Crystal Line

by Anne McCaffrey

  "Crystal in my soul, indeed!" The Guild Master's words stung, like crystal scratch.

  She made a noise of sheer self-disgust and pulled herself from the tank, knocking the tray off. She turned to the big wall mirror, watching the fluid sheet off her body, as firm and graceful as a youngster's. Killashandra had long since given up keeping track of her chronological age: it was irrelevant anyway, since the symbiont kept her looking and feeling young. Not immortality but close to it—except for the youth of her memory.

  "Now where will I go off this fecking planet this time?" she asked her reflection, and then slid open the dresser panel.

  She was mildly surprised at the finery there and decided she must have spent what credit she'd had for pretty threads to lure that unwary landsman. He had been a brute of a lover, though a change. Anything had been a change from Lars Dahl. How dare the Guild Master suggest that she'd better duo? He had no right or authority, no lien or hold on her to dictate her choice!

  Angrily Killashandra punched for Port Authority and inquired the destinations of imminent departures from Shankill.

  "Not much, C.S. Killashandra," she was told politely. "Small freighter is loading for the Armagh system . . ."

  "Have I been there?"

  Pause. "No, ma'am."

  "What does Armagh do for itself?"

  "Exports fish oils and glue," was the semidisgusted reply.

  "Water world?"

  "Not total. Has the usual balance of land and ocean . . ."

  "Tropical?" For some reason the idea of a tropical world both appealed to and repelled her.

  "It has a very pleasant tropical zone. All water sports, tasty foods if you like a high fruit/fish diet."

  "Book me." Crystal singers could be high-handed, at least on Ballybran.

  "Blast-off at twenty-two thirty today," Port Authority told her.

  "I've just time then." And Killashandra broke the connection.

  She drew on the most conservative garments in the press, then randomly selected a half dozen of the brighter things, tossed them into a carisak, and closed it. She hesitated, midroom, glancing about incuriously. It was, of course, the standard member accommodation. Vaguely she remembered a time when there had been paintings and wall hangings, knickknacks that were pretty or odd on the shelves and tables, a different rug on the floor of the main room. Now there was no trace of anything remotely personal, certainly nothing of Killashandra.

  "Because," Killashandra said out loud as if to imprint her voice on the room, "I'm nothing but a crystal singer with only a present to live in."

  She slammed the door as she left, but it didn't do much to satisfy her discontent. She found slightly more pleasure in the realization that, though she might have trouble finding her apartment after a session in the Ranges, she had none finding her way up from the subterranean resident levels and to the shuttle bays.

  She took the time to get the protective lenses removed from her eyes. It didn't change her outlook much. In fact, Ballybran looked duller than it should have as the shuttle lifted toward Shankill. The storm had cleared away, and she felt a brief twinge as her body ached for the resonances she was leaving, for the dazzle of rainbow light prisms dancing off variegated quartz, for the pure sweet sound of crystal waking in the early morning sun, or sighing in the cold virginal light of one of the larger moons, for the subsonic hum that ate through bone in black cold night.

  Then she dealt with the formalities of lifting off-world and was directed to Bay 23, where the Armagh freighter, Maeve 18, was docked. She was escorted to her cabin by a youngster who couldn't keep far enough ahead of her—and the crystal resonance that pinged off her—in the narrow corridors.

  "Is there a radiant-fluid tub on board?" she asked him with a grim smile at his reaction to her condition.

  "In your cabin, Crystal Singer," he said, and then scooted away.

  It was a courtesy to call it a tub—it was a two-meter tube, just wide enough to accommodate a body. To reach it one had to perform certain acrobatics over the toilet; and, according to the legend on the dials, the same fluid was flushed and reused. Well, she could count on three to four washes before it became ineffective. That would have to do. She opened the tap and heard the comforting gurgle of the fluid dropping to the bottom of the tub.

  From there she flung her carisak to the narrow bunk, shucked off her clothes, and did her acrobatic act, inserting herself just as the flow automatically cut off. There were hand and ankle grips, and she arranged her limbs appropriately, tilted her head back, and let the radiant fluid cleanse her.

  She entered the common room for the first time the third day out, having purged sufficient crystal resonance from blood and bone to be socially acceptable. She was hungry, for more than food, a hunger she could keep leashed as far as she was concerned. But the eight male passengers and the two crewmen who circulated in the transit area were obviously affected by her sensuality. There wasn't anyone she wanted, so she retired to her cabin and remained there for the rest of the trip. She had traveled often enough in the shape she was in to practice discretion.

  Armagh III's Port Terminal smelled of fish oil and glue. Great casks were being trundled into the hold of the freighter as she bade an impatient farewell to the captain. She flashed her general credentials and was admitted unconditionally to the planet as a leisure guest. She didn't need to use her Guild membership—Armagh III was an open planet.

  She rented a flit and checked into the Touristas for a list of resorts. The list turned out to be so lengthy that she merely closed her eyes and bought a ticket to the destination on which her finger settled: Trefoil, on the southeastern coast of the main continent. She paused long enough to obtain a quick change of Armagh clothing, bright patterns in a lightweight porous weave, and was off.

  Trefoil reminded her of somewhere. The resemblance nagged at her even as the interoceanic air vehicle circled the small fishing town. Ships tacking across the harbor under sail caused her heart to bump with a curiously painful joy. She knew she must have seen sailships, since the nomenclature—sloop, lateen-rigged, schooner, ketch, yawl—sprang to mind with no hesitation. As did a second pang of regret. She grimaced and decided that such clear recollection might even be an asset on this backward little world.

  The landing field wasn't that far from one of the longer wharves, where a huge two-master was moving, with graceful and competent ease, to a berth along the port side. That term also came unbidden to her mind. As much because she would not give in to the emotion of the recall as because the ship excited her, she swung the carisak to her shoulder and sauntered down to the wharf. The crew was busy in the yards, reefing the last of the square sails used to make port, and more were bustling about the deck, which glinted with an almost crystalline sheen.

  "What makes the decks shine?" she asked another observer.

  "Fish oils" was the somewhat terse reply, and then the man, a red-bearded giant, took a second look. Men usually looked twice at Killashandra. "First time on Armagh?"

  Killashandra nodded, her eyes intent on the schooner.

  "Been here long?"

  "Just arrived."

  "Got a pad?"

  "No."

  "Try the Golden Dolphin. Best food in town and best brewman."

  Killashandra turned to look at him then. "You pad there?"

  "How else could I judge?" the man replied with charming candor.

  Killashandra smiled back at him, neither coldly nor invitingly. Neutral. He reminded her of someone. They both turned back to watch the docking ship.

  Killashandra found the process fascinating and reminiscent, but she forced memory out and concentrated on the landing, silently applauding the well-drilled crew. Each man seemed to perform his set task without apparent instruction from the captain in the bridge house. The big hull drifted slowly sideways toward the wharf. The last of the sails had now been fastened along the spars. Two crewmen flung lines ashore, fore and aft, then leaped after them when the distance closed, flippi
ng the heavy lines deftly around the bollards and snubbing the ship securely.

  Armagh men ran to height, tanned skins, and strong backs, Killashandra noticed approvingly. Redbeard was watching her out of the corner of his eye. He was interested in her all right. Just then, the nearest sailor turned landside and waved in her direction. His teeth were startlingly white against the mahogany of his skin. He tossed back a streaked blond curly mane of hair and waved again. He wore the long oil-shiny pants of his profession and an oddly fashioned vest, which left chest and arms bare and seemed stiff with double hide along the ribs. He looked incredibly muscular.

  Why was he waving at her? No, the greeting was for Redbeard beside her, who now walked forward to meet his friend. A third man, black-bearded and tangle-maned, joined them and was embraced by Redbeard. The trio stood facing the ship and talking among themselves until a fearsome machine glided along the rails to their side of the dock. It extruded a ramp out and down and into the deck of the boat, where it hovered expectantly. The two sailors had jumped back aboard, the blond man moving with the instinctive grace of the natural athlete. In comparison, the black-haired man looked clumsy. As a team, they heaved open the hatch. The hesitant ramp extruded clamps that fastened to the deck and the lip of the opened hold. More ramp disappeared into the maw of the ship. Moments later the ramp belt moved upward and Killashandra saw her first lunk, the great oil fish of Armagh, borne away on its last journey.

  She became absorbed in the unloading process, which, for all the automated assistance of the machine, still required a human element. The oil scales of the huge fish did not always stay on the rough surface of the ramp belt and had to be forced back on manually. The blonde used an enormous barbed hook, planting it deep in what was actually the very tough hide of the elusive fish and deftly flipping the body into place again. Redbeard seemed to have some official position, for he made notes of the machine's dials, used the throat mike often, and seemed to have forgotten her existence entirely. Killashandra approved. A man should get on with his work.

  Yes, especially when he worked with such laudable economy of motion and effort. Like the young blonde.

  In fact, Killashandra was rather surprised when the ramp suddenly retracted and the machine slid sideways to the next hold. A small barefoot rascal of a lad slipped up to the crewmen, a tray of hot pies balanced on his head. The aroma was tantalizing, and Killashandra realized that she had not eaten since leaving the freighter that morning. Before she could signal the rascal to her, his merchandise had been bought up by the seamen. Irritated, Killashandra looked landward. The docks couldn't be dependent on the services of small boys. There must be other eating facilities nearby. With a backward glance at her blond sailor, contentedly munching from a pie in each hand, she left the wharf.

  As it happened the eating house she chose displayed a placard advertising the Golden Dolphin. The hostelry was up the beach, set back amid a grove of frond-leaved trees, which also reminded her of something and excited an irritation in her. She wouldn't give in to it. The inn was set far enough around a headland from the town and the wharf so that commercial noise was muted. She took a room with a veranda looking out over the water. She changed into native clothing and retraced her steps along the quiet corridor to the public room.

  "What's the native brew?" she asked the barman, settling herself on the quaint, high wooden stool.

  "Depends on your capacity, m'dear," the little black man told her, grinning a welcome.

  "I've never disgraced myself."

  "Tart or sweet?"

  "Hmmmm . . . Tart, cool, and long."

  "There's a concoction of fermented fruits, native to this globe, called 'harmat'. Powerful."

  "Keep an eye on me then, man. You call the limit."

  He nodded respectfully. He couldn't know that a crystal singer had a metabolism that compensated for drug, narcotic, or excess alcohol. A blessing-curse. Particularly if she were injured off-world, with no crystal around to draw the noise of accidental pain from her bones and muscles. Quietly cursing to herself, she knew she had enough crystal resonance still in her to reduce even an amputation to minimal discomfort.

  Harmat was tart, cool, and long, with a pleasant aftertaste that kept the mouth sweet and soothed the throat.

  "A good drink for a sun world," she commented. "And sailors."

  "Aye, it is," the barman said, his eyes twinkling. "And if it weren't for them, we could export more."

  "I thought Armagh's trade was fish oils and glue."

  The barman wrinkled his nose disdainfully. "It is. Harmat off-world commands a price, only trade rules say home consumption comes first."

  "Invent another drink."

  The barman frowned. "I try. Oh, I try. But they drink me dry of anything I brew."

  "You're brewman as well?"

  He drew himself up, straight and proud. "I gather the fruit from my own land, prepare it, press it, keg it, age it."

  She questioned him further, interested in another's exacting trade, and thought if she weren't a crystal singer, brewmaking would have been fun.

  Biyanco, for that was the brewman's name, chatted with her amiably until the laughter and talk of a large crowd penetrated the quiet gloom of the public room.

  "The fishermen," he told her, busying himself by filling glass after glass of harmat and lining them up along the bar.

  He was none too soon, for the wide doors of the public room swung open and a horde of oil-trousered, vested men and women surged up to the bar, tanned hands closing on the nearest glass, coins spinning and clicking to the wooden surface. Killashandra remained on her stool, but she was pressed hard on both sides by thirty or so people who spared her no glance until they had finished the first glass and were bawling for a refill. Then she was, rather casually, she felt, dismissed as the fisherfolk laughed among themselves and talked trade.

  "You'd best watch that stuff," said a voice in her ear, and she saw Redbeard.

  "I've been warned," she answered, grinning.

  "Biyanco makes the best harmat this side of the canal. It's not a drink for the novice."

  "I've been warned," she repeated, mildly amused at the half insult. Of course, the man couldn't know that she was a crystal singer. So his warning had been kindly meant.

  A huge bronzed fist brushed past her left breast. Startled, she looked up into the brilliant blue eyes of the blond sailor, who gazed at her in an incurious appraisal that warmed briefly in the way a man will look at a woman, and then grew cautious.

  Killashandra looked away first, oddly disturbed by the blue eyes, somehow familiar but not the same, and disappointed. This one was much too young for her. She turned back to Redbeard, who grinned as if he had watched the swift exchange of glances and was somehow amused by it.

  "I'm Thursday, Orric Thursday, ma'am," the redbeard said.

  "Killashandra Ree is my name," she replied, and extended her hand.

  He couldn't have guessed her profession by her grip, but she could see that the strength of it surprised him. Killashandra was not a tall or heavily boned woman: cutting crystal does not need mass, only controlled energy, and that could be developed in any arm.

  Thursday gestured to the blond. "This is my good friend, Shad Tucker."

  Thankful that the press of bodies made it impossible for her to do the courteous handshake, Killashandra nodded to Shad Tucker.

  "And my old comrade of the wars, Tir Od Nell." Orric Thursday motioned to the blackbeard, who also contented himself with a nod and a grin at her. "You'd be here for a rest, Killashandra?" Thursday asked. And when she nodded, he went on. "Now, why would you pick such a dull fisherman's world as Armagh if you'd the galaxy to choose from?"

  Killashandra had heard that sort of question before, how many times she couldn't remember. She had also heard the same charming invitation for confidences.

  "Perhaps I like water sports," she replied, smiling back at him and not bothering to hide her appraisal.

  To her surprise, he t
hrew back his head and laughed. She could see where he had trimmed the hairs from his throat, leaving a narrow band of white flesh that never saw sun. His two friends said nothing, but their eyes were on her.

  "Perhaps you do, ma'am. And this is the place. Did you want the long wave ride? There's a boat out every dawn." Orric looked at her questioningly. "Then water skating? Submarining? Dolphin swimming? What is your pleasure, Killashandra Ree?"

  "Rest! I'm tired!"

  "Oh, I'd never think you'd ever known fatigue." The expression in his eyes invited her to edify him.

  "For someone unfamiliar with the condition, how would you know it?"

  Tir Od Nell roared.

  "She's got you there, Orr," he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. Shad Tucker smiled, a sort of shy, amused smile, as if he hadn't suspected her capable of caustic reply, and wasn't sure he should enjoy it at his friend's expense.

  Orric grinned, shrugged, and eyed Killashandra with respect. Then he bawled to Biyanco that his glass had a hole in it.

  When the edge of their thirst had been satisfied, most of the fishermen left. "In search of other diversions," Orric said, but he, Tir Od Nell, and Shad Tucker merely settled stools around Killashandra and continued to drink.

  She matched them, paid her rounds, and enjoyed Orric's attempts to pry personal information from her.

  He was not, she discovered, easily put off, nor shy of giving facts about himself and his friends. They had all worked the same fishing boat five seasons back, leaving the sea as bad fishing turned them off temporarily. Orric had an interest in computers and often did wharfman's chores if the regular men were away when the ships came in. Tir Od Nell was working the lunk season to earn some ready credit, and would return to his regular job inland. Shad Tucker, the only off-worlder, had sailed the seas of four planets before he was landed on Armagh.

  "Shad keeps saying he'll move on, but he's been here five years and more," Orric told Killashandra, "and no sign of applying for a ticket-off."