Crystal Singer

by Anne McCaffrey

The matter of debt stuck in her mind, and the old supplier’s obsession with it. She pulled the console before her as she lay languidly on her bed after her bath.

  Suppliers earned more than caterer’s assistants. And bonuses for speedy completion of their duty. She tapped for her own account and discovered that her labors were covering her living expenses and eating away at the shuttle fare. If she got double time for the next day and perhaps a speed bonus, she’d be clear of debt. It was only then that she remembered the two Guild vouchers. If she submitted them, she might even be able to pay for whatever equipment her postsymbiosis rank required. A soothing thought. To be one step ahead of the Guild. Was that what prompted the supplier?

  Out of curiosity, she asked for a roster of the Guild in rank order. It began with Lanzecki, Guild Master, then the chiefs of Control, Marketing, and Research, and the names of active Singers followed. That information wasn’t in the form Killashandra wanted. She thought a moment and then asked for enlistment order. Barry Milekey was the first member of the Guild. The names, with the planet of origin, rolled past on the display. They must all be dead, she thought, and wondered that no such notation was made. Once a Crystal Singer, always a Crystal Singer? No, some of these must have been support personnel. If Borella’s statistics were to be believed since the rate of adaptability to the symbiont spore had been low in the early days of the Guild. What did surprise her was that nearly every planet of the Federated Sentient Planets inhabited by her life form was represented on the Guild roster. Several planets had more than a fair share, but they were heavily populated worlds. There were even two Fuertans. That was an eye opener. What the listing did not show was when they had joined the Guild. The names must be listed in order of membership, for it was certainly not alphabetical. Borella’s name flashed by, then Malaine’s and Carrik’s. She wondered if Enthor’s had passed already but, on cue, his appeared. He originated from Hyperion, one of the first planets settled in Alpha Proxima in the Great Surge of exploration and evaluation that forced the organization of the Federated Sentient Planets. Was he younger than Borella, Malaine, or Carrik? Or had he joined as an older man? And the supplier, who wouldn’t admit to a name—when had he joined? She shuddered. Sorter aptly fitted Enthor’s skill, whereas supplier was a glamorous title for a job that could have been done mechanically and wasn’t. Cutter, applied to a Crystal Singer, certainly didn’t imply the rank the designation commanded.

  She flipped off the console. Computers hadn’t changed all that much since their invention; one still had to know what question to ask even the most sophisticated system. The Guild’s tremendous data banks, using Ballybran crystals with their naturally structured synapselike formation, stored data nonvolatilely for indefinite retention, but Killashandra was far more adept at finding obscure composers and performers than galactic conundrums.

  Later, she joined the others in the lounge for a few drinks, wondering if Shillawn had fathomed any startling interpretations from his time with the data banks. He was far too involved in figuring out a mechanical means of cleansing the sleds, and Killashandra was glad when Rimbol tapped her arm and winked.

  “I think I’m too tired for much, Killa,” he said as they reached his room, “but I’d like my arms around something warm, friendly, and in my decade.”

  Killashandra grinned at him. “My sentiments entirely. Can your account stand a Yarran beer?”

  “And one for you, too,” he replied, deliberately misinterpreting her.

  They slept soundly and in harmony as if, indeed, the company kept was mutually beneficial. When the computer woke them, they ate heartily, without much conversation but still in accord, and then reported to the hangar officer. As they were the first to arrive, the man looked with some anxiety back up the ramp.

  “They’ll be along,” Rimbol told him.

  “I’ve got sleds that must be ready by midday. You two start with these. Other numbers will come up on the display boards when I find out which flaming Singers will lift their asses out of the racks today.”

  Killashandra and Rimbol hurried off, hoping to be out of his range if the other volunteers didn’t arrive. They had cleaned and stocked eight sleds by midday. Numbers had disappeared periodically from the display, so Killashandra and Rimbol knew that other recruits had gone to work.

  Almost at the stroke of 1200 hours, raised voices, echoing in the vastness of the hangar, warned Killashandra and Rimbol of the influx.

  “I don’t like the tone of that,” she said, giving a final swipe to the cutter brackets on the sled they had just readied.

  “Sound of angry mob in the distance,” Rimbol said, and pulling her arm, urged her into the stock rooms and behind a half-empty section where they had a view of the rack beyond them as well as the hangar entrance.

  Bangs, curses, metallic slammings, and the thud of plastic resounded. Drive motors started, too fast for such an enclosed space, Rimbol told Killashandra. She plugged her fingers in her ears. Rimbol grimaced at one particularly loud screech and followed her example. The exodus didn’t take long, but Killashandra was wide-eyed at the piloting and wondered that the Singers didn’t collide with such antics. As abruptly as the commotion had started, it ended. The final sled had veered off to the Brerrerton Ranges.

  “We did eight sleds?” Rimbol asked Killashandra. “That’s enough at double time. Let’s go. I’ve had enough!”

  When they reached the lounge, it was empty. Carigana’s door was red-lit and closed. Rimbol still held Killashandra’s hand. Now he pulled her toward him, and she swayed against his lean body.

  “I’m not tired now. Are you?”

  Killashandra was not. Rimbol had a way about him, for all his ingenuousness and deceivingly innocent appearance, that was charmingly irresistible. She knew that he counted on this appeal, but as he didn’t disappoint and gave no evidence of possessiveness, she complied willingly. He was like his Yarran beer, cool, with a good mouth and a pleasant aftertaste: satisfying without filling.

  They joined the others as they straggled back to the lounge, consoling themselves for their scraped and solution-withered fingers with thoughts of the double credits accruing to their accounts.

  “You know what the Guild can do, though?” Shillawn began, seating himself opposite Rimbol and Killashandra. He swallowed and then sipped at his own drink in quick gulps.

  “Guild do what?” Borton and Jezerey asked, joining the others.

  “About dossers like her.” Shillawn nodded his head in Carigana’s direction.

  “What?” Jezerey asked, sliding into a lounger, her eyes bright with anticipation.

  “Well, they can reduce her rations.”

  Jezerey didn’t think much of that discipline.

  “And other amenities can be discontinued at random.”

  “Such as?” Jezerey realized that Shillawn’s face was contorted more by amusement than the effort to speak.

  “Well, such as cold water instead of hot: the same with food. You know, the cold hot and the hot cold. Then the computer takes to making noises and shuffling the sleeping unit. Other furniture collapses when least expected, and, of course, the door doesn’t always respond to your print. And,” Shillawn was warming to the delighted response of his audience—“and since you have to print in for any meals, and it wouldn’t be accepted”—he spread both arms wide and smirked again—“all sorts of insidious, uncomfortable, miserable things can happen.”

  “How in the name of any holy did you get the computer to tell you that?” Killashandra demanded. Her request was seconded by the others.

  “Didn’t ask the computer,” Shillawn admitted, casting his eyes away from them. “I asked the supplier I worked with yesterday.”

  Rimbol burst out laughing, slapping his thighs. “The best computer is still the human brain.”

  “That’s about all my supplier has left that’s human,” Shillawn said in a disgusted tone of voice.

  “And that’s happening to Carigana?” Jezerey asked, her expression hope
ful.

  “Not yet, but it could if she keeps up. Meanwhile, she’s two days in debt for bed and biscuits, and we’re four ahead.”

  “Yet Guild rules state—” Borton began.

  “Sure”—and Rimbol chortled again—“but they haven’t deprived someone of shelter or sustenance, just made them bloody hard to acquire or uncomfortable.”

  “I dread the thought of a future as a stockist or a supplier,” Jezerey said, echoing the unspoken anxiety in everyone, judging by the gloom that settled over the quintet.

  “Think positively,” Shillawn suggested with a slight stammer that impeded the advice. “We’ve been here eight days now.”

  “Well, we ought to know fairly soon,” Rimbol said. “We’ve been here eight days now.”

  “Almost nine.” Shillawn’s correction was automatic.

  “Tomorrow?” Jezerey’s voice held a tinge of horror.

  “Could be much longer than ten days if I remember what Borella said about the incubation period,” Shillawn reassured her in a mock cheerful tone.

  “That’s enough, friend,” Killashandra said firmly, and drained her beaker. “Let us eat, drink, and be merry—”

  “For tomorrow we die?” Rimbol’s eyebrows shot upward.

  “I don’t intend to die,” Killashandra replied, and ordered a double beaker of Yarran beer for herself and Rimbol.

  They had quite a few refills before they went to bed together. As Killashandra woke in her own room, she assumed they’d ended up there, but Rimbol was gone. The light was far too brilliant for her eyes, and she dimmed the plasglas on the unshuttered windows. After the storm and its attendant hard labor, it was pleasant to look out on the hills. She scoffed at herself for missing ‘a view.’ The rain must have encouraged growth, for vivid reddish-purple blooms tinged the slopes, and the gray-green vegetation was brighter. Doubtless she would grow to love the seasonal changes of Ballybran. Until she’d gone with Carrik to see the sights of Fuerte, she hadn’t quite appreciated natural scenery, too accustomed to the holograms used in performances.

  Carigana was the first person she saw as she entered the lounge. Killashandra hoped the day would improve from that point. The space worker had an ability to ignore people, so that Killashandra was not obliged to acknowledge her presence. The woman’s obstinacy annoyed her. No one had forced her to apply to the Heptite Guild.

  The recruits were laggard, and by the time all had assembled, Tukolom was clearly impatient.

  “Much to be done is this day,” he said. “Basic lessons delayed have been—”

  “Well, it will be a relief to sit and relax,” someone said from the center of the group.

  “Relax is not thinking, and thought must earnest be,” Tukolom replied, his eyes trying to find the irreverent. “Geography today’s study is. All of Ballybran. When adjusted you are, another continent may you be sent to.”

  Carigana’s exaggerated sigh of resignation was echoed by others, though Tukolom stared only at her for such a public display of insolence. Carigana’s vocabulary of monosyllables punctuated Tukolom’s fluid explanations throughout the morning until someone hissed at her to stop it.

  Whoever had organized the lecture material had had a sense of humor, and though Killashandra wagered with herself that Tukolom could not have been aware of the amusing portions of his rote discourse, she, and others, waited for these leavening phrases. The humor often emphasized the more important aspects of the lessons. Tukolom might be reciting what he had patiently learned or switching mental frames in an eidetic review, but he had also learned to pace his delivery. Knowing the strain of uninterrupted speaking, Killashandra was also impressed by his endurance.

  “I wouldn’t mind farming in North Ballinteer,” Rimbol confided in her as they ate lunch during the midday break. “Nice productive life, snow sports in the winter . . .”

  Killashandra stared at him. “Farmer?”

  “Sure, why not? That’d be meters ahead of being a supplier! Or a sorter. Out in the open . . .”

  “In mach storms?”

  “You heard your geography lesson. The produce areas are ‘carefully situated at the edge of the general storm belts or can be shielded at need’.” Rimbol imitated Tukolom’s voice and delivery well, and Killashandra had to laugh.

  That was when she saw a group moving together with a menacing deliberation, closing off one corner and its lone occupant. Noting her preoccupation, Rimbol swiveled and cursed under his breath.

  “I knew it.” He swung out of his chair.

  “Why bother, Rimbol? She deserves it.”

  “She can’t help being the way she is. And I thought you were so big on Privacy on your world. On mine, we don’t permit those odds.”

  Killashandra had to accede to the merit of that reply and joined him.

  “What do I care about that?” Carigana’s strident voice rose above the discreet murmur addressed to her by the group’s leader. “And why should you? Any of you? They’re only biding their time until we get sick. Nothing matters until then, not all your cooperation or attention or good manners or volunteering”—and her scorn intensified—“to clean up messes in sleds. Not me! I had a pleasant day—What?” She snapped her head about to the questioner. “Debit?” She tossed her head back and laughed raucously. “They can take it out of my hide—later. Right now, I can get anything I want from stores. If you had any intelligence, you’d do the same thing and forget that stuffed mudhead—”

  “You helped unload crystal . . .” Killashandra heard Jezerey’s voice.

  “Sure I did. I wanted to see this crystal, just like everyone else. . . Only”—and her tone taunted them—“I also got wise. They’ll work you at every mean, disagreeable, dirty grind they’ve got until the spore gets you. Nothing will matter after that except what you’re good for.”

  “And what do you expect to be good for?” Jezerey demanded.

  “Crystal Singer, like everyone else!” Carigana’s expression mocked them for the ambition. “One thing sure. I won’t be sorting or supplying or mucking in mud or . . . You play along like good cooperative contributing citizens. I’ll do what I choose while I still have eyes and ears and a mind that functions properly.”

  She rose quickly, pushing herself through the unsympathetic crowd, then pounded down the corridor to her room. The red light flashed on.

  “You said something about Privacy?” Killashandra couldn’t refrain from asking Rimbol as they turned desultorily away from the silent group.

  “She does prove the exception,” he replied, unruffled.

  “What did she mean about a mind that functions properly?” Jezerey asked, joining them. She was no longer as confident as she had been when confronting Carigana.

  “I told you not to worry about it, Jez,” Borton said, coming behind her. “Carigana’s got space rot, anyhow. And I told you that the first time I saw her.”

  “She’s right about one thing,” Shillawn added, almost unable to pronounce the ‘th’. “Nothing really does matter until the symbiont spore works.”

  “I wish she hadn’t said ‘sick’,” and Jezerey emphasized her distaste with a shudder. “That’s one thing they haven’t shown us . . . the medical facilities . . .”

  “You saw Borella’s scar,” Shillawn said.

  “True, but she’s got full adaptation, hasn’t she?”

  “Anyone got headache, bellyache, chills, fever?” Rimbol asked with brightly false curiosity.

  “Not time yet.” Jezerey pouted.

  “Soon. Soon.” Rimbol’s tone became sepulchral. Then he waved his hand in a silencing gesture and jerked his thumb to indicate Tukolom’s return. He gave a heavy sigh and then grinned because he inadvertently echoed Carigana. “I’d rather pass time doing something . . .”

  That was the unanimous mood as the recruits turned to their instructor. The ordeal of symbiotic adaptation was no longer an explanation delivered in a remote and antiseptic hall on a moon base: it was imminent and palpable. The spore was in
the air they breathed, the food they ate, possibly in the contact of everyone they’d worked with over the past ten days.

  Ten days, was it? Killashandra thought. Who would be first? She looked about her, shrugged, and forced her mind to follow Tukolom’s words.

  Who would be first? The question was in everyone’s eyes the following morning when the recruits, with the exception of the obdurate Carigana, assembled for the morning meal. They sought each other’s company for reassurance as well as curiosity. It was a bright clear day, the colors of the hills mellower, deeper, and no one raised any objection when Tukolom announced that they would visit the succession houses on the Joslin plateau where delicacies were grown.

  When they arrived in the hangar for transport, they witnessed the return of a heavy-duty wrecker, a twisted knot of sled dangling from its hoist. The only portion of the airsled that resembled the original shape was the storage area, though the under and right hatch were buckled.

  “Do they plan all this?” Rimbol quietly asked Killashandra in a troubled voice.

  “The recovered sled? Perhaps. But the storm—C’mon now, Rimbol. Besides, what function would such a display serve? We’re stuck here, and we’ll be Singers . . . or whatever.” Killashandra spoke severely, as much to reassure herself as Rimbol.

  He grunted as if he had divined her anxiety; then jauntily he swung up the ramp to their transport vehicle without another glance at the wreck.

  They sat together, but neither spoke on the trip, although Killashandra began several times to point out beautiful clusters of flowering shrubs with vivid, often clashing, shades of red and pink. The gray had completely disappeared from the ground cover, and its rich deep green was now tinged with brown. Rimbol was remote, in thought, and she felt that fancies about flora would be an invasion of his privacy.

  The moist humidity and lush aromas of the huge hot-houses reminded Killashandra of Fuerte’s tropical area, and Carrik. The agronomist demonstrated the baffles that deflected the mach winds from the plasroofs as well as the hydroponics system that could be continued without human assistance. He also lectured on the variety and diversity of fruits, vegetables, grasses, lichens, fungi and exotics available to the Guild caterers. When he went on to explain that research was a part of the Agronomy Department, improving on nature wherever possible in sweetness, texture, or size, he led them outside the controlled-climate units.