams and spatial relationships. The latter had always been one of her strong points, but by the time the session was over, she was wrung out with fatigue and was shaking.
Maybe it was wishful thinking on her part, but when the meditech returned, she fancied something of respect in his glance.
“Killashandra Ree, since you have completed the first day’s examinations up to standard, you are now the guest of the Guild. We have taken the liberty of transferring your personal effects to more comfortable quarters in the Guild block. If you will follow me . . .”
Ordinarily, such an action, taken without her consent, would have constituted an invasion of privacy, but her energies were too depleted for her to summon up a protest. She was led deeper into the Guild block, down three levels from the main and the only entrance, or exit, to the rest of Shankill Base. Her easy penetration of the hallowed precinct amused rather than alarmed her. There was really no need for her to be isolated from the rest of the base population after what were very standard examinations. Except for the pain-threshold test, she had nothing to warn any other prospective applicant about. Unsuccessful applicants would be more dangerous to the Guild because of their disappointment. What happened to them, she wondered? What, for instance, had become of the angry Carigana? She’d be glad to be out of that one’s vicinity in the event of her failure. And where were Rimbol and that irritating, twitchy young man, that Shillawn something?
How far into the Guild did she have to go to get this free room and board, she wondered, fatigue irritating her. She desired nothing more than to stretch out and sleep. She felt as drained as she had the night of the final student concert. How long ago was that now? In terms of distance or time? She had no patience with her own conundrums. How much farther now?
The Guild man had paused at a door, which slid open.
“If you’ll put your print on file, you will find your belongings within. At the end of this corridor is a common lounge, although you will also find catering facilities in your room. Tomorrow you will be summoned for the final phase.”
A bleep from the man’s wrist-unit curtailed any questions she might have asked; for he acknowledged the reminder, inclined his head politely to her and retraced his steps.
She placed her thumb in the depression for the print lock and entered her new accommodation. It was not only larger—spacious in comparison to the hostel room—it was also more luxuriously appointed. A chair was drawn up to a small table, already set with a beaker of brew from the catering panel, which was lit. Killashandra gratefully sampled the drink, noting that the menufax was set to fish selections. She wondered just how much information the Guild had already had programmed about her since she had given her name, planet of origin, and rank. Deliberately, she spun the display to other proteins and ordered what was described as a hearty casserole of assorted legumes and a light wine.
She had just finished her meal when the door announced a visitor. She hesitated a long moment, unable to imagine who would be calling, then the door added that the visitor’s name was Rimbol, who required a word with her. She pressed the door release.
Rimbol leaned in, grinning. “C’mon out for bit. Just for a drink. It’s free.” Then he winked. “Neither Carigana nor Shillawn are present. Just some others who’ve already passed their prelims. C’mon.”
The amusement in his wheedling voice was the deciding factor. Killashandra knew herself well enough to realize that even if she tried to sleep, she’d only play back the tests and become so depressed over omissions and commissions that she’d never achieve a true rest. A few drinks and a bit of relaxation in Rimbol’s infectious company would do her much more good, especially if both Carigana and that nervous Shillawn were absent.
She was a bit taken aback, however, when ‘just some others’ numbered twenty-nine. Rimbol, sensing her surprise, grinned and gestured at the catering area.
“A brews what you need. This is Killashandra,” he announced in a slightly raised voice to the room in general. Her presence was acknowledged by slight nods or smiles or a brief hand gesture. A certain degree of informal companionship was already enjoyed by the others. The group, involved in some sort of four-player card game, didn’t even look up as she and Rimbol collected their drinks.
“You make thirty, you know,” Rimbol said as he guided her to a seat on the one unoccupied lounger. “Shillawn and Carigana thirty-two, and there’s supposed to be one more going through prelim today. If that’s a pass, it means we’ll all go down to Ballybran tomorrow.”
“That is if no one gets scared after disclosure,” said a girl who wandered over to join them. “I’m Jezerey, late of Salonika in the Antares group.”
“I didn’t think they canceled after disclosure,” Rimbol said, frowning in surprise.
“You may well be right, but I do know that thirty is the smallest group they’ll train,” Jezerey went on, settling herself on the couch with a long sigh. “I’ve been waiting seven weeks standard.” She sounded disgusted. “But Borton”—and s
he gestured toward the card players—“has been here nine. He’d just missed a class. Nothing will make him decline. I’m not so sure about one or two of the others—and we’ve got a few to spare. Rimbol says that nothing would unpersuade that Carigana, and from the look on her face when old Crookback brought her in, I’m as glad she decided she didn’t like us either and stayed in her room. Space workers are odd lots, but she’s—she’s—”
“She’s just intense,” Rimbol noted when Jezerey faltered. “I don’t think she trusts space stations any more than spaceships. She was tranked to her brows on the trip here. Shillawn”—and Rimbol favored Killashandra with a wry expression—“was knackered out of his bones, so I invaded Privacy and put a knockout in his brew. Got him to bed.”
“Why would someone like him want to be a Crystal Singer?” Killashandra asked.
“Why do any of us?” Rimbol answered, amused.
“All right, why would you?” Killashandra fired the question right back at him.
“Wasn’t allowed to continue as an instrumentalist. Not enough openings on my mudball for a string player. Crystal singings the next best thing.”
Killashandra nodded, looking to Jezerey.
“Curiously enough,” the girl said with a bemused expression, “I was redundant in my profession, too. Limb-replacement therapist. And the Dear knows there’re enough accidents on Salonika.” She wrinkled her nose and then caught the puzzled expressions of Rimbol and Killashandra. “Mining world, asteroid belts around us and the next planet out. Next to mining, you might say replacement was our biggest industry.”
Crystal Singer Page 7