“It appears,” Killa said with a chuckle, “I’m a family legend.”
“And all the time you thought you were a black sheep,” Lars replied with a suitably dour expression.
“All this time I thought I had been expunged from the Ree genealogy.”
“Well, well! Life has its little surprises, does it not?”
“When one can remember them!”
Thinking that a legend ought to be compassionate or kindly or at least welcoming, Killashandra accompanied Donalla to her new quarters. Green-garbed medical personnel hovered, checking dials and hooking up remote life-support gear.
Presnol, the Guild’s senior medical officer, huddled over the record printout, tsk-tsking, occasionally swearing, and looking extremely displeased with what he saw.
“Why do they leave it so late?”
“Miracles occur with every passing second,” Killa said.
“Well, it’s been left bloody late,” Presnol repeated with a fierce scowl. “Why, her throat muscles aren’t even strong enough to operate an implant. How does she communicate?”
“One blink is no, two are yes.”
Presnol was clearly appalled. “What backwater planet spawned her?”
Killa grinned. “A mudball named Fuerte. However, there’s not a thing wrong with her ears.”
Presnol swore again, his skin darkening with embarrassment. Then his expression cleared to a thoughtful look. “Hmmm, I certainly hope the symbiont can do its trick. With her background, she’d be invaluable in the labs.”
Lowering her voice, Killa asked, “How long before you see any transitional traces?”
“In her weakened state, it won’t take long. It better not take long.”
“Here, symbiont. Nice symbiont, come here please,” Killa said in a discreet whisper, as if calling a recalcitrant animal, then grinned wickedly at Presnol.
“That’s about it.” Then Presnol went up to the float, his expression blandly friendly. “I’m Presnol Outerad, head medical officer. I’ve read your files, and there’s every chance that, in your current state, the symbiont has already entered your system. We will know fairly soon, once it has had a chance to filter through your blood, but I hesitate to subject you to unnecessary phlebotomies. There are several degrees the Transition can take. Of that I must apprise you. I think we all hope”—his gesture took in Killashandra—“that you enjoy one of the gentler forms.” His grin was more friendly than professional. “I’d like to stay on in attendance, if you don’t object?”
Killa was relieved by Presnol’s manner and explanations. But then, Antona had trained him out of the false heartiness that some medical personnel affected. He was also dealing with someone medically trained, and the usual medic-patient interface would have been insulting. Her respect for Presnol rose. She saw Donalla blink firmly once.
“Very good. In your condition a monitor wouldn’t be adequate. However, if you become aware of any increase in discomfort, a rapid eyelid motion will attract my instant attention. You could experience …” And as he began to enumerate the manifestations, Killa saw Lars at the doorway, watching the scene, his expression somber.
Deciding that Donalla couldn’t be in better hands, Killa tiptoed away.
“We could wait a little while, couldn’t we, before we go off-planet?” she asked Lars.
He regarded her with no expression whatever for a long moment, and then gave her a quick hug. “We certainly should wait to see how Donalla makes out. Being a fellow Fuertan and all …”
He ducked before she could pummel him.
The symbiont took very little time installing itself in Donalla’s immune-deficient body. Speech returned first, and she indulged in a near-hysterical spate of weeping, which was certainly understandable and relieved her of a backlog of stress. Weeping could be quite therapeutic, Presnol remarked when he reported to Lars and Killa, as pleased as if he had had more to do with it than the symbiont.
“Back from the jaws of death, and all that,” he said proudly.
Killa exchanged glances with Lars, and they both managed not to laugh.
“What’s her alteration?” Lars asked.
Presnol regarded him blankly. “How on earth could we know that yet? Why, she’s barely—”
“Back from the jaws of death, Lars,” Killa said, struggling to keep her expression bland. “How can she possibly know how she’s changed?”
“Point.” Lars’s lips twitched. “We’ll look in on her later,” he added, and blanked the screen.
Killa let loose the giggle she had been controlling. “The jaws of death, indeed!”
When they came to visit, Donalla was sitting up, propped by pillows, able to move her head and even to raise one limp, wasted hand in greeting.
“I’d hoped to be able to thank you in person, Killashandra Ree,” she said.
Although her voice was low, it was a rich, warm contralto. Killa wondered if the woman was actually musically inclined and might have come out of Transition as a singer.
“Why? We Fuertans have to stick together in this alien environment,” Killashandra replied genially, appropriating one of the guest chairs while Lars took the other.
Two days had improved Donalla Fiske-Ulass considerably. Her face had lost its gaunt, wasted look; her hazel eyes had gained a sparkle, her skin a healthier color; her lips were pink and less pinched. In fact, from a death’s-head she was quickly turning into a rather attractive woman. Perhaps even pretty, and Killa shot a glance at Lars, who, as he had often told her, liked to look—only look—at pretty women. “Easier on the eyes than ugly ones.” But there was nothing in his expression other than attentive concern and interest.
Donalla dropped her eyelids, covering either embarrassment or confusion.
“I didn’t even know about the Heptite Guild until Hendra mentioned it, and you.”
Killa shrugged. “Why should you?”
“It would have saved me a great deal of stress if I had known more about Fuertan notables.”
Killa snorted just as Lars said, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “And here you always gave me the impression you were a renegade, Killa!”
“I suppose in time even renegades become respectable,” Killa said diffidently. But she was irritated: she couldn’t remember any details of her departure from Fuerte. Except that she had been very glad to go. Perhaps it was just as well that she had forgotten the circumstances. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to remember. Being a crystal singer made that easy enough.
“You told me that you almost didn’t make it off the planet with Carrik,” Lars said. He turned to Donalla. “Were you given the usual misinformation that crystal singers are wicked, dangerous, eager to entice the unwary into their lairs, corrupting the innocent?”
Donalla gave a little smile, her eyes glinting slightly. “No, but then my informant was a relative, as much of a renegade as I guess you were, Killashandra. She thought you were daring and adventurous. She was thrilled with the chance to meet you, you know.”
“Really?” Killashandra was amused. That hadn’t come across in Hendra’s brief conversation with her, but they had had other priorities at the time. “Certainly I managed to escape Fuerte.”
“It’s changed since you were there,” Donalla said loyally.
“It would have had to,” Killa said dryly. She changed the subject. “Presnol tells me you’re over the worst of the Transition.”
Donalla managed another of her semi-smiles. “I’m unaware of any Transition …”
“That’s it exactly,” Killa said, rather pleased. “The symbiont was kind to you. You won’t be bedridden much longer.”
“I’m deeply grateful for that, I assure you. I just wish that I’d been allowed here earlier when the extent of my paralysis was appreciated.”
“Just like Fuertans to resist the inevitable,” Killa said.
“My parents only wanted the best for me,” Donalla said.
Lars rose then. “Let’s not tire her, Killa.”
“I’ve a lot of catching up to do.”
“We have, too,” Lars said cryptically, guiding Killashandra out of the room.
“What did you mean by that?” she asked him when they were walking down the corridor.
He said nothing, pretending to concentrate on the Met reports as he guided her down the corridor to the lifts to the administrative level. When she realized that their destination was Lanzecki’s office, she tried to pull away from him.
“Oh, no! I’m not falling for one of Lanzecki’s deals. And you’re daft if you let him talk you into anything. We’re in good credit, Lars. We can coast for a while. What we need to do is get out in the Ranges again. We’ve hung about far too long.”
“We don’t have to worry about Lanzecki,” Lars said in a tight voice. “He’s not involved, Killa. Come in, please.”
She couldn’t withstand the entreaty in his voice; she entered the anteroom warily, looking about her.
Trag’s desk was empty. Killashandra frowned, realizing vaguely that she wouldn’t have seen Trag anyway. Splinters of recall suggested that there had been someone else, someone she didn’t like. Lars had his hand on her back now and was propelling her into the office. It was empty. She looked about, wondering where Lanzecki had gone. Lars released her and, striding around the desk, sat down in the Guild Master’s big chair.
“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 around 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 on 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 there. 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 gotten 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 of
fice!
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 had 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 farther 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 search.
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—”
Crystal Universe - [Crystal Singer 03] - Crystal Line Page 12