Crystal Singer

by Anne McCaffrey

  The extreme anticlimax came when the chief meditech, a graceful woman with dark hair braided into an elaborate crown, wanted Killashandra to submit to the physical scanner.

  “I don’t need a scanner. I have never felt so well!”

  “The symbiont can be devious, my dear Killashandra, and only the scanner can tell us that. Do please lie down. You know it doesn’t take long, and we really need an accurate picture of your present physical well-being.”

  Killashandra stifled her sudden wish to scream and submitted. She was in such euphoria that the claustrophobic feel of the helmet didn’t bother her, nor did the pain-threshold nerve jab do more than make her giggle.

  “Well, Killashandra Ree,” Antona said, absently smoothing a strand into her coronet, “you are the lucky one.” Her smile as she assisted Killashandra to her feet was the warmest the young woman had seen from a full Guild member. “We’ll just make certain this progress has no setbacks. Come with me and I’ll show you your room.”

  “I’m all right? I thought there’d be some fever.”

  “There may be fever in your future,” Antona said, smiling encouragingly as she guided Killashandra down a wide hall.

  Killashandra hesitated, wrinkling her nose against the odors that assailed her now: dank sweat, urine, feces, vomit, and as palpable as the other stenches, fear.

  “Yes,” Antona said, observing her pause, “I expect it’ll take time for you to become accustomed to augmented olfactory senses. Fortunately, that’s not been one of my adaptations. I can still smell, would have to in my profession, but odors don’t overwhelm me. I’ve put you at the back, away from the others, Killashandra. You can program the air conditioner to mask all this.”

  Noises, too, assaulted Killashandra. Despite thick sound-deadening walls, she recognized one voice.

  “Rimbol!” She twisted to the right and was opening the door before Antona could stop her.

  The young Scartine, his back arched in a convulsion, was being held to the bed by two strong meditechs. A third was administering a spray to Rimbol’s chest. In the two days since she had seen him, he had lost weight, turned an odd shade of soft yellow, and his face was contorted by the frenzy that gripped his body.

  “Not all have an easy time,” Antona said, taking her by the arm.

  “Easy time!” Killashandra resisted Antona’s attempt to draw her from the room. “The fax said satisfactory. Is this condition considered satisfactory?”

  Antona regarded Killashandra. “Yes, in one respect, his condition is satisfactory—he’s maintaining his own integrity with the symbiont. A massive change is occurring physically: an instinctive rejection on his part, a mutation on the symbiont’s. The computer prognosis gives Rimbol an excellent chance of making a satisfactory adjustment.”

  “But . . .” Killashandra couldn’t drag her eyes from Rimbol’s writhing body. “Will I go like that, too?”

  Antona ducked her head, hiding her expression, an evasion that irritated Killashandra.

  “I don’t think that you will, Killashandra, so don’t fret. The results of the latest scan must be analyzed, but my initial reading indicates a smooth adaptation. You’ll be the first to know otherwise. Scant consolation, perhaps, but you would barge in here.”

  Killashandra ignored the rebuke. “Have you computed how long he’ll be like that?”

  “Yes, another day should see him over the worst of the penetration.”

  “And Jezerey?

  Antona looked blankly at Killashandra. “Oh, the girl who collapsed in the hangar yesterday? She’s fine—I amend that.” Antona smiled conciliatorily. “She is suffering from a predictable bout of hyperthermia at the moment and is as comfortable as we can make her.”

  “Satisfactory, in fact?” Killashandra was consumed by bitterness for that misleading category but allowed Antona to lead her out of Rimbol’s room.

  “Satisfactory in our terms and experience, yes. There are degrees, you must understand, of severity with which the symbiont affects the host and with which the host rejects the symbiont.” Antona shrugged. “If we knew all the ramifications and deviations, it would be simple to recruit only those candidates with the requisite chromosomes. It isn’t that simple, though our continuous research gets closer and closer to defining exact parameters.” She gave Killashandra another of her warm smiles. “We’re much better at selection than we used to be.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough to know how lucky you are. And to hope that you’ll continue so fortunate. I work generally with self-treating patients, since I find the helpless depress me. Here we are.”

  Antona opened a door at the end of the corridor and started to retrace her steps. Killashandra caught her arm.

  “But Rimbol? I could see him?”

  Another expressive shrug. “If you wish. Your belongings will be along shortly. Go settle in,” she said more kindly. “Program the air conditioner and rest. There’s nothing more to be done now. I’ll inform you of the analysis as soon as I have the results.”

  “Or I’ll inform you,” Killashandra said with wry humor.

  “Don’t dwell on the possibility,” Antona advised her.

  Killashandra didn’t. The room, the third she’d had in as many weeks, was designed for ease in dealing with patients, though all paraphernalia was absent. The lingering odors of illness seeped in from the hall, and the room seemed to generate antiseptic maskers. It took Killashandra nearly an hour to find a pleasant counterodor with which to refresh her room. In the process, she learned how to intercept fax updates on the conditions of the other patients. Never having been ill or had occasion to visit a sick friend, she didn’t have much idea of what the printout meant, but as the patients were designated by room number, she could isolate Rimbol’s. His monitor showed more activity than the person in the next room, but she couldn’t bring herself to find out who his neighbor was.

  That evening, Antona visited her room, head at a jaunty angle, the warm smile on her face.

  “The prognosis is excellent. There’ll be no fever. We are keeping you on a few days just to be on the safe side. An easy transition is not always a safe one.” A chime wiped the smile from her face. “Ah, another patient. Excuse me.”

  As soon as the door closed, Killashandra turned on the medical display. At the bottom, a winking green line warned of a new admission. That was how Killashandra came to see Borton being wheeled into the facility. The following day, Shillawn was admitted. The fax continued to display “satisfactory” after everyone’s condition. She supposed she agreed, having become fascinated with the life-signal graphs until the one on Rimbol’s neighbor unexpectedly registered nothing at all.

  Killashandra ran down the hall. The door of the room was open, and half a dozen technicians could be seen bent over the bed. Antona wasn’t among them, but Killashandra caught a glimpse of Carigana’s wide-eyed face.

  Whirling, she stormed into the chief medic’s office. Antona was hunching over an elaborate console, her hands graceful even in rapid motion on the keys.

  “Why did Carigana die?” Killashandra demanded.

  Without looking up from the shifting lights of the display, Antona spoke. “You have privileges in this Guild, Killashandra Ree, but not one gives you the right to disturb a chief of any rank. Nor me at this time. I want to know why she died more than you possibly could!”

  Rightly abashed, Killashandra left the office. She hurried back to her room, averting her eyes as she passed the open door to Carigana’s. She was ashamed of herself, for she didn’t genuinely care that Carigana was dead, only that she had died. The space worker had really been an irritant, Killashandra thought candidly. Death had been a concept dealt with dramatically in the Music Center, but Carigana was Killashandra’s first contact with that reality. Death could also happen to her, to Rimbol, and she would be very upset if he died. Even if Shillawn died.

  How long Killashandra sat watching the life-signs’ graphs, trying to ignore the d
iscontinued one, she did not know. A courteous rap on the door was immediately followed by Antona’s entrance, and her weary expression told Killashandra that quite a few hours must have passed. Antona leaned against the door frame, expelling a long sigh.

  “To answer your question—”

  “I apologize for my behavior—”

  “We don’t know why Carigana died,” Antona went on, inclining her head to accept the apology. “I have a private theory with no fact to support it. An intuition, if you will, that the desire to be acceptable, to surrender to the symbiont is as necessary to the process of adjustment as the physical stamina, which Carigana had, and those chromosomes which we have established as most liable to produce a favorable adaptation. You did want to become a Crystal Singer very much, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but so do the others.”

  “Do they? Do they really?” Antona’s tone was curiously wistful.

  Killashandra hesitated, only too aware of the inception of her own desire to become a Crystal Singer. If Antona’s theory held any merit, Killashandra should also be dead, certainly not so blatantly healthy.

  “Carigana didn’t like anything. She questioned everything,” Killashandra said, drawn to give Antona what comfort she could. “She didn’t have to become a Crystal Singer.”

  “No, she could have stayed in space.” Antona smiled thinly, pushed herself away from the wall, and then saw the graphs on the display. “So that’s how you knew. Well”—and she tapped the active graph in the left-hand corner—“that’s your friend, Rimbol. He’s more than just satisfactory now. The others are proceeding nicely. You can pack your things. I’ve no medical reason to keep you here longer. You’ll be far better off learning the techniques of staying alive in your profession, my dear, than sitting deathwatch here. Officially, you’re Lanzecki’s problem now. Someone’s coming for you.”

  “I’m not going to get sick?”

  “Not you. You’ve had what’s known as a Milekey transition. Practically no physical discomfort and the maximum adjustment. I wish you luck, Killashandra Ree. You’ll need it.” Antona was not smiling. Just then, the door opened wider. “Trag?” The chief meditech was surprised, but her affability returned, that moment of severity so brief that Killashandra wondered if she had imagined it. “I shall undoubtedly be seeing you again, Killashandra.”

  She slipped out of the room as an unsmiling man of medium build entered. His first look at her was intent, but she’d survived the scrutiny of too many conductors to be daunted.

  “I don’t have much to pack,” she said, unsmiling. She slid off the bed and swiftly gathered her belongings. He saw the lute before she picked it up, and something flickered across his face. Had he once played one?

  She stood before him, carisak over her shoulder, aware that her heart was thumping. She glanced at the screen, her eyes going to Rimbol’s graph. How much longer before he was released? She nodded to Trag and followed him from the room.

  Killashandra was soon to learn that Trag was reticent by nature, but as they made their way down the infirmary corridors, she was relieved to be conducted in silence. Too much had happened to her too fast. She realized now that she had feared her own life-signs would suddenly appear on the medical display. The sudden reprieve from that worry and her promotion out of the infirmary dazed her. She did not appreciate until later that Trag, chief assistant to the Guild Master in charge of training Crystal Singers, did not normally escort them.

  As the lift panel closed on the infirmary level, Trag took her right hand and fastened a thin metal band around her wrist.

  “You must wear this to identify you until you’ve been in the ranges.”

  “Identify me?” The band fitted without hindering wrist movement, but the alloy felt oddly harsh on her skin. The sensation disappeared in seconds, so that Killashandra wondered if she had imagined the roughness.

  “Identify you to your colleagues. And admit you to Singer privacies.”

  Some inflection in his voice made the blood run hot to her cheeks but his expression was diffident. At that point, the lift panels opened.

  “And it permits you to enter the Singer levels. There are three. This is the main one with all the general facilities.” She stepped with him into the vast, vaulted, subtly lit lobby. She felt nerves that had been strung taut in the infirmary begin to relax in moments. Massive pillars separated the level into sections and hallways, “The lift shaft,” Trag continued, “is the center of these levels of the complex. Catering, large-screen viewing, private dining, and assembly rooms are immediately about the shaft. Individual apartments are arranged in color quadrants, with additional smaller lifts to all other levels at convenient points on the outer arc. Your rooms are in the blue quadrant. This way.” He turned to the left and she followed.

  “Are these my permanent quarters?” she asked, thinking how many she had had since meeting Carrik.

  “With the Guild, yes.”

  Once again, she caught the odd inflection in his voice. She supposed it must have something to do with her being out of the infirmary before any of the others of her class. She was curiously disjointed. She had experienced that phenomenon before, at the Music Center, on days when no one could remember lines or entrances or sing in correct tempi. One simply got through such times as best one could. And on this, certainly a momentous one in her life, acquiescence was difficult to achieve.

  She nearly ran into Trag, who had halted before a door on the right-hand side of the hall. She was belatedly aware that they had passed recesses at intervals.

  “This apartment is assigned to you.” Trag pointed to the lock plate.

  Killashandra pressed her thumb to the sensitized area. The panel slid back.

  “Use what is left of the morning to settle in and initiate your personal program. Use whatever code you wish: personal data is always voice coded. At 1400 hours, Concera will escort you to the cutter technician. He’ll have no excuse not to outfit you quickly.”

  Killashandra noted the cryptic remark and wondered if everyone would address her comments she couldn’t understand yet apparently ought to. As she mused on what “ought to” had accomplished for her, Trag was striding back down the hall.

  She closed the panel, flicked on the privacy light, and surveyed her permanent Guild quarters. Size might denote rank here as on other worlds. The main room here was twice the size of her ample recruit accommodation. To one side was a sleeping chamber that was apparently all bed. A door on one wall was open to a mirrored dressing area that, in turn, led into a hygiene unit with a sunken tank sprouting an unusual number of taps and dials. On the other side of the main room was a storage closet larger than her student room on Fuerte and a compact dining and self-catering area.

  “Yarran beer, please.” She spoke more to make noise in the sterile and ringingly quiet place. The catering slot opened to present a beaker of the distinctive ruddy beer.

  She took the drink to the main room, sipping as she frowned at the utilitarian furnishings. Laying her lute carefully on a chair, she let her carisak slip off her shoulder and onto the floor, seized by an urge to throw her possessions around the stark apartment, just to make it look lived in.

  Here she was, Killashandra Ree, installed in spacious grandeur, achieving status as a Crystal Singer, that fearsome and awful being, a silicate spider, a crystal cuckoo with a luxurious nest. This very afternoon, she was to be tuned to a Cutter that would permit her to slice Ballybran crystal, earn stunning totals of galactic credits, and she would cheerfully have traded the whole mess for the sound of a friendly voice.

  “Not that I’m certain I have a friend anywhere,” she said.

  “Recording?”

  The impersonal voice, neither tenor nor contralto, startled her. The full beaker of beer trembled in her hand.

  “Personal program.” That was what Trag had meant. She was to record those facts of her life that she wished to remember in those future times when singing crystal would have scrambled her memory cir
cuits.

  “Recording?”

  “Yes, record and store to voice print only.”

  As she gave such facts as her date and place of birth, the names of her parents, grandparents, sisters, and brothers, the extent and scope of her education, she stalked about the main room, trying to find exactly the right spot in which to display her lute.

  “On being awarded a grant, I entered the Music Center.” She paused to laugh. How soon did one begin to forget what one wished to forget?

  “Right now!”

  “Recording?”

  “End of recording, Store.” And that was that. She knew she could reconsider, but she didn’t want to remember those ten years. She could now wipe them out. She would. As far as she would be ever after, henceforth, and forevermore concerned, nothing of moment happened after the grant award until she encountered Carrik. Those ten years of unremitting labor and dedication to ambition had never occurred to Killashandra Ree, Cutter in the Heptite Guild.

  To celebrate her emancipation from an inglorious past, Killashandra dialed another beer. The digital indicated an hour remained before Concera was to take her to the appointment. She ordered what was described as a hearty, nourishing soup of assorted legumes. She checked her credit, something she must not forget to do regularly, and found herself still in the black. If she were to enter the rest of the Guild voucher and her open ticket, she would have quite a healthy balance. To be consumed by the equipment of a Crystal Singer. She’d keep those credits free.

  That reminded her of Shillawn, and of other credit-debit discussions. She keyed the Guild’s commissary, ordered additional furnishings, rugs of the Ghni weavers, and by 1400, when Concera touched her door chime, Killashandra had wall-screens that mixed the most unlikely elements from an ice-world to the raving flora of the voracious Eobaron planets. Startling, but a complete change from sterility.

  Concera, a woman of medium height and slender build, glided into the main room, exclaimed at the sight of the wall-screens, and looked questioningly at Killashandra.