“How was the symbiont first discovered?” Killashandra asked, determined that Carigana was not going to dominate the session.
“By the first prospector, Milekey. He made a successful adaptation with the spore, considering the transition illness to be only some irritating infection.”
“He wasn’t the only one on that mission, according to the fax,” Shillawn said.
“No, he wasn’t, though the deaths of the other members of his geology team were not at first linked to Ballybran. Milekey made several excursions into the ranges to examine crystal faces and cut new types for evaluation. He also helped develop the first effective cutter. His personal tapes indicate that he felt a strong compulsion to return to Ballybran frequently, but, at the time, it was thought that this was merely due to his interest in the crystal and the increasing uses to which it could be put. He also did not connect his ability to avoid the storms to the presence of the symbiont.
“This aspect was discovered when the transition disease struck Cutter after Cutter, leaving crystalized bodies similar to those in the hall.”
“There’s one that was charred,” Rimbol said, swallowing against nausea.
“And that is the third danger of Ballybran. Fortunately not as prevalent these days since common sense and education in the use of equipment decrease the probability. The crystal ranges can build up localized high-voltage and sonic charges near which ordinary communits do not operate properly, nor do other types of electrical equipment, some of which are necessary to the operation of sleds and conveniences. Fireballs can occur. And, despite all the precautions, a Singer can be volatilized. It is a danger we must mention.”
“You say that those who do not make a good adaptation to the symbiont specialize in technical work—but what constitutes a poor adaptation?” Jezerey asked, leaning forward, elbows on her knees.
“Some impairment of one or more of the normal physical senses. But this is often coupled with an extension to the other senses not impaired.”
“What senses?” Shillawn asked, his thin throat muscles working as if he had trouble getting the words out.
“Generally hearing is impaired.” Borella gave a slight smile. “That’s considered a blessing. No shielding has ever been invented to silence the full fury of a mach storm. Often eyesight increases into the ultraviolet or infrared spectra, with an ability in some to sense magnetic fields. Increased tactile sensitivity has enabled artistically inclined guildsmen to produce some of the most treasured art of modern times. There is, however, no way of predicting what form the impairment will take, nor what compensation will be effected.”
“Have you pretty pictures of the victims?”
“The handicaps are rarely visible, Carigana.”
“The handicap plus sterility plus immolation on a storm-lashed planet in exchange for a greatly increased lifespan? That constitutes the Code 4?”
“It does. You have thus been duly informed of the risks and the permanent alteration to your chemistry and physical abilities. Any further pertinent questions?”
“Yes. If you say there are more Singers these days, how does that affect individual profit with so many cutting in the ranges?” asked Carigana.
“It doesn’t,” Borella replied, “not with the expanding galactic need for the communications link provided only by black quartz from Ballybran; not when Singers are capable, quick and cautious; not when there are people, like yourself, motivated to succeed in joining our select band.”
Attuned as her ear was to nuances in vocal tone, Killashandra did not quite perceive how Borella could deliver such a scathing reprimand with no variation in the pitch or timbre of her voice. Yet a sudden flush of humiliation colored Carigana’s space-tan skin.
“How often are there injuries like yours?” a girl asked from the back of the theater.
“Frequently,” Borella replied with cheerful unconcern. “But I’ll be back in the ranges”—Killashandra caught the note of longing, for it was the first time emotion had shown in the Singer’s contained voice—“in a day or two.”
“Singing crystal is worth such risks, then?” Killashandra heard herself ask.
Borella’s eyes sought hers and held them as a slow smile crossed her lips.
“Yes, singing crystal is worth any risk.” The force of that quiet statement caused a silence. “I shall leave you to discuss the matter among yourselves. When you have made your decision, just follow me.” She moved toward the door at the side of the platform. It opened and closed with a soft whoosh behind her.
Killashandra looked over at Shillawn and Rimbol, noticed that the others were seeking emotional support from their nearest neighbors. Carigana, deep in a sullen mood, was pointedly ignored. Killashandra rose to her feet with an energy that attracted all eyes.
“I made up my mind before I ever arrived,” she said. “And I don’t scare easily, anyhow!”
She strode down the steps toward the exit, hearing the movement of others behind her, though she didn’t turn her head. A curious elation, tinged with apprehension and a certain fearfulness, seized her as she passed the portal. Then it was too late.
Killashandra wasn’t sure what she had expected to find on the other side of the door panel. She half thought Borella might be present to see how many had not been deterred. Instead, she was surprised to find uniformed members of the FSP Civil Service, their faces and attitudes as grave as if they were at a disintegration or interment. The senior officer motioned her to follow the first person in line, a male who, in turn, gestured Killashandra toward another of the cubicles that seemed to infest all levels of the moon base. Behind her, she heard the surprised intake of breath of whichever candidate had directly followed her.
A slab table and two chairs occupied the small room. She moved toward one seat, but the officer’s gesture stopped her.
“Bontel Aba Gray, Rank 10, FSP Civil Service, Shankill Moon Base, Ballybran, date 23/4/3308: applicant will present identity to the outlet, stating aloud name, rank, and planet of origin.”
Only after Killashandra had disgustedly complied with the formality was she allowed to seat herself opposite Bontel Gray.
“Is it true that you have received physical, psychological, and aptitude tests under the auspices of the Heptite Guild?”
“Yes.”
“You have been informed of the hazards involved in the Code 4 classification of the planet Ballybran?”
“Yes.” She wondered how Carigana was accepting the additional aggravation. That is, if Carigana had passed through the door.
Gray then questioned her in depth on Borella’s lecture. Each of Killashandra’s answers was recorded—but for whose protection, Killashandra wondered. She was reaching her aggravation point when he stopped.
“Do you swear, aver, and affirm that you are here of your own free will, without let or hindrance, conditioning or bribery, by any person or persons connected with the Heptite Guild?”
“I certainly do so swear, aver, and affirm.”
He glanced at the ident slot, which suddenly glowed green. Placing both hands on the table as if wearied by this duty, Gray pushed himself to his feet. “The formalities are now concluded,” he said with a tight smile. “May you sing well and profitably.”
The man remained standing as she rose and left. She had the impression, a sideways glance, that he unfastened his tunic collar, his expression sliding into regret as he watched her leave.
Borella was in the main hall, her eyes focused on each cubicle door as it opened and a recruit appeared. Killashandra noticed that just the faintest hint of satisfaction appeared on the woman’s face as her entire “class” reassembled.
“A shuttle waits,” she said, once more leading the way.
“When do we get this spore business done?” Carigana asked, striding ahead of two others to reach Borella.
“On Ballybran. We did, at one point, use an artificial exposure, but the effects were no less successful than the natural process. Generally, infection occu
rs within ten days of reaching the surface,” she added before Carigana could inquire. “The adaptation process can vary—from no more than mildly uncomfortable all the way to dangerously febrile. You will all be monitored, naturally.”
“But haven’t you discovered which physical types are more apt to react severely?” Carigana seemed annoyed.
“No,” Borella replied mildly.
Further questions from Carigana were forestalled by their arrival at the shuttle lock. Nor were they the only passengers—in fact, the applicants were apparently the least important, a fact that obviously caused Carigana to seethe. Borella casually motioned them all to seating in the rear of the vessel and slipped in beside a striking man whose garb of violently colored, loosely sewn patches suggested he might be a Singer returned from holiday.
“Much of a catch?” His drawled question caught Killashandra’s ear as she passed. It was almost as much of an insult as the expression in his eyes as he observed the recruits filing to seats.
“The usual,” Borella replied. “One can never tell at this stage, you know.”
The tone of Borella’s voice made Killashandra stare over her shoulder at the woman. The depth and resonance was gone, replaced by a sharper, shrewish, yet smug note. So the impressing and impressive detachment of the successful Singer, condescending to interpret the hazards of her profession to the eager but uninformed, was a role played very well by Borella. Killashandra shook her head against that assumption. The terrible lacerations on Borella’s leg had been no sham.
“Crystal cuckoo?” “Silicate spider?” Had Maestro Valdi some measure of truth in his accusations?
Well, too late now—having sworn, averred, and affirmed, every opportunity to renege was behind her. Killashandra fixed her seat buckle for the weightless disengagement of the shuttle from moonlock.
CHAPTER 5
The journey was not long, and it was smooth, allowing Killashandra time for reflection. Was the shuttlecraft pilot a failed Singer recruit? How poor an adaptation still allowed rank and status within the Guild structure? She suppressed the nagging fear of failure by remembering the graph, indicating the recent upswing of the incidence of success in symbiosis. She distracted her grim thoughts by cataloging the other candidates, determining in advance to stay well away from Carigana, as if the irascible woman would welcome a friendly overture. Rimbol, on the other hand, reminded her pleasantly of one of the tenors at her Music Center, a lad who had always accepted the fact that his physical and vocal gifts would keep him a secondary singer and player. At one point, Killashandra had despised the boy for that acceptance: now she wished she had bothered to explore how he had achieved that mental attitude, one she might be forced to adopt. She wondered if the tenor might not have done better, attempting to become a Crystal Singer. Why had so little been said at the Music Center about this alternative application of perfect and absolute pitch? Maestro Valdi must have known, but his only suggestion had been to tune crystal, not sing it.
She wished for the distraction of views of nearing Ballybran, but the passenger section had no port, and the view-screen set over the forward bulwark remained opaque. She felt the entry into the atmosphere. The familiar shuddering shook all the passengers, and Killashandra felt the drag nausea and disorientation and the impression of exterior sound. She tried to recall the screen printout of the planet. The image that was brightest in her memory was of the conjunction of the three moons, not the continental masses of Ballybran and the disposition of the crystal ranges.
Concentrate, concentrate, she told herself fiercely in an effort to overcome entry side effects. She had memorized complicated music scores, which obediently rolled past her mind, but not the geography of her new home.
At this point, she could feel the retro blasts as the shuttle began to slow. Gravity increased, shoving her flesh against her bones, face, chest, abdomen, thighs:—more a comforting pressure, like a heal suit. The shuttle continued to maneuver and decelerate.
The final portion of any journey always seems the longest, Killashandra thought as she grew impatient for the shuttle vibration to cease, signaling arrival. Suddenly, she realized that her journey had begun a long time before, with her passive trip on the walkway to the Fuertan space facility. Or had it begun the moment she had heard Maestro Valdi confirm the auditors’ judgment of her career potential?
Forward motion ceased, and she felt the pressure pop in her ears as the entry was unsealed. She inhaled deeply, welcoming the fresher air of the planet.
“D’you think that’s wise?” Shillawn asked from across the aisle. He had his hand over his nose.
“Whyever not? I’ve been on spacecraft and stations for too long not to appreciate fresh, planet-made air.”
“He means, about the symbiont and its natural acquisition,” Rimbol said, nudging her ribs with his elbow. He grinned with mischief.
Killashandra shrugged. “Now or later, we’ve got to get it over with. Me? I prefer to breathe deeply.” And she did, as a singer would, from deep in her belly—her back muscles tightening, her diaphragm thickening until her throat, too, showed the distension of breath support.
“Singer?” Rimbol asked, his eyes widening. Killashandra nodded, exhaling slowly.
“No openings for you, either.” He made a sound of disgust. Killashandra did not bother to contradict him. “You’d think,” Rimbol went on, “that with all the computer analysis and forecasting, they’d know up front instead of wasting your time. When I think of what—”
“We can leave now,” Shillawn said, interrupting them with the peculiar tracheal gulp that characterized his speech.
“I wonder how many musicians make their way into this Guild by default,” Killashandra muttered over her shoulder to Rimbol as they made their way out.
“Default? Or deliberately?” he asked, and prodded her to move forward when she faltered.
She had no time to think about “deliberately” then, for she had reached the disembarkation ramp and had her first glimpse of Ballybran’s green-purple hills on one side and the uncompromising cubes of buildings on the other. Then she was inside the reception area where personal effects were being wafted up on a null-grav column.
“After recruits have collected their baggage, they will please follow the—ah—dark gray stripe.” A voice issued from speaker grills. “Room assignments will be given at the reception lounge. You are now designated as Class 895 and will answer to any announcements prefaced by that number. Again, recruits now arriving by shuttle from Shankill Moon Base are designated Class 895. Proceed, Class 895, along the corridor marked with the dark gray stripe for room assignments.”
“Couldn’t care less, could he?” Rimbol said to Killashandra as he slung a battered carisak over one shoulder.
“There’s the guide line.” Killashandra pointed at the wall of the far lefthand corridor. “And Carigana’s ahead by half a light-year.” She watched as the girl’s figure marched purposefully out of sight up the ascending rampway.
“Surprised?” Rimbol asked. “Hope we don’t have to share accommodations.”
Killashandra shot him a startled look. Even as a lowly student on Fuerte, she had had privacy. What sort of a world was his Yarro?
The other shuttle passengers had quickly dispersed, Borella and her companion taking the far right ramp, while the center two received the bulk of the arrivals.
“You’d think with all the color available in the galaxy, they’d find brighter markers,” Shillawn remarked gloomily when he caught up with Rimbol and Killashandra.
“Distinctive, if not colorful,” Killashandra remarked, reaching the ramp. “Though there’s a quality about this gray . . .” and she passed her hand across the painted line. “Textured, too. Hatch pattern.”
“Really?” Rimbol touched the stripe. “Strange.”
Carigana had already disappeared around the first curve of the ramp, but the three were otherwise the vanguard of Class 895. How dull to be designated by a number, Killashandra thought, h
aving considered herself out of classrooms forever a scant few weeks before. And if they were 895, and the Guild had been operating for 400 standard years, how many classes did that make a year? Just over two? And thirty-three in this one?
Now that the first excitement of landing on Ballybran had waned, Killashandra began to notice other details. The light, for instance, was subdued on the rampway but had a clarity she hadn’t encountered before. Rimbol’s sturdy boots and Shillawn’s shoes made no sound on the thick springy material that carpeted the hallway, but her slippers produced a quiet shuffling. She felt the textured band again, curious.
They passed several levels, each color coded in one of the dull chromatics, and Killashandra assumed there must be some reason for the use of such drab shades. Suddenly, the ramp ended in a large room, obviously the reception lounge for recruits—but it also held comfortable seating units, an entertainment complex, and across one end, audiovisual booths.
A dun-garbed man, of middle years with a sort of easily forgettable face rose from one of the seating units and walked toward them. “Class 895? Your adviser am I, Tukolom. With me you will remain until adaptation and training have ceased. To me your problems and complaints you will bring. All members of the Guild are we, but senior in rank to you am I, to be obeyed, thought harsh or unjust am I not.”
His smile, meant to be reassuring, Killashandra knew, barely lighted his eyes and did not rouse any friendliness in her, though she saw Shillawn return the grin.
“Small class though this be, your quarters are here. Kindly to leave what you have brought in any room of your choosing and join in food and drink. To begin the work tomorrow. To orient yourselves in this facility today.”
He gestured to the left-hand corridor leading off the lounge where open doors left patches of light on the textured carpet.
“Is only to put thumb print in door lock to receive privacy.”
Others had arrived as Tukolom spoke, and while Killashandra gestured to her companions to proceed to the private rooms, he began his little speech all over again to the next batch. Rimbol pointed at the first door on the left, closed and red lighted to indicate the occupant did not wish to be disturbed. Carigana!
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