Crystal Singer

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Space workers aren’t apt to be redundant, either,” Killashandra commented, looking at Rimbol.

  “Carigana wasn’t. Psyched out when her safety cable snapped—I get the impression she was deep-spaced a long time before they found her. She didn’t say”—and Rimbol emphasized the last word—“but she’s probably unstable for such employment.”

  Jezerey nodded sympathetically.

  “Shillawn?” Killashandra asked.

  “Told me he was a chemotech,” Rimbol replied. “His project was finished up, and he was given an assignment he didn’t like. Underground. He’s a touch claustro! I think that’s what makes him so nervous.”

  “And we all have perfect pitch,” Killashandra said more to herself than the others because the phrases Maestro Valdi had spat accusingly, particularly the one about a ‘silicate spider,’ came appropriately to mind. She dismissed the niggling suspicion as invalid.

  An explosive curse burst from one of the card players, and his earnest request for arbitration from any and all in the room interrupted their private conversation.

  Although Killashandra took no part in the intense discussion that followed, she deemed it good sense to lend her presence to a group with whom she might be spending considerable time. She also saw them as a group with no other common factor—aside from the invisible prerequisite of perfect pitch—than age. All seemed to be within their third decade; most apparently just finished with tertiary education; no two from the same system or planet.

  Killashandra remained on the fringes of the good-humored but volatile game discussion until she had finished another glass of the very good brew. Then she quietly retired, wondering as the prepared for sleep just how thirty-plus people from so many different planets had all heard of the Crystal Singers.

  She had just finished her morning meal when a soft, deep chime brought her attention to the screen. She was requested to go to the lounge room.

  “You sneaked away nice and early,” a cheerful tenor said behind her. She turned to find Rimbol approaching, the awkward figure of Shillawn just behind him. “Missed the fun, you did.”

  “Who won the argument?” she asked after a courteous nod to Shillawn.

  “No one and everyone. It was the arguing that was fun!” The red-headed lad grinned.

  They had reached the lounge by then, and from the other corridors the rest of the successful filed, some re-forming the groups she’d noticed the previous evening. Only Carigana seemed apart; she sat on the back of one of the loungers glowering at everyone. Something about the angry girl was familiar to Killashandra, but she couldn’t place what.

  Just then, from the fourth entrance, limped a tall woman holding the left side of her long gown slightly away from her thigh. Her gaze swiftly scanned the room, counting, Killashandra thought, and made her own tally. Thirty-three. Out of what gross number of applicants, she wondered again, over the nine weeks Jezerey had said Borton had waited?

  “I am Borella Seal,” the woman announced in the clear, rich voice of a trained contralto. Killashandra regarded her with closer interest. “I am a miner of crystal, a Crystal Singer. Since I am recovering from an injury sustained in the ranges, I have been asked to disclose to you the dangers of this profession.” She pulled aside the long gown and revealed wounds so ugly and vividly contused that several people recoiled. As if this was the very reaction she had wanted, Borella smiled slightly. “I will expose the wound again for a specific purpose other than arousing nausea or sympathy. Take a good look now.”

  Shillawn’s elbow nudged Killashandra, and she was about to give him a severe reprimand for such a private insult when she realized he was drawing her attention to Carigana. The girl was the only one who approached Borella Seal and bent for the close inspection of the long gashes scoring the upper leg.

  “They appear to be healing properly, though you ought to have had them bonded. How’d you get ’em?” Carigana was clinically impersonal.

  “Two days ago, I slipped on crystal shale and fell fifteen meters down an old worked face.”

  “Two days?” Anger colored Carigana’s voice. “I don’t believe you. I’ve seen enough lacerations to know ones as deep as these don’t heal that much in two days. Why the color of the bruising and the state of the tissue already healed show you were injured weeks ago.”

  “Two days. Singers heal quickly.”

  “Not that quick.” Carigana would have said more, but Borella Seal gestured dismissal and turned to the others.

  “By order of the Federated Sentient Planets, full disclosure of the dangers peculiar to and inherent in this profession, must be revealed to all applicants who have satisfactorily completed the initial examinations.” She accorded them a slight nod of approval. “However, as is also permissible by FSP law, professional—problems—may be protected by erasure. Those to whom this practice is unacceptable may withdraw.”

  “How much is erased?” Carigana asked.

  “Precisely one hour and twenty minutes, replaced by a recollection of oversleeping and a leisurely breakfast.”

  “On record?”

  “If requested, the Guild supplies the information that a minor but inadmissible physical defect has been discovered. Few question the Heptite Guild.” For some reason Killashandra thought that fact amused Borella. Carigana’s frown had deepened. “Any objectors?” Borella asked, looking straight at the space worker.

  When no other voice was raised, she asked them to file before the screen she then activated, giving their name and stating their willingness to comply with erasure. The process didn’t take long, but Killashandra felt that she had taken an irrevocable step as her acceptance was officially and indisputably recorded.

  Borella then led them down a short hall to a door, Carigana the first to follow. Her gasp and half halt as she passed the entrance forewarned the others but in no way prepared anyone for the display in that short corridor. On either side were bodies in clear fluid—all but one glinted as if coated with a silicon. The planes of the faces looked rock hard; limbs, fingers, and toes were extended as if solidified, and not by the rigor of death. The crystalline sheen couldn’t be some trick of the light, Killashandra thought, for her own skin showed no change. What roiled her stomach were the facial expressions: three looked as if death had overtaken them in a state of insanity; two appeared mildly surprised, and the sixth angry, her hands raised toward some object she had been trying to grasp. The last was the most grisly: a charred body forever in the position of a runner, consumed by a conflagration that had melted flesh from bone.

  “This is what happens to the unprotected on Ballybran. It could also happen to you, though every effort is made to reduce such risks to a minimum. If you wish to retire now, you are completely at liberty to do so.”

  “External danger does not constitute a Code 4 classification,” Carigana said, her tone accusatory.

  “No, it doesn’t. But these are representative of two of the dangers of Ballybran which the Heptite Guild is required by Federated Sentient Planets to reveal to you.”

  “Is that the worst that can happen?” Carigana asked scornfully.

  “Isn’t being dead enough?” someone asked from the group.

  “Dead’s dead—crystal, char, or carrion,” Carigana replied, shrugging her shoulders, her tone so subtly offensive that Killashandra was not the only one who frowned with irritation.

  “Yes, but it is the manner of dying that can be the worst,” said Borella in such a thoughtful way that she had everyone’s attention. She accorded them the slightest smile. “Follow me.”

  The grim corridor opened on to a small semicircular lecture hall. Borella proceeded to a small raised platform, gesturing for the group to take the seats, which would have accommodated three times their number. As she turned to face them, a large hologram lit behind her, a view of the Scorian system, homing quickly on Ballybran and its three moons. The planet and its satellites moved with sufficient velocity to demonstrate the peculiar Passover of the moons, wh
en all three briefly synchronized orbits—a synchronization that evidently took place over different parts of the parent world.

  “The crystallization displayed in the corridor is the most prevalent danger on Ballybran. It occurs when the spore symbiont, a carbon silicate occurring in an unorthodox environment peculiar to Ballybran, does not form a proper bridge between our own carbon-based biological system and the silicon-based ecology of this planet. Such a bridge is essential for working on Ballybran. If the human host adapts properly to the spore symbiont, and I assure you it is not the other way round, the human experiences a significant improvement in visual acuity, tactile perceptions, nerve conduction, and cellular adaptation. The first adaptations are of immense importance to those who become miners of crystal, the Crystal Singers. Yes, Carigana?”

  “What part of the body does the symbiont invade? Is it crystalline or biological?”

  “Neither, and the symbiont invades cellular nuclei in successful adaptations—”

  “What happens to the unsuccessful ones?”

  “I shall discuss that shortly if you will be patient. As part of the cell nucleus, the symbiont affects the DNA/RNA pattern of the body, extending the lifespan considerably. The rumor that Crystal Singers are immortal is exaggerated, but functional longevity is definitely increased by fifty or more decades beyond actuarial norms. The adaptation provides an immunization to ordinary biological disease, enormously increasing the recuperative ability. Broken bones and wounds such as mine are, I warn you, part of the daily work of a Crystal Singer. Tolerance to extremes of heat and cold are also increased.”

  And pain, no doubt, Killashandra thought, remembering not only the test but Borella’s lack of discomfort with her deep wounds.

  Behind the Singer, the holograms were now views of Ballybran’s rugged terrain, quickly replaced by a time-lapse overview from one of the moons, so that the planet’s twelve continents were visible in seconds.

  “On the negative side, once acclimated to Ballybran and adapted to the symbiont, the Singer is irreversibly sterile. The genetic code is altered by the intrusion of the symbiont into the nuclei, and those parts of the DNA spiral dealing with heredity and propagation are chemically altered, increasing personal survival traits as opposed to racial survival—a chemical alteration of instinct, if you will.”

  Carigana gave a pleased sound like a feline expression of enjoyment.

  “The other, and basically the most important negative factor, is that a Singer cannot remain too long away from Ballybran’s peculiar ecology. The symbiont must recharge itself from its native place. Its death means the death of the host—a rather unpleasant one, for death from extreme old age occurs within a period inversely related to the host’s elapsed lifespan.”

  “How long can a Singer stay away from Ballybran without ill effect?” Killashandra asked, thinking of Carrik and his reluctance to return.

  “Depending on the strength of the initial adaptation, and that varies, for periods of up to four hundred days. A Singer is not required to be absent for longer than two hundred days on assignment off-planet. Two hundred and fifty days is suitable for leisure. Sufficient, I assure you, for most purposes.”

  Killashandra, seated behind the space worker, saw Carigana draw breath for another question, but Borella had changed the hologram to show a human writhing in the grip of a shaking fever, all too reminiscent of the hypothermia that had affected Carrik. The man was seized by massive convulsions. As the focus lightened first to his hands, then his chest and face, he aged from an athletic person in his third, possibly fourth decade, to a wrinkled and dehydrated, hairless, shrunken corpse in the time it took viewers to gasp.

  “He was one of the first Singers to make a successful symbiotic adaptation. He died, regrettably, at Weasust while setting up the black quartz relay station for that sector of the FSP. It was the first time a Singer had been absent for a prolonged period, but that particular danger had not yet been recognized.”

  “Did you know him?” Shillawn asked with a perception that surprised Killashandra, for she had wondered the same thing.

  “Yes, I did. He trained me in the field,” Borella replied, dispassionately.

  Killashandra made some mental calculations and regarded the flawless complexion and erect figure of their mentor with surprise.

  “Is that Milekey man still alive?” Carigana asked.

  “No. He died during a major fault in the range which bears his name.”

  “I thought this symbiont kept you from broken bones and wounds?”

  “The symbiont provides increased recuperative ability but cannot replace a severed head on a body whose wounds have resulted in complete blood loss. For less drastic injuries—”and she pulled the gown aside from her left leg.

  Rimbol’s soft whistle of astonishment summed up Killashandra’s amazement, too. They had all seen the purple bruising and lacerations: now the contusions were faintly yellow splotches, and the wounds were visibly closing.

  “What about those for whom the symbiont doesn’t work?” asked the undaunted Carigana.

  “The main purpose of the intensive physical examination was to evaluate rejection and blood factors, tissue health, and chromosome patterns against those of the known successful adaptations.” A graph appeared on the screen, the line indicating success rising triumphantly over the past three decades where it had hovered in minor peaks over a span of three hundred or more years. “Your tests indicate no undesirable factors evaluated against records now dating back over three hundred twenty-seven standard years. You all have as good a chance as possible of achieving complete acceptance by the symbiont—”

  “The odds are five to one against.”

  Killashandra wondered if Carigana gave even the time of day in that same hostile tone.

  “No longer,” Borella replied, and a light appeared on the upward swing of the graph line. “It’s now better than one out of three. There are still factors not yet computed which cause only partial adaptation. I am compelled by FSP law to emphasize that.”

  “And then?”

  “That person obviously becomes one of the 20,007 technicians,” Shillawn said.

  “I asked her.” Carigana gave Shillawn a scathing glance.

  “The young man is, however, right.”

  “And technicians never leave Ballybran.” Carigana’s glance slid from Borella to Shillawn, and it was obvious what her assessment of Shillawn’s chances were.

  “Not without severe risk of further impairment. The facilities on Ballybran, however, are as complete as—”

  “Except you can’t ever leave.”

  “As you are not yet there,” Borella continued imperturbably, though Killashandra had the notion the Singer enjoyed sparring with the space worker, “the problem is academic and can remain so.” She turned to the others. “As I was about to point out, the odds have been reduced to three out of five. And improving constantly. The last class produced thirty-three Singers from thirty-five candidates.

  “Besides the problem of symbiont adaptation required for existence on Ballybran, there is an additional danger, of the more conventional type.” She went on less briskly, allowing her comments on the odds to be absorbed. “Ballybran’s weather.” The screen erupted into scene of seas lashed into titanic waves, landscapes where ground cover had been pulped. “Each of the three moons contains weather stations, and sixteen permanent satellites scan the surface constantly.

  “Scoria, our primary, has a high incidence of sun-spot activity.” A view of the sun in eclipse supported that statement as flares leaped dramatically from behind the eclipsing moon’s disk. A second occluded view showed the primary’s dark blotches. “This high activity, plus the frequent conjunction of the moons’ orbits, a triple conjunction being the most dangerous obviously, ensure that Ballybran has interesting weather.”

  A bark of laughter for such understatement briefly interrupted Borella, but her patient smile suggested that the reaction was expected. Then the screen sh
owed breathtaking conjunction of the moons’ orbits.

  “When the meteorological situation becomes unstable, even in terms of Ballybran’s norms, the planet is subjected to storms which have rated the euphemism, mach storm. As the crystal ranges of Ballybran extend downward rather than up,”—the screen obediently provided a view from a surface vehicle traversing the down ranges at speed—“one might assume that one need only descend far enough below the planet’s surface to avoid the full brunt of wind and weather. A fatal assumption. The ranges constitute the worst danger.” The view changed to a rapid series of photographs of people, their expressions ranging from passive imbecility to wild-eyed violence. “The winds of the mach storm stroke the crystal to such sonic violence that a human, even one perfectly adapted to his symbiont, can be driven insane by sound.

  “The vehicles provided by the Guild for Singers’ use have every known warning device, although the most effective one is lodged in the bodies of the Singers themselves; the symbiont, which is more sensitive to the meteorological changes than any instrument man can create. Sometimes the human element overcomes the keen senses of the symbiont, and a Singer is impervious to warnings.

  “Such injury is the main reason for the tithe levied by the Guild on all active members. You may be certain of the best possible care should such an accident befall you.”

  “You said the symbiont increased recuperative ability for structural damage.” the irrepressible Carigana began.

  “A broken mind is scarcely a physiological problem. Within its scope, the symbiont is a powerful protector. It is not in itself sentient, so though it could restore damaged brain tissue, it cannot affect what man chooses to designate ‘soul’.”

  Somehow Borella’s tone managed to convey the notion that Carigana might not possess that commodity. Killashandra was not the only one to catch that nuance, which apparently eluded its intended target.