"Killashandra Ree," Lars began in a tone she had never heard him use before: part entreaty, part frustration and part anger. "You've simply got to recognize that Lanzecki is dead. You knew that two months ago. You even insisted that no one try to rescue him from Bollam . . ." She recognized that name and put an unattractive face to it. But Lars wasn't finished. "Have you got that lodged in your head? Finally? Lanzecki is dead."
Killashandra stared at Lars, uncomfortably aware that this was something else she had conveniently managed to forget. She shouldn't forget who was Guild Master. He was the most important person to a crystal singer, to all Heptite Guild members.
"There has to be a Guild Master . . ." she began, floundering badly as the discomfort swelled and brushed against concepts and images that she didn't want to remember.
"There is a Guild Master, Killashandra." Lars's tone was kind, soothing, his expression concerned. "I am the Guild Master now."
" No!" She backed away from the desk.
He jumped to his feet and came round the desk, arms outstretched to her, his expression both desperate and supplicatory.
"I know you've been resisting it, Sunny. I know that you've suppressed the fact of Lanzecki's death, but it is a fact. It's also a fact that I've been appointed Guild Master in his place. I would like you to be my executive partner in this, as you have been my partner in the Ranges."
Killashandra shook her head at him, more and more forcefully as she resisted the sense of his statements. How could Lars become Guild Master? That was absurd. He was her partner. They sang crystal together. They were the best duet the Guild had ever had. They had to return to the Ranges and sing crystal. With Lanzecki dead it was more important than ever that they sing crystal—black crystal, green crystal, blue! A Guild Master didn't have the time to sing crystal. Lars had to sing crystal with her. He couldn't be the Guild Master.
"I know, Sunny," Lars went more kindly. "His death is hard to take. He was such a force for us all. I'd like to be as good a leader but I want—I need—your help. You're incontestably the best singer the Guild has. You know more about singing crystal than anyone else, and you can explain what you know. Many can't articulate or convey the information they have locked in their brains. You can. Hell, you taught me!" He grinned with wry flattery. "That's only one reason why I need your cooperation and your input." He had come close enough to take her in his arms, trying with his clever hands, to which she had always responded, to soothe her distress and somehow stroke her into acceptance of the hard truths he had given her.
"There, there, Sunny. I see now that I was wrong to let you forget what you didn't want to remember just because I could always remember for you. But now I don't have that luxury. And I need you as my partner more than ever."
"But I'm a crystal singer. I'm not a—an office flunky."
Lars gave a brief laugh. "You think Trag was a flunky?"
"Trag was—Trag," Killa finished lamely, casting about for any rebuttal he would accept as her refusal. Lanzecki was Guild Master. He had been and would be. Trag . . . she wasn't Trag. She wasn't anything like Trag.
"I know it'll take getting used to, Sunny, but accept the reality. Accept me as the Guild Master. I know I'm not Lanzecki, but each Guild Master puts his own stamp on the Guild, and I've got some positive, if bizarre, ideas on how to improve—"
"That's why Lanzecki monopolized you so much," she said in petulant accusation. "That's why you had so many meetings with him!"
"Believe me, Killa, I didn't know what Lanzecki was doing. I had no idea that he was briefing me to take over from him. But he did think my ideas had merit . . ."
Killa stared at the man who had been her constant companion to the point where she could not envision life without him at her side. She stared at his familiar face and wondered that she knew so little about him.
"You could have said no," she whispered, appalled by what he was saying, and by what he wanted of her. "You didn't have to accept the appointment."
"Lanzecki suggested it with terms I couldn't refuse."
"You want to be Guild Master!" she accused him.
He shook his head slowly, a sad smile on his lips. "No, Sunny, I didn't want to be Guild Master. But I am, and I'm going to improve the Guild, and every kicking, screaming resisting member will benefit."
"Benefit? I don't like the sound of that." She stepped back from him. "What's wrong with the Guild the way it is? Who do you think you are to change it?" Her voice rose, shrilling with the growing sense of panic that enveloped her. "You're not Lanzecki! You've never cared about the Guild before. Just sailing. That's all you care about—sailing and seas and ships . . ." And, whirling, she ran from the office.
"Killa, love, let me explain!" he called after her.
She bashed at the lift buttons, begging the door to open and get her out of here. Lars was a seaman, not a Guild Master. Lanzecki was. He always had been. The stable, safe, and secure pivot of her life in the Guild. The door slid open and she jumped inside the car, pounding the panel to make the door close before Lars could reach her. He was going to talk her into this, too, because he could always convince her that his suggestions would work. She wouldn't let him wheedle her into an office job. He would keep her out of the Ranges, keep her from cutting crystal and she would end up like Trag—with less and less symbiont protection. That's what had killed Trag: no protection.
She had to protect herself against Lars now. He would talk her into doing something she did not want to do. The Guild didn't need to be changed! It had run perfectly well for centuries. What could possibly need changing? Well, she wasn't going to help. Best cutter in the Guild, huh? Just the kind of soft talk that had got Lars his way with her too often! Make her a stand-in for Trag, would he? She wasn't old sobersides Trag, critical, unswerving, duty-bound. She was Killashandra Ree. She always would be! The door opened again, and she fled. At first she didn't realize where she was; then, when she recognized the Hangar floor, she gasped with relief. She mustn't let Lars catch up with her.
She'd lose herself in the Ranges and then Lars, the Guild Master, wouldn't be able to find her. She'd go as deep as she could, past any claim they had made together. She'd find new ones, ones he didn't dream existed. She'd cut and cut and she'd show the Guild Master that she was too important a cutter to be restricted to an office!
She was only peripherally aware that the flight officer was trying to tell her something. She repeated her urgent request for her sled. When he seemed recalcitrant, trying to restate his message, she barged past him, running toward the racks where sleds were stored. Hers was in the first rank, so she climbed to it, palmed the cabin door open, and settled herself in the pilot's seat. She checked the engines, slipped on the headpiece, and heard the babble from Operations.
"I want clearance and I don't want any nonsense. I have got to get out into the Ranges. Is that understood?"
Suddenly the voices that were trying to dissuade her went silent. There was a long pause during which she revved the engines and clenched and unclenched her hands on the yoke, waiting for her release. She'd go without it if she had to. She was reaching for the propulsion toggle when the silence ended.
"Killashandra Ree, clear to go," said a tenor voice, flat with a lack of emotion. "Good luck, singer!"
She was in such a swivet to depart that she didn't realize that it wasn't the flight officer who released her. She eased the sled out of the rack and headed for the open Hangar door. Once clear, she pointed the nose of the sled north. She allowed the merest margin of distance before she engaged the drive. The relief of her escape diminished the discomfort of gravitational pressure as the sled obediently shot forward, shoving her deep in the cushioning.
The first storm caught her still looking for a possible site. She didn't return to the Guild. She headed further north, skipping across the sea away from the storm, and settled on the North Continent to wait out the heavy weather. She slept most of the interval, then returned to the Ranges and continued her searc
h.
Lack of supplies, especially water, finally drove her back. She stayed only long enough to replenish her stores, ignoring all suggestions from both the flight and cargo officers, both of whom were desperately trying to delay her. Lanzecki probably had something in mind for her, and she didn't want any part of it.
"It isn't Lanzecki, Killa," Cargo insisted, her expression troubled. "Donalla—"
"I don't know any Donalla." And Killashandra brushed past the woman and slid into her restocked sled and closed the door firmly.
As she maneuvered the sled out of the Hangar, the flight officer kept wildly pointing to his headphones, wanting her to open up her comline, but she ignored him and sped away, taking a zigzag course at such speed that no one could track her.
She finally found crystal—deep greens in dominants. She was still cutting when the alarms in her sled went off. That made her stop—briefly—and consult her weather sense. For the first time it had not given her advance notice. Or had it? She'd had a few sessions with crystal thrall lately. Perhaps . . . But it was only the first of the warnings. She had time.
She almost didn't, for the last of the greens, a massive plinth, thralled her, and only the lashing of gale-force winds broke the spell by knocking her off balance and out of the trance.
Frantic to load her cartons, for she obviously hadn't bothered to for several days, she worked against the slimmest margin ever. Luck barely hung on to the fins of her sled, for the crash came on the very edge of the storm, near enough for a crew to rescue the crystal and her battered body. The sled was a write-off.
"Whaddid I cut? How much did I earn?" were Killashandra's first coherent questions when she finally roused from accident trauma.
"Enough, I gather, to replace your sled, Killa," a female voice said.
Killashandra managed to open her eyes, though her lids were incredibly heavy to raise. It was hard to focus, but gradually she was able to distinguish a woman's face.
She retrieved a suitable name with effort. "Antona!"
"No, not Antona. Donalla."
"Donalla?" Killa peered earnestly, blinking furiously to clear her sight. She didn't recognize the face. "Do I know you?"
"Not very well." There was a slight ripple of amusement in the tone. "But a while ago you saved my life."
"I don't remember cutting crystal with anyone."
"Oh, I'm not a singer. I'm a medic. Do you remember anything at all about helping persuade my parents to let me come to Ballybran?"
"No." When Killa began to shake her head to emphasize the negative, she experienced considerable pain. "I've had little to do with recruitment," she said repressively. "I sing crystal. I don't entice people to it."
"You didn't entice me, Killashandra Ree, but you did give my parents incontrovertible proof that the Ballybran symbiont heals. Fast."
"It has to, doesn't it, to keep singers in the field? I nearly bought it this time, didn't I?"
"As near as makes no never mind," said a man's voice. That one was familiar—and panic welled up in her. Him she didn't want to see. That much she remembered. She turned her head away from the direction of the voice—the Guild Master's voice.
A hand clasped her fingers warmly, the thumb caressing the back of her hand with an intimacy she found both reassuring and insidious. She tried to pull away and hadn't the strength to do so.
"Mangled yourself rather extensively, Sunny. I've always been afraid that would happen. If I'd been there . . ."
Infuriated, she did manage to snatch her hand free. "You weren't. You were in an office. Where the Guild Master has to stay!" She chewed the words out spitefully, and when she saw his face come into her line of vision, she raised her arm, despite the pain, to cover her eyes. "You had your chance to cut crystal with me. Go away." She flung her arm in his direction in an effort to strike him.
"I think you'd better go, Lars. Your presence is definitely not reassuring. She's incoherent."
"On the contrary, Donalla, she's most coherent."
"Please, Lars, don't take her seriously. Not now. She's in considerable pain despite the symbiont"
"She'll survive?"
"Oh, most certainly. The lacerations are healing quickly, and the leg bones are almost completely joined. Strained tendons and pulled muscles take a little longer to mend."
"Let me know when she's . . . herself again, will you, Donalla? And suggest . . ."
"I'll keep you informed, Lars, and I won't suggest anything right now. It would be totally inappropriate."
Killashandra moved restlessly, subconsciously resenting the friendliness of the exchanges, the subtle inference of a relationship between the two speakers: this Donalla and the man she did not want to acknowledge at all.
"I'm giving you something to put you out a while longer, Killashandra," the woman said, and Killa felt the cold of a spray on her neck. "You'll be better when you wake."
"Nothing's ever better when you wake."
It was morning when next she woke, or so the digital on the wall told her. Day, month, and year were never a function of Heptite timekeepers. And, as the Infirmary was deep in the bowels of the Guild, shielded against the ravages of Passover storms, a wall hologram reflected the external weather. Somehow a bright clear morning seemed blasphemous to Killashandra. She groaned. But the bed sensors had already picked up the alteration in her sleep pattern, and the door opened, a bright face peering round it.
"Hungry?"
"Ravenous," Killa said with a groan. Hunger also seemed a travesty to her, and she buried her face in the pillows.
"Be right back."
Food did set immediate needs to rights. Sitting up to eat also emphasized her recuperation. She didn't hurt, though her limbs felt very stiff. She examined her arms and legs and ran wondering fingers down the whitening scars that showed how horrific her wounds had been. Inevitably that reminded her that she had crashed the sled. She couldn't quite face that yet, so she heaved herself out of bed and into the bathroom to run a deep tub of hot water, full of aromatics to ease the lingering stiffness. Finally, refreshed as well as more flexible, she settled at the room terminal and tapped out her personal code. Ignoring the line that invited her to update her memory data, she accessed for her credit balance. For a moment her spirits sank. There wasn't enough to replace the sled.
Wait a minute. There was not enough credit to replace the sled she had crashed, but that one had been a double. She wasn't singing duet any more. She had enough for a single, maybe not top of the line, but sufficient to get her back into the Ranges and, if she bought just basic rations, enough supplies for a month. She tapped out a query about her cutter. If she had banjaxed the cutter, she would be in heavy debt. Not for long, she assured herself. Not for long. She'd cut—blacks again—and show him! She dialed the cutter's facility but no one answered. She couldn't remember the current one's name and stewed over that. She called up the Admin roster to see who it was: "Clarend nab Ost" rang no bells and, evidently, answered no calls to his or her quarters. Fortunately the girl arrived with lunch to distract a growing sense of frustration.
By the time she had finished the second hearty meal, she had also managed to contact Clarend nab Ost, who had a few choice words to say about someone who would leave her cutter unracked, crash, and then expect the tool to be ready to go. She hotly insisted that she always racked her cutter
"So how come it was stuck in the cargo hatch door?" he'd asked snidely.
That silenced her. She was far more appalled by that lapse than she was about crashing the sled or her own injuries. So she apologized profusely, and Clarend finally ended his tirade against careless, derelict, wanton, blas_, feeble-minded, lack-witted singers and their sins, errors and shame. Then he told her in a less trenchant tone that he hadn't quite finished repairs and he couldn't vouch for its continued efficiency if she abused it her next time in the Ranges and she was bloody lucky she had a cutter at all the way she'd treated it.
Oddly enough, the episode made her feel somew
hat better: things were normal when one got properly chewed out by a technician for blatant irresponsibility. She called the Hangar and asked how long she would have to wait for a replacement single.
"I've enough credit—unless you've jacked the cost up again," she told the supply officer.
"The very idea of our benefiting by your misfortune! Single, you want now? I thought—"
"You're not keeping up with the gossip, Ritwili," she said so angrily that there was a long silence. "Haul one out of stock and commission it, provision it. Basic rations for a month. I should be out of here soon."
"Not quite 'soon'," said the medic who had overheard the last of her conversation.
Killa frowned: the woman looked familiar . . . and yet unfamiliar. Killashandra shrugged, unable to prod recall.
"In case you've forgotten, I'm Donalla Fiske-Ulass, a fellow planetarian from Fuerte," the woman said, advancing to the bed. Her voice ended on an upnote of inquiry.
Killa sighed and shook her head. "I don't remember. Don't expect me to."
"Oh, I do. I expect that the woman who saved my life should remember the fact," Donalla said blandly, shoving her hands in the pockets of her clinical coat. She was a very attractive woman, slender without being thin—although the idea of thinness tweaked Killashandra's memory. Her hair was curly and short, and framed a delicate-featured, clever face. She had lovely eyes and exuded an air of authority and competence. "Especially when I consider myself under obligation to you."
"There're no obligations in the Guild," Killashandra reminded her.
"Among singers, yes, because you lot are, and have to be, competitive, dedicated and woefully single-minded." Donalla grinned again. "So you'll allow me to discharge my obligation to you."
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