Crystal Universe - [Crystal Singer 03] - Crystal Line

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Did you get enough blacks in?” Killa asked Lars the first time she saw him after she began to pull out of the traumatic exhaustion.

  “Enough to reduce the clamor a few decibels, Sunny.” He bent to kiss her cheek and then pinched it, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “The ones we cut together were the best.”

  “Naturally,” she said with a flash of her usual arrogance.

  “Seen the figures on that octave?” he asked.

  “One of my first conscious acts.” She leaned into the fingers that stroked her cheek. “I’ve a bird to pluck with you. You gave me part of those you brought in when you went back out by yourself, and that’s not in Rules and Regs. You cut by yourself,” she said, scowling at him but well pleased at his generosity.

  “Ah, but it’s your site. All things being equal, you’d’ve continued cutting with me until the weather turned.”

  “So,” she said, moving her head slightly back from his caresses and eyeing him speculatively, “what is such charity going to cost me?”

  Lars gave a hearty laugh, throwing his head back and tipping the chair away from the bed, balancing it deftly on the back legs. “I wasn’t so much charitable as conscious of my administrative edict that those whose claims were cut without their participation would be awarded a settlement.”

  “I’m an existing and active singer,” she said, outraged. “I’m not—not yet, at any rate …” And she waved her hand in agitated denial toward the section of the Infirmary that cared for the brain-damaged singers.

  “No, of course you’re not. The fact remains that I was compelled by press of orders to obtain black crystal from any viable site,” he said, solemn for a moment. “And you did cut there earlier with me, so it was only just, meet, and fair that you got your share—especially at the current market price of blacks.” He rolled his eyes. “Best ever.”

  “Yes, it was, wasn’t it!” Killa grinned back at him. Blacks always generated top earnings. Their octave had earned her more than she had made in—her mind stumbled over the time factor. Quickly she turned away from such speculations. “Has that octave been processed yet?” She was still annoyed with Donalla and Presnol for not allowing her to access that information. They had kept her restricted to a simple voice-only comunit.

  “Oooh, as fast as it could be shaped and bracketed. The Blackwell Triad drooled when I made it available to them. Eight was what they needed, and eight matched was a plus. Which they paid for.”

  “Too right!”

  “Terasolli installed them.” Lars’s grin turned sour. “Then lost himself so well in Maxim’s Planet I haven’t been able to locate a trace of him. Even with what the pricey establishments on Maxim’s charge, he’s got enough to lose himself for months.”

  “I remember going to Maxim’s once with you,” Killa said, though she could recall no details of the legendary exotic pleasances that the leisure planet offered. Though some singers risked mind and body to cut enough for repeated visits to Maxim’s, she couldn’t recall any desire to do so.

  “Once. No seas, not even lakes, so no sailing.” He cocked her a malicious grin. “Which reminds me. Care to get out of here for a few days’ R and R? You can crew for me.”

  “To get out of here I’d even crew!”

  Counterfeiting irritation at her gibe, he ruffled her hair into snarls and left, whistling a chanty.

  Three days later, when she made her way down to the pier, she was surprised to find Donalla, Presnol, and Clodine already there, carisaks at their feet. She very much resented Lars’s extending his invitation to anyone else, much less these three. She had wanted—expected—only his company on board the Angel. The ship was more than enough rival for his attention. Then she experienced a second, more disjointing shock when she got a good look at the ship moored to the long pier: it was not the Angel she thought she remembered clearly, but a craft some ten or fifteen meters longer. A sloop, but a much bigger one. That somewhat explained the extra hands but did not disperse her disgruntlement.

  Lars arrived before she got past a stiff greeting to the others. He jogged down the pier, grinning broadly at the success of his surprise.

  “She’s great, isn’t she?” he said, his face boyish and more like the Lars she had known than the Guild Master he had become. “This’ll be her maiden voyage. You’re the shakedown crew.”

  Not even Killashandra had the effrontery to blight his pleasure as he shepherded them on board, pointing out the technological improvements and amenities, the spaciousness, the luxury of the several cabins and wardroom, still smelling of varnish, paint, and that indefinable odor of “unused.” There was even space for a body-sleeve-sized radiant bath. Killa lost the edge of her vexation when Lars guided her to the captain’s cabin, genially waving the other three to pick out their own bunks. There would be much more privacy on Angel II—unless, of course, Lars insisted on standing a different watch. Maybe they would have to, for she had no idea how much seamanship the two medics and the Sorter had.

  “Like it, Sunny?” Lars said, tossing his duffel to the wide bunk and gesturing around the beautifully appointed cabin. “The rewards of cutting black!”

  “Must have cost you every bit you made,” she murmured, looking about her appreciatively. “State-of-the-art?”

  “She was when she left the boatyard on Optheria.” Lars slipped his arms about her waist, enfolding her to him and burying his face in her short crisp curls. “Probably still is, though I waited to sail her until I could have my Sunny aboard. No fun for me to sail without you, you know.” He kissed her, then let her go to swing his arms about expansively. “She’s a beaut, isn’t she? Saw her sister ships on Flag Three and I’ve lusted after one like her ever since.”

  “Do the others know how to sail?” she asked, curious and still somewhat resentful.

  “They sailed on the old ship a couple of times,” he admitted casually. “They don’t get seasick, if that’s your worry, and, while this baby should run herself, they know their way about a deck.”

  “Who cooks?” Killa asked, half teasing.

  “Whoever’s off-duty,” he replied gaily, and then hugged her to him. “It’s good to have you back on board, lovey. Real good. Now”—and his manner turned brisk—“let’s get this cruise under way.”

  It turned out to be a very good cruise, especially when Killashandra realized that she was a much more capable sailor than any of the others. And, as usual, she responded automatically, and correctly, to any of Lars’s orders.

  The important things to remember she remembered, she told herself. The rest was chaff, which time would have winnowed out of active memory anyway.

  And, as they anchored every evening in a cove and the ship could be rigged to rouse the crew if its monitors received any critical readings, Lars and she spent their nights together in the captain’s double bunk.

  They fished and ate the panfried catch, sweet and delicate in flavor and flesh. They sailed, or rather Lars did—he would let no one take the helm for very long, even Killa. By the afternoon of the third day out, they encountered some stormy weather. She reveled in it, for it brought back to mind flashes of other storms she had experienced on ships with Lars. It was four days before the pressures of the Guild had to be considered. Lars tried to settle one set of problems that were patched through to him, but since he had no assistant to handle matters during an absence, they regretfully had to turn back.

  “I thought you were going to find yourself an aide,” Killa said, unhappy at having the halcyon trip truncated.

  “I’ve been trying to find the right personality for the past seven years, Sunny. Isn’t easy to find anyone suitable. Oh, there’ve been a couple of recruits who had some potential, passable as temporaries, but none who had the breadth of experience to be effective executives. I need someone who knows and understands Guild tenets, has or could cut crystal, has managerial skills without being a power freak. Most especially someone I can trust …”

  “Not to usurp your prerogat
ives?” Killa asked facetiously.

  “That, too,” he agreed, grinning at her. “It’s not an easy position to fill. I’ve learned to do as much as I can myself without delegating it to others because, bluntly, singers forget too much.”

  Killa heard that on several levels and winced. His arm came about her, lovingly tucking her against him, and she felt his kiss on the nape of her neck.

  “Worse, they sublimate—Donalla’s word—crystal singing into the most important aspect of their lives, which, in many senses, it has to be. The disadvantage to that is the balance: they end up with such narrow parameters in which they can function that they’re bloody useless for any broader view. They’re either singing or they flee from singing until they can no longer ignore the need for crystal. That sort of myopia compromises a lot of otherwise good people. Life holds more—hey, Sunny, what’s the matter with you?” Killa had stiffened in his arms, and tried to push him away. “Hey, no need to take offense!” He laughed at her and pulled her back into his arms, caressing her until she began to relax. “Silly chunk!”

  She made herself soften in his arms because they were nearly back at the Guild harbor, but whether or not he denied it, she felt that his comments had not been as casual as he pretended. And yet … nothing in the past few days had suggested to her that there had been any other, subtle alteration to their long relationship. Donalla was patently interested in Presnol, and Clodine apparently had a like-for-like preference.

  Then Lars issued the necessary orders to ready the ship for docking, and there was no time for any further conversation. On the one hand, Killa resented that Lars had left her so unsettled with his remarks unclarified, but, on the other, she wanted time to mull over what he had said. If the suit fits, wear it, she thought.

  With utter honesty, she recognized that she was guilty of compressing her personal parameters into just such a narrow track. Had Lars seen that? Was he hoping that his remarks would jolt her out of that myopia? Only how? Something teased at the edge of her mind. Something important. She couldn’t catch so much as a hint.

  She sighed and finished cleaning up the galley and removing the last of the perishable foods. Well, maybe she wasn’t as myopic as some. She sailed, didn’t she? And she could remember seeing more water worlds than any galaxy had the right to offer.

  Sailing had given Lars Dahl some respite from the pressures of his responsibility, but the main one had doubled on him—more black crystal was ordered.

  “I left instructions that no further orders were to be taken,” Lars said, angrily furrowing his brows as he glared at the comscreen. It had been buzzing for his attention the moment he opened the hatch on his private ground vehicle.

  “Guild Master, we never refuse orders for black,” he was told.

  “We can’t fill the orders we’ve got.” Lars leaned out of the open door. “Donalla, you’re going to have to lean on Borella and Rimbol.”

  The names were vaguely familiar to Killashandra.

  “I’ll do what I can, Lars,” Donalla called back to him, but she shrugged as if she was none too sanguine about success.

  “Rimbol? I knew him—I think,” Killashandra said as a hazy image of an ingenuous smile on a boyish face flickered in recall. “And Borella …” The woman’s face was not clear; memory centered on a tall strong body and a badly lacerated leg. “I haven’t seen them in a long time,” she added.

  “You’re not likely to, Sunny,” Lars said kindly. “They both turned off storm warnings once too often.”

  “Oh!” She paused, considering that information. “Then how can Donalla lean on them?”

  Lars had stowed their two duffels; he strapped into his seat, motioning for Killa to do the same, as he prepared to drive back to the Cube.

  “Regression,” he replied succinctly.

  That was the word.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s an old technique of accessing segments of memories lost on purpose or from brain injury. We don’t use but two-fifths of the brains we’ve got. As Donalla explained, some functions can be switched to unused portions of the mind, and often memories get shunted out of active recall. Off and on, there have been fads of regression, usually to former lives.” He chuckled before continuing, an indication of his opinion of such an exercise. “We’re using it to tap memory strings. Donalla’s research on memory loss suggests that we don’t actually lose anything we’ve seen, heard, and felt. The unpleasant we tend to bury as deep as possible, depending on its effect on our psyches. Oddly enough, good memories get dropped just as thoroughly. Through a careful use of hypnosis, Donalla has been able to reclaim lost knowledge.”

  “That’s illegal!” She saw Lars shake his head at her outburst. “Isn’t it?”

  “No, it isn’t. I had that point clarified. We are the custodians of those husks of former singers, and they get the best physical care we can supply. Some of them, under Donalla’s care, have actually been restored as functioning humans.”

  Killa stared at him, aghast. “You can’t possibly put them back in the Ranges!”

  Lars laughed harshly. “I’m not sadistic, Killa, it’s a plus to me if they are able to care for themselves. Some have improved enough to undertake simple duties in the infirmary.”

  “That’s macabre, Lars,” Killa said with a shudder.

  “It’s also expedient. The infirmary is damned near full, and I won’t short anyone on the care they need if they’ve totaled their minds. The other problem is that the Guild is not attracting enough new recruits to make up for those losses …”

  She felt both anger at him and a stirring of terror. She had come all too close to being one of the “totals” herself. “If I’d totaled, would you …”

  His eyes on the ground speeding past them, Lars reached out to grab her hand. “If you were totaled, Killa, you wouldn’t be aware of anything that was happening to you.”

  “But would you subject me to …” She couldn’t continue, horrified at the very idea of someone crawling about her mind without permission, at that ultimate loss of privacy. The painful grip of his fingers increased, jolting her out of such considerations.

  “I told you I didn’t want to be Guild Master. Lanzecki left me with quite a mess to cope with, only when I agreed, I didn’t know the half of it. Full disclosure wasn’t required of him.” Lars’s smile was droll. “But I did have some ideas on how to revitalize the Guild, to reorganize it for efficiency and predictability. I can’t leave so much to the vagaries of the singers and the weather.”

  “Vagaries?” she repeated indignantly. “Vagaries?” His choice of word infuriated her.

  “Yes, singers are permitted far too much leeway—”

  “Too much? When we risk our sanity every time we go into the Ranges?”

  “That’s the most haphazard part of the whole operation,” Lars said scornfully. “Most singers—and you are not in that category, Sunny, so relax and listen up—cut just enough to get off-planet. They leave viable sites long before they need to quit because of an approaching storm. They don’t remember from one time to the next where they’ve profitably cut and waste a lot of time trying to locate old sites or find new ones. This paranoia that keeps a singer from noting coordinates of claims is absurd. It’s easy enough to use codes.”

  “If you can remember it later,” Killa put in.

  “Numbers aren’t that hard to remember,” he said, “and something has to be done to make such invaluable information available to the individual. It’d cut out the guesswork and make every trip into the Ranges far more profitable. Our friend Terasolli’s another example of wasted time. He gets top price to set that octave, and he won’t come back to Ballybran until crystal itch drives him back. That’ll be a year or so—a year or so of unproductivity. That’s got to stop.”

  “Stop?” She sputtered the word in her amazement at his uncompromising attitude.

  “Two, maybe three months, should be respite enough for a singer.”

  “How the fardl
es would you know?” Killa demanded. “You’ve never set black crystal. You don’t know …” She had to stop, she was trembling so badly. “Set this thing down. I’m not going any further with you. I’d rather walk back to the Guild than stay another minute …”

  Lars did set the vehicle down, but he also shoved in the doorlock and swung his back against it so she couldn’t reach it. His face was set and his eyes flashing with anger. He took her by the shoulders.

  “You’ll stay and you’ll listen! If I can persuade a mind as closed as yours against any change in wasteful habits and stupid archaic perks, maybe I have a chance of pulling the Guild out of the hole it’s in.” He gave her a little shake, his fingers digging into the flesh of her upper arms. He ignored her squirming. “I’m trying my damnedest to save this Guild. Its position in communications is no longer as secure as it used to be because people have got tired of waiting for Ballybran crystals and have developed alternatives. Not as good as our crystal but performing much the same functions and … always … available … for replacement …” He spaced the last words for emphasis. “I’ve got nine orders for black crystal I cannot fill because my singers cannot relocate the sites where they’ve found black. So they go wandering about in the Ranges, looking, trying to remember. I want them to remember. I’ve been patient long enough—just as Lanzecki was patient—but there’s an end to patience and I’ve reached it. I’ll do anything I can to supply black crystal, to build up a backlog of the stuff, to reinstate the Guild to its former prominence. And if it means I have to plumb the depths of crazed minds to find out where black crystal is, I will. But it’d be much easier to have a live singer willing, and able, to cooperate with me.”

  His bitter gaze held hers, and she could see his deep anxiety, his frustration, his fears in the dark agony of his clouded eyes. His voice was harsh with desperation.

  “How could I cooperate any more than I have?” she asked in a low voice, shivering internally with fear of what this compliance might do to her.

  “Oh, Sunny …” He embraced her tightly, holding her head under his chin with one hand, stroking her body as if contact would express his gratitude and relief. Then he held her slightly away, her face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with gentle thumbs, looking deep into her eyes. “You know where you cut blacks. It’s there in your memory.” One hand cupped her head tenderly. “We just have to access those memories … it’ll all come back. Donalla says that with the proper clues, you could remember everything …”