Crystal Singer

by Anne McCaffrey

  There the sky was dark now, and the first faint stars were appearing. She must study the astronomy of Ballybran. Strange that this had not been mentioned in the lectures on meteorology; or was it a deliberate exclusion since the knowledge would have no immediate bearing on the recruits training?

  Shanganagh, the middle moon, rose, honey-colored, in the northeast. She seemed almost to creep out, much as Killashandra was doing, to be away from the more powerful personality of Shankill and the erratic infringements of Shilmore. Killashandra grinned—if Rimbol were symbolized by Shankill, that would make Shillawn, Shilmore. Shanganagh was the odd one out, avoiding the other two until inexorable forces pulled her between their paths at passover.

  Shanganagh paled to silver, rising higher and lighting Killashandra’s way until she reached the crest of a rolling hill and realized that she could walk all night, possibly getting lost, to no purpose. Student pranks had been tolerated, in their place, on Fuerte in the Music Center, but it would be quite another matter here where an old deaf hangar man cared more for his vehicles than the people who used them.

  She turned and surveyed the crouching hulk of the Guild, its upper stories lit by the rising moon, the remainder sharp black thrusts of shadow. She sat down on the hillside, twisting her buttocks to find some comfort. She hadn’t realized how huge the Complex was and what a small portion of it was above the surface. She had been told that the best quarters were deep underground. Killashandra picked up a handful of gravel and cast the bits in a thin arc, listening to the rattle as bush and leaf were struck.

  The sense of isolation, of total solitude and utter privacy, pleased her as much as the odors on the wind and the roughness of the dirt in her hand. Always on Fuerte, there had been the knowledge that people were close by, people were seeing, if not intently observing her, impinging on her consciousness, infringing on her desire to be alone and private.

  Suddenly, Killashandra could appreciate Carigana’s fury. If the woman had been a space worker, she had enjoyed the same sense of privacy. She’d never needed to learn the subtle techniques of cutting oneself from contact. Well, if Killashandra understood something of Carigana’s antisocial manner, she still had no wish to make friends with her. She spun off another handful of dirt.

  It was comforting, too, to know that on Ballybran, at least, one could take a nighttime stroll in perfect safety—one of the few worlds in the Federated Sentient Planets where that was possible. She rose, dusted off her pants, and continued her walk around the great Guild installation.

  She almost stumbled as she reached the front of the building, for a turf so dense that it felt like a woven fabric had been encouraged to grow there. The imposing entrance hall bore the shield of the Heptite Guild in a luminous crystal. The tall, narrow windows facing south gave off no light on the first level, and most were dark on the upper stories. She wondered which ratings were so low as to live above ground. Caterers’ assistants?

  Killashandra was beginning to regret her whimsical night tour as she passed the long side of the building, the very long side. Ramps, up and down, pierced the flat wall at intervals, but she knew from Tukolom’s lecture that these led into storage areas without access to the living quarters, so she trudged onward until she was back at the vast hangar maw.

  She was very weary when she finally reached the ramp to the class’s quarters. All else was quiet, the lounge empty and dark. Though Rimbol’s door light was green, she hurried past to her own. Tomorrow would be soon enough for companionship. She went to sleep, comforted by the irrevocable advantage of privacy available to a member of the Heptite Guild.

  Killashandra wasn’t as positive of that the next afternoon as she struggled to retain her balance in the gusts of wind and, more importantly, tried not to drop the precious crate of crystal. The recruits had been aroused by the computer at a false dawn they had to take on faith. The sky was a deep, sullen gray, with storm clouds that were sucked across the Complex so low they threatened to envelop the upper level. The recruits had been told to eat quickly but heartily and to report to the cargo officer on the hangar floor. They were to be under her supervision until she released them. Wind precautions were already evident; the 12-meter-high screen across the hangar maw was lowered only to admit approaching airsleds; evidently the device was to prevent workers’ being sucked from the hangar by fierce counterdraughts.

  Cargo Officer Malaine took no chances that instructions would be misunderstood or unheard. She carried a bullhorn, but her orders were also displayed on screens positioned around the hangar. If they had any doubts as they assisted the regular personnel in unloading, the recruits were to touch and/or otherwise get the attention of anyone in a green-checked uniform. Basic instructions remained on the screen; updates blinked orange on the green displays.

  “Your main assignments will be to unload, very, very carefully, the cartons of cut crystals. One at a time. Don’t be misled by the fact that the cartons have strong hand grips. The wind out there will shortly make you wish you had prehensile tails.” Cargo Officer Malaine gave the recruits a smile. “You’ll know when to put on your head gear,” and she tapped a closefitting skull cap with its padded ears and eyescreen. “Now”—and she gestured to the plasglass wall of the ready-room facing the hangar—“the sleds are coming in. Watch the procedure of the hangar personnel. First, the Crystal Singer is checked, then the cargo is off-loaded. You will concentrate on off-loading. Your responsibility is to transfer the crystal cartons safely inside. Any carton that comes in is worth more than you are! No offense, recruits, just basic Guild economics. I also caution you that Crystal Singers just in off the ranges are highly unpredictable. You’re lucky. All in this group have been out a good while, so they’ll probably have good cuttings. Don’t drop a carton! You’ll have the Singer, me, and Guild Master Lanzecki on your neck—the Singer being first and worst.

  “Fair does not apply,” Malaine said in a hard voice. “Those plasfoam boxes”—and she pointed at the line of hangar personnel hurrying to the cargo bay, white cartons clutched firmly to their chests—“are what pay for this planet, its satellites, and everything on them. No one gets a credit till that cargo is safely in this building, weighed in, and graded—Okay, here’s a new flight coming in. I’ll count you off in three. Line up and be ready to go when called. Just remember: the crystal is important! When the klaxon sounds—that means a sled is out of control! Duck but don’t drop!”

  She counted the recruits off, and Killashandra was teamed with Borton and a man she didn’t know by name. The recruits formed loose trios in front of the window, watching the routine.

  “Doesn’t seem hard,” the man commented to Borton. “Those cartons can’t be heavy,” and he gestured at a slim person walking rapidly carrying his burden.

  “Maybe not now, Celee,” Borton replied, “but when the wind picks up—”

  “Well, we’re both sturdy enough to give our teammate a hand if she needs one,” Celee said, grinning with some condescension at Killashandra.

  “I’m closer to the ground,” she said, looking up at him with a warning glint in her eyes. “Center of gravity is lower and not so far to fall.”

  “You tell him Killa.” Borton nudged Celee and winked at her.

  Suddenly Celee pointed urgently to the hangar. The recruits saw a sled careen in, barely missing the vaulted roof, then plunge toward the ground, only to be pulled up at the last second, skid sideways, and barely miss a broadside against the interior wall. A klaxon had sounded, its clamor causing everyone to clap hands over his ears at the piercing noise. When the trio looked again, the airsled had slid to a stop, nose against the wall. To their surprise, the Singer, orange overalls streaked with black, emerged unscathed from the front hatch, gave the sled an admonitory kick, gestured obscenely at the wind, and then stalked into the shelter of the cargo bay. Then she, Borton, and Celee were being beckoned out to the hangar floor.

  As Killashandra grabbed her first carton from a Singer’s ship, she clutched it fir
mly to her chest because it was light and could easily have been flipped from a casual grip by the strong wind gusting about the hangar. She got to the cargo bay with a sigh of relief, only to be stunned by the sight of the Crystal Singer, who was slumped against a wall while snarling at the medic who was daubing at the blood running down the Singer’s left cheek. Until the last carton from his sled was unloaded, the Crystal Singer remained at his observation point.

  “By the horny toes of a swamp bear,” Celee remarked to Killashandra as they hurried back for more cartons, “that man knows every nardling one of his cargo, and he sure to bones knows we’re doing the unloading. And the bloody wind’s rising. Watch it, Killashandra.”

  “Only two more in that ship,” Borton yelled as he passed them on his way in. “They want to hoist it out of the way!”

  Celee and Killashandra trotted faster, wary of the hoist now descending over the disabled ship. No sooner had they lifted the last two cartons from the sled than the hoist clanked tight on its top. At that instant, Killashandra glanced around her and counted five more sleds wheeling in, fortunately in more control. Seven unloaded vehicles were heading to the top of the sled storage racks.

  As the hangar became crowded, unloading took longer, and keeping upright during the passage between sled and cargo bay became increasingly more difficult. Killashandra saw three people flung against sleds, and one skidded against the outer wind baffle. An incoming sled was caught in a side gust and flipped onto its back. Killashandra shook her head against the loud keening that followed, unsure whether it was the sound of the gale or the injured Singer’s screaming. She forced her mind to the business of unloading and maintaining her balance.

  She was wheeling back from the bay for yet another load when someone caught her by the hair. Startled, she looked up to see Cargo Officer Malaine, who jerked the helmet from Killashandra’s belt and jammed it atop her head. Abashed at her lapse of memory, Killashandra hastily straightened the protective gear; Malaine gave her a grin and an encouraging thumbs up.

  The relief from the wind’s noise and the subsidence of air pressure in her ears was enormous. Killashandra, accustomed to full chorus and electronically augmented orchestral instruments, had not previously thought of “noise” as a hazard. But to be deaf on Ballybran might not be an intolerable prospect. She could still hear the gale’s shrieks, but the cacophony was blessedly muffled, and the relief from the sound pressure gave her fresh energy. She needed it, for the physical strength of the gale hadn’t abated at all.

  In the course of her next wind-battered trip, a wholesale clearance of sleds took place behind her back. The emptied sleds were cleared, and the newer arrivals slipped into the vacant positions. Some relief from the wind could be had by darting from the wind shadow of one sled to that of the next. The danger lay in the gap, for there the gale would whip around to catch the unwary.

  Why no one was killed, why so few ships were damaged inside the hangar, and why not a single plasfoam container was dropped, Killashandra would never know. She was at one point certain, however, that she had probably bumped into most of the nine thousand Guild members stationed in the Joslin Plateau Headquarters. She later learned her assumption was faulty: anyone who could have, had carefully contrived to remain inside.

  The cartons were not always heavy, though the weight was unevenly distributed, and the heavy end always ended up dragging at Killashandra’s left arm. That side was certainly the sorest the next day. Only once did she come close to losing a container: she hefted it from the ship and nearly lost the whole to a gust of wind. After that, she learned to protect her burden with her body to the wind.

  Aside from the intense struggle with the gale-force winds, two other observations were indelibly marked in her mind that day. A different side of Crystal Singers, their least glamorous, as they jumped from their sleds. Few looked as if they had washed in days: some had fresh wounds, and others showed evidence of old ones. When she had to enter a sled’s cargo hold to get the last few cartons, she was aware of an overripe aroma exuding from the main compartment of the sled and was just as glad that there was a fierce supply of fresh air at her back.

  Still the sleds hurled themselves in over the wind baffle and managed to land in the little space available: the gale was audible even through her ear mufflers, and the force of the wind smacked at the body as brutally as any physical fist.

  “RECRUITS! RECRUITS! All recruits will regroup in the sorting area. All recruits to the sorting area!”

  Dazed, Killashandra swung around to check the message on the display screens, and then someone linked arms with her, and they both cantered into the gale to reach the sorting area.

  Once inside the building, Killashandra nearly fell, as much from exhaustion as from pushing her body against a wind no longer felt. She was handed from one person to another and then deposited on a seat. A heavy beaker was put into her hands, and the noise-abatement helmet was removed from her head. Nor was there much noise beyond weary sighs, an occasional noisy exhalation that was not quite a groan, or the sound of boots scraping against plascrete.

  Killashandra managed to stop the trembling in her hands to take a judicious sip of the hot, clear broth. She sighed softly with relief. The restorative was richly tasty, and its warmth immediately crept to her cold extremities, which Killashandra had not recognized as being wind sore. The lower part of her face, her jaw and chin, which had been exposed to the scouring wind, were also stiff and painful. Taking another sip, she raised her eyes above the cup and noticed the row opposite her: noticed and recognized the faces of Rimbol and Borton, and farther down, Celee. Half a dozen had black eyes, torn or scratched cheeks. Four recruits looked as if they’d been dragged face down over gravel. When she touched her own skin, she realized she, too, had suffered unfelt abrasions, for her numb fingers were pricked with dots of blood.

  A loud hiss of indrawn breath made her look to the left. A medic was daubing Jezerey’s face. Another medic was working down the row toward Rimbol, Celee, and Borton.

  “Any damage?” Killashandra, despite her exhausted stupor, recognized the voice as that of Guild Master Lanzecki’s.

  Surprised, she turned to find him standing in an open door, his black-garbed figure stark against the white of piled crystal cartons.

  “Superficial, sir,” one of the medics said after a respectful nod in the Guild Master’s direction.

  “Class 895 has been of invaluable assistance today,” Lanzecki said, his eyes taking in every one of the thirty-three. “I, your Guild Master, thank you. So does Cargo Officer Malaine. No one else will.” There wasn’t even a trace of a smile on the man’s face to suggest he was being humorously ironic. “Order what you will for your evening meal: it will not be debited from your account. Tomorrow you will report to this sorting area where you will learn what you can from the crystals brought in today. You are dismissed.”

  He withdraws, Killashandra thought. He fades from the scene. How unusual. But then, he’s not a Singer. So no sweeping entrances like Carrik or the three Singers at Shankill, nor exits like Borella’s. She took another sip of her broth, needing its sustenance to get her weary body up the ramp for that good free meal. Came to remember, the last good free meal she’d had had, also been indirectly charged to the Guild. She was, as it happened, one of the last of the recruits to leave the sorting area. A door opened somewhere behind her.

  “How many not yet in, Malaine?” she heard Lanzecki ask.

  “Five more just hit the hangar floor, one literally. And Flight says there are two more possible light-sights.”

  “That makes twenty-two unaccounted—”

  “If we could only get Singers to register cuts, we’d have some way of tracking the missing and retrieve at least the cargo . . .”

  The door swooshed tight, and the last of the sentence was inaudible. The exchange, the tone of it, worried her.

  “Retrieve the cargo.” Was that the concern of Malaine and Lanzecki? The cargo? Malaine certainly had str
essed the cargo’s being more valuable than the recruits handling it. But surely the Crystal Singers themselves were valuable, too. Sleds could be replaced—another debit to clear off one’s Guild account—but surely Singers were a valuable commodity in their own peculiar way.

  Killashandra’s mind simply could not cope with such anomalies. She made it to the top of the ramp. She had to put one hand on the door frame to steady herself as she thumbed her door open. A moan of weariness escaped her lips. Rimbol’s door whisked open.

  “You all right, Killa?” Rimbol’s face was flecked with fine lines and tiny beads of fresh blood. He wore only a towel.

  “Barely.”

  “The herbal bath does wonders. And eat.”

  “I will. It’s on the management, after all.” She couldn’t move her painful face to smile.

  After a long soak absorbed the worst fatigue from her muscles she did force herself to eat.

  An insistent burp from the computer roused her the next morning. She peered into the dark beyond her bed and only then realized that the windows were shuttered and the gale still furious outside.

  The digital told her that it was 0830 and her belly that it was empty. As she started to throw back the thermal covering, every muscle in her body announced its unreadiness for such activity. Cursing under her breath, Killashandra struggled up on one elbow. No sooner had she put her fingers on the catering dial than a small beaker with an effervescent pale-yellow liquid appeared in the slot.

  “The medication is a muscle relaxant combined with a mild analgesic to relieve symptoms of muscular discomfort. This condition is transitory.”

  Killashandra cursed fluently at what she felt was the computer’s embarrassingly well timed invasion of Privacy, but she drained the medicine, grimacing at its oversweet taste. In a few moments, she began to feel less stiff. She took a quick shower, alternating hot and cold, for unaccountably her skin still prickled from yesterday’s severe buffeting. As she was eating a high-protein breakfast, she hoped that time would be allowed for meals today. She doubted that the rows of crystal containers could all be sorted and repacked in one day. And such a job oughtn’t need the pace of yesterday.