Crystal Singer

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Do you ever . . . escape?”

  The delicate bond of perception between them lasted some time, and then, leaning across the table, he kissed her question away.

  He escorted her back to her quarters, made certain she was comfortable in the bedroom, and suggested that in the morning she take her cutter down to be checked and stored, that if she was interested in weather history, she could review other phenomenal Passover storms in the met control the next day at eleven and see something of Storm Control tactics.

  The next morning, she reflected during her shower and notably hearty breakfast on Lanzecki’s extraordinary attentions to her, sensual as well as Guild. She could see why Lanzecki, as Guild Master, would exploit her eagerness to get into the ranges and secure Keborgen’s priceless claim. She’d succeeded. Now, in an inexplicable reverse, Lanzecki wanted her off-planet. Well, she could decide this morning when she watched the weather history, whether that was the man or the Guild Master talking. She rather hoped it was the former, for she did like Lanzecki the man and admired the Guild Master more than any man she had so far encountered.

  What had he meant when he said she was unpredicted? Had that been flattery? The Guild Master indulging a whimsy? Not after he had assisted her in getting out into the ranges; not after she had successfully cut black crystal? Especially, not after Lanzecki had very forcefully defined to her in the Sorting Room the difference between the man and the Guild Master.

  She winced at the memory. She had deserved that reprimand. She could also accept his solicitousness for her health and well-being. He wanted more black crystal—if that was his motive. All right, Killashandra Ree, she told herself firmly, no section or paragraph of the Charter of the Heptite Guild requires the Master to explain himself to a member. Her ten years at Fuerte Music Center had taught Killashandra that no one ever does a favor without expecting a return. Lanzecki had also underscored self-preservation and self-interest with every object lesson that was presented.

  She didn’t really want to leave Ballybran, though it was probably true that she could use the credit margin of an off-world assignment. She looked up the payment scale; the credit offered was substantial. Perhaps it would be better to take the assignment. But that would mean leaving Lanzecki, too. She stared grimly at her reflection in the mirror as she dressed. Departing for that reason might also be wise. Only she’d better mend her fences with Rimbol.

  Grateful that she would not have the additional expense of replacing the cutter or facing the Fisher with that request, she brought the device up to Engineering and Training. As she entered the small outer office, she saw two familiar figures.

  “I’m not going to be caught here again during Passover,” Borella was saying to the Singer Killashandra remembered from the shuttle.

  “Doing your bit again on recruits, Borella?” the man asked, negligently shoving his cutter across the counter and ignoring the technician’s sour exclamation.

  “Recruits?” Borella stared blankly.

  “Remember, dear”—and the man’s voice rippled with mockery—“occasionally, you pass the time briefing the young hopefuls at Shankill station.”

  “Of course, I remember,” Borella said irritably. “I can do better than that this time, Olin,” she went on smugly. “I cut greens in octave groups. Five of them. Enough for an Optherian organ. Small one, of course, but you know that that addiction will last a while.”

  “I’m rather well off, too, as it happens.” Olin spoke over her last sentence.

  Borella murmured something reassuring to him as she handed over her cutter to the technician, but showed a shade more concern for the device. Then she linked her arm through Olin’s. As they turned to leave, Killashandra nodded politely to Borella, but the woman, giving Killashandra’s cutter a hard stare, walked past with no more sign of recognition than tightening her clasp on Olin’s forearm.

  “Of course, there are those unfortunate enough to have to stay here.” Her drawl insinuated that Killashandra would be of that number. “Have you seen Lanzecki lately, Olin?” she asked as they left the room.

  For a moment, Killashandra was stunned by the double insult, though how Borella would have known where the Guild Master spent his time was unclear. She resisted the insane urge to demand satisfaction from Borella.

  “Are you turning that cutter in or wearing it?” A sour voice broke through her resentment.

  “Turning it in.” She handed the cutter to the Fisher carefully, wishing she didn’t have to encounter him as well.

  “Killashandra Ree? Right?” He wasn’t looking at her but inspecting the cutter. “You can’t have used this much,” and he peered suspiciously at handle and blade casing. “Where’d you damage it?”

  “I didn’t. I’m turning it in.”

  The Fisher was more daunting than Borella and her rudeness.

  “You could have left it in your sled, you know,” he said, his tone not quite so acerbic now that he had assured himself that one of his newest cutters had not been misused. “No one else can use it, you know,” he added, obviously making allowance for her ignorance.

  She was not about to admit to anyone that she had lost the sled.

  “I’m going off-planet for Passover,” she said and belatedly realized that he had no such option.

  “Go while you can, when you can,” he said gruffly but not unkindly. Then he turned and disappeared into his workroom.

  As she made her way back to the lift, Killashandra supposed she ought to be relieved that someone remembered her. Possibly the Fisher was able to associate her with a device he had so recently crafted. Or perhaps it was common knowledge through the Guild that Lanzecki had berated a new Singer.

  She shouldn’t let the encounter with Borella rankle her. The woman had inadvertently confirmed Lanzecki’s advice. Furthermore, if Moksoon could not remember Killashandra from moment to moment, how could she fault Borella? How long did it take for a Singer’s memory to disintegrate? Killashandra must learn to overcome habits and values acquired on Fuerte in the Music Center. There one sought to put people under obligation so they could be called in as support for this role or that rehearsal room, to form a trio or quartet, throw a party on limited credit, all the myriad arrangements that require cooperation, good will, and . . . memory of favors past. As Lanzecki had pointed out, “Gratitude depends on memory.” The corollary being “memory lasts a finite time with a Singer.” The only common bond for Crystal Singers was the Guild Charter and its regulations, rules, and restrictions—and the desire to get off Ballybran whenever one could afford that privilege.

  Carigana shouldn’t have died? Now why did that come to mind, Killashandra wondered as she stepped out of the lift at Meteorology. According to the ceiling-border message panel, the viewing was already in progress in the theater. As she hesitated, another lift, this one full of people, opened its door, and she accompanied the group to their mutual destination.

  The theater was semidark and crowded, people standing along the walls when all seating was occupied. On the wide-angle screen, cloud patterns formed and reformed with incredible speed. At one point, Killashandra saw Rimbol’s face illumined; beside him were Borton and Jezerey. She recognized other members of Class 895 and the weather man who had taken them to the sensor station. The turbulence of the storm was not audible. Instead a commentator droned on about pressure, mach-wind velocities, damage, rain fall, snow, sleet, dust density, and previous Passover tempests while a print display under the screen kept pace with his monologue. Killashandra managed to find space against the far wall and looked over the engrossed audience for Lanzecki’s face. She hoped he hadn’t made his offer of the off-planet trip to anyone else. If he was being magnanimous, surely he would also give her first refusal.

  Then she became caught up in the storm visuals, thinking at first they must have been accelerated—until she compared wind velocities and decibel readings. She was aghast at the fury of the storm.

  “The major Passover storm of 2898,” voice a
nd print informed viewers, “while not as severe or as damaging as that of 2863, also formed in the northeast, during spring solstice, and when Shilmore was over the Great Ocean in advance of Shanganagh and Shankill. The inauspicious opposition of the two nearest planets will emphasize the violence of this year’s storm. Seeding, improved emulsions, and the new wave disruptor off the coasts of Buland and Hoyland should prevent the tsunami drive across the ocean which caused such widespread havoc on the South Durian continent.”

  The screen switched frequently from satellite pictures to planetary weather stations where the wind shifts were marked by waves of debris flung in vertical sheets. Killashandra fell into that mesmerized state that can befuddle the mind, and for one hideous second she almost heard windshriek. A particularly frenzied cross-current of detritus shattered the trance by inducing motion nausea. She hastily left the theater, looking for a toilet. The moment she reached the soundproof stability of the quiet corridor, her nausea waned, only to be replaced by the gnawing of severe hunger.

  “I had breakfast,” she said through clenched teeth. “I had plenty of breakfast.”

  She entered a lift, wondering just how long the postrange appetite remained critical. She punched for the infirmary level and swung into the same anteroom she had entered barely four weeks before.

  No one was on duty.

  “Is anyone here?” she demanded acidly.

  “Yes,” the verbal address system responded.

  “I don’t want you. I’d like to see—”

  “Killashandra Ree?” Antona walked through the right-hand door panel, an expression of surprise on her face. “You can’t have been injured?” The chief medic took a small diagnostic unit from her thigh pocket and advanced toward Killashandra.

  “No, but I’m starving of the hunger.”

  Antona laughed, slipping the instrument back into her pocket. “Oh, I do apologize, Killashandra. It’s not the least bit funny! For you.” She tried to compose her face into a more severe expression. “But you put it aptly. You’re “starving of the hunger” for several reasons. While the others were convalescing from the fever, we could administer nutritional assists. You had no fever, and then you were sent out to cut. The appalling hunger, you realize, is quite normal. No, I see you don’t, and you look hungry. I’m just about to have a morning snack. The lounge will be deserted, as everyone’s peering at last year’s storms. Join me? I can think of nothing more boring than to be compelled to eat mountains and gulp them down in solitary confinement. You did remember, of course”—and by this time Antona had guided her back to the lift and, at their destination, down the length of the lounge to a catering area as she talked—“that the symbiont takes twenty weeks to establish itself thoroughly. We have never managed to find out the average spore intake per diem since so much depends on the individual’s metabolism. Now, let’s see . . .” Antona pressed menu review. “You don’t mind if I order for you? I know exactly how to reduce that hunger and restore the symbiont.” Antona waited for Killashandra’s agreement and then toured the catering area, dialing several selections at each post before signaling Killashandra to take a tray and start collecting the items delivered.

  Food enough for the entire final year student complement of the Music Center presently covered two large tables, and Killashandra ravenously started to eat.

  “If it’s any encouragement, your appetite will slack off, especially after the symbiont has prepared for Passover.” She smiled at Killashandra’s groan. “Don’t worry. You’ll have no appetite at all during the height of Passover—the spore buries itself in crevices.” Antona smiled. “In the Life lab, we have rock crabs and burrow worms over four hundred years old.” Antona’s grin became wry. “I don’t suppose that aspect of Ballybran’s ecology figured in your orientation. There isn’t much life on this mudball, but what there is lives in symbiotic relation to the spore. That’s how it keeps itself alive, by increasing the survival mechanisms of whatever host it finds. It behooves us, the new dominant life form, to study the indigenous.”

  As she ate, Killashandra found Antona’s ramblings more interesting than Tukolom’s lectures. It did cross her mind that Antona might just be indulging in the luxury of a captive audience. Antona was not lazy with fork and spoon, so her “morning snack” must have answered a real need if not as urgent as Killashandra’s.

  “I keep trying”—and Antona emphasized that word—“to correlate some factor, or factors, which would once and for all allow us to recruit without anxiety.” She paused and looked with unfocused eyes to one corner of the dining area. “I mean, I knew what I was to do before I came here but if I had made the complete adjustment, I’d’ve been required to sing crystal.” Antona made a grimace of dislike, then smiled radiantly. “The prospect of having all the time in the world to delve into a life form and carry through a research program was such a gift—”

  “You didn’t want to be a Crystal Singer?”

  “Shards and shades, girl, of course not. There’s more to life here than that.”

  “I had the impression, that crystal singing was the function of this planet.”

  “Oh, it is,” and Antona’s agreement rippled with laughter. “But the Crystal Singers could scarcely function without support personnel. More of us than you, you know. Takes five and three-quarters support staff to keep a Singer in the ranges. Furthermore, the Guild doesn’t have the time or the facilities to train up members in every skill needed. There are plenty of people from the Federated Sentient Planets quite willing to risk adaptation and the possibility of having to sing crystal to come here in other capacities.”

  “I’m a little confused . . .”

  “I shouldn’t wonder, Killashandra. You do come from Fuerte, and that conservative government had off notions about self-determination. I did wonder how you came to be recruited, though you are one of our nicer surprises.” Antona patted Killashandra’s arm reassuringly. “The Fuertans we’ve had in previous decades also made good hosts.” Suddenly, Antona frowned, eying Killashandra speculatively. “I really must run your scans again. I’ve developed five separate evaluation tests, two at the primary level, which, if I say so myself”—and Antona smiled modestly—“have increased the probability figures by 35%.”

  “I didn’t think the Guild was permitted active recruiting,” Killashandra said, doggedly returning to that blithe comment.

  Antona looked startled. “Oh, nothing active. Certainly less blatant than service programs. The FSP definitely frowns on any sort of conditioning or coercion due to the specific adaptation, you see. That’s a direct contradiction of the freedom of movement in the FSP Charter. Of course, when FSP recruits, no one dares complain but it’s common knowledge what Service people do.” She emitted a sort of giggle. “Freedom of movement, indeed. Most good citizens of the FSP never leave or want to leave their home worlds, but they have to be able to do so according to FSP, and that forces us to use the Shankill clearing point.”

  “Don’t you mind being restricted to this planet?”

  “Why should I?” Antona did not appear to be resigned.

  “Singers seem very keen to get off Ballybran,” Killashandra said, but her mind was chaotic, remembering Carigana’s intransigence, the farce of the Shankill Moon Recruitment, Rimbol’s passing his “preliminaries,” Carigana and her “trap,” the way Killashandra found herself reacting to the suspicion that Antona had confirmed.

  “Singers should leave Ballybran whenever possible,” she said, completely sincere and much at her ease. “It’s a tense, demanding profession, and one should be able to . . . escape . . . from one’s work to completely different surroundings.”

  “Escape.” That was the verb Lanzecki had used. “Do you escape your work Antona?”

  “Me? Of course. My work is in the infirmary and the labs. I have the whole planet to roam and the moons if I wish a change of view.”

  “Even at Passover?”

  Antona chuckled indulgently at Killashandra’s jibe. “Well,
everyone holes up during Passover. Or gets off the planet if possible.” She leaned over to touch Killashandra’s arm. “For your own sake, I wish you hadn’t cut so near to Passover, but you can be sure I’ll help you all I can.”

  “Why should I need help?” Killashandra had no trouble affecting innocent surprise. “I’ve only cut once.”

  “The most dangerous cut of them all. I’m really surprised that Lanzecki permitted it. He’s so careful about his new Singers. I had to pass you over to training, my dear. No point at all in keeping you with sick people. But this Passover is the most inconvenient one, and it will be ages before the weather settles and damage can be cleared. I suppose Lanzecki wanted to get as much crystal cut as possible when he could. Of course, repair won’t concern you as a Singer. You’ll be sent out as soon as possible to check your claims for storm alteration.”

  “What will happen because I have cut crystal once?”

  “Oh, dear.” Antona inhaled deeply and then exhaled on a short, exasperated breath, “I will blather on. Very well, then, I’d have to tell you soon, anyhow. It’s only I don’t like to alarm people unnecessarily.”

  “You have unless you come to the point.”

  “You’ve been told that storms in the Crystal Ranges are lethal because the winds whip resonance out of the mountains that produce sensory overload. During Passover, the entire place, right down to its core, I sometimes feel, quivers—a noise, a vibration, multiple sonics are formed and transmitted which cannot be”—Antona gave another shrug of helplessness—“escaped. We’ll sedate you, and you can be harnessed safely in a radiant tub in the infirmary, which has special shielding. Every possible care will be taken.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you’ll hear. That’s worse. Now eat. Actually, at your stage, a surfeit of food is the best cushion I could prescribe. Think of the sedation as hibernation; the food is protection.”

  Killashandra applied herself to the untouched dishes, while Antona silently and slowly finished her last portion.