Killashandra (29 page)

“Both. On Fuerte for lack of aggression, and on Ballybran because everyone’s too busy in the Ranges cutting crystal. We know our place and are secure in it,” she paraphrased, mimicking Ampris’s voice. “Lars, how are we going to fuse the monitors at the Conservatory? They’ll have installed them, I know.”

“You could always throw another tantrum.”

“No thank you. Fits of temper are exhausting.”

“Oh, is that truly why you’re tired today?”

“Pleasure never tires me. Now let’s eat and dress. I’ve just been attacked by a case of circumspection.”

A few minutes later they emerged onto the reception floor with no further delays. An officer immediately leaped to his feet at their arrival, stammering queries about Killashandra’s rest, apologies for any inconvenience caused by the power failure, and obsequiously requesting Killashandra and Captain Dahl to join the Harbor Master and Elder Torkes in the communications room.

Olav Dahl looked tired but there was a merriment in his eyes as he asked if all her needs had been satisfied. She reassured him, then turned to Torkes and affected surprise at his evident fatigue, fussing at him graciously.

“If the Guildmember is agreeable, I should like to depart immediately,” Torkes replied, when the amenities were completed. He eyed her as if he expected her to demur.

“I left unfinished—even unstarted, to be totally candid—” she said, “the task which brought me to Optheria. I am more eager than you can imagine to complete the organ’s repair and depart. I’m sure we will all feel relieved when I’m safely homebound.”

Patently Elder Torkes could not be more in agreement, although he kept throwing skeptical glances at Killashandra as he made his farewells to Olav Dahl. Lars kept in the background. Meanwhile sailors in Council uniform had formed up into a guard of honor all the way from the Residence down to the pier where the cruiser’s boat awaited its distinguished passengers.

Just as she reached the top of the steps, Killashandra looked up at the terraces, at the polly trees, the dwellings, at the old volcano on the Head, at the fishing skiffs serenely clearing the harbor, and she didn’t want to leave Angel Island. Someone touched her arm and there was Olav with two garlands in his hand.

“Indulge me in an island custom, Guildmember.” He draped the fragrant blossoms about her neck. Killashandra had just recognized the blooms as those with which Lars had handfasted her, when she saw Olav bestow one on his son. “Discharge your duties assiduously to the protection of the Guildmember’s person, my son, and return to us only when you have seen her safely to the shuttle port!”

Before Killashandra could say anything in acknowledgment, Olav had stepped back. So, she could only smile her gratitude for his vote of confidence and proceed to the waiting boat. Impatiently she brushed aside the tears in her eyes before anyone could notice, and took a seat under the awning amidships. She was not surprised when Lars did not elect to join her for she could well imagine that he had been equally astonished by Olav’s farewell.

She sat staring at the squat bulk of the cruiser, and
liked it less the nearer she got to it. Nor did her opinion change during the three-day voyage back to the City. The Captain, a dour man named Festinel, was waiting at the top of the gangplank and escorted her himself to her cabin, explaining that her bodyguard would be quartered in the next cubicle, within hearing distance. She did not groan but saw this trip would be a repetition of the Trundomoux voyage. Well, she had survived that, too. Lars came along the companionway at that point and was greeted almost effusively by Captain Festinel.

During the evening meal, it was apparent from Festinel’s deference to Lars that the man had been impressed by the islander’s seamanship, or rather, the false account of his rescue of Killashandra from the dangerously positioned islet of exile. Killashandra added only her physical presence to the officers’ mess. She was tired. She could feel muted crystal resonance in her body, though it was insufficient to raise the hair on those nearby. She was pleasant when addressed but limited her answers, contenting herself with enigmatic smiles. Elder Torkes kept shooting her wary, surreptitious glances but did not engage her in conversation. Which satisfied her. Keep him guessing about her, and off balance. Only how were she and Lars to have any sort of normal relationship if her quarters in the Conservatory were monitored?

On the crowded cruiser there was no way for them to have a private word or even the chance of a caress. Abstinence after the feast did nothing for her temper. So, preoccupied, she didn’t notice the subliminal whine until the second evening, when she twitched all through dinner, rubbing at her neck and ear. Something was wrong.

“Your’re very unsettled tonight, Guildmember,” Lars said finally, having endured her contortions throughout dinner. He spoke quietly, for her ears only, but his voice carried.

“Nerves—No, it’s not nerves. Does this cruiser use a crystal drive?” She spoke in a loud, accusing tone, looking to Captain Festinel for her answer.

“It does, Guildmember, and I regret to inform you that we are experiencing some difficulty with it.”

“It urgently needs to be retuned. As soon as you’re in port. The way it sounds right now, it’ll be broadcasting secondary sonics by morning.”

“The engineer has been monitoring an uneven drive thrust but it should see us safely to the Mainland.”

“You have reduced speed?”

“Of course, Crystal Singer, the moment the instrumentation recorded resonance.”

“What is the matter with the cruiser?” Elder Torkes asked, only then aware of the nature of the discussion.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Killashandra said curtly, without glancing in his direction, for she was rubbing that side of her neck. She felt Lars stiffen beside her, and heard the tiny intake of her left-hand partner’s breath. “I hope.” She rose. “The whine is subsonic but highly irritating. Good evening, gentlemen.”

Lars followed her and for a miracle they were alone in the companionway as he escorted her to her cramped quarters.

“Is it monitored?” she asked him in a low voice. He nodded.

“Do you require any medication to sleep, Guildmember?”

“Yes, if you can find some polly wine, Captain.”

“The steward will bring a decanter to your quarters.”

With a bottle of that inside her, Killashandra slept in spite of the increasingly audible distortion. The next morning, the noise was almost audible. Even Lars was affected. She was relieved when Captain Festinel requested her presence on the bridge. And concerned when she was shown the drive print-out. Festinel and his engineering officer were justifiably concerned.

“We were due for an overhaul when this emergency came up, Guildmember. The Broad Sea had more turbulence than we had anticipated, putting a strain on the compensators as well as the stabilizers, especially at speed.” The Captain was flatteringly deferential so Killashandra nodded as he made his points, and frowned wisely at the print-out as if she knew what she was seeing. Fortunately the bridge was buffered against crystal noise as the rest of the ship was not, giving her a respite from the sound. Until she put her hand on the bulkhead and felt it coursing through the metal.

“The drive is losing efficiency,” Killashandra said, recalling the phrases which Carrik had used at the shuttle port on Fuerte, and obscurely pleased with herself that her memory remained lucid for that period, now so completely divorced from her present life.

“Frankly, I’d prefer heaving to and having a good look at the crystal drive, but our orders are to proceed with all possible speed to the Mainland.” The Captain shrugged and sighed.

Killashandra decided against reassuring him. The drive was souring: she didn’t need the printouts to tell her that. But she had only the one experience on which to base an opinion and had no intention of ruining the image she had projected by a bad guess.

Then Captain Festinel asked hesitantly, “Do you really
hear
crystal resonance?”

Killashandra was aware of the expectant hush in the bridge as junior and senior officers, not to mention Lars at her side, waited for her reply.

“Yes, indeed. Like a dull ache from my earbones to my heels. If it were any louder, you’d find me asking for a life raft!”

“We know so little about your profession …”

“It is one like any other, Captain, with its dangers, its rewards, an apprenticeship to pass, and then years
of refining one’s skills.” Killashandra was conscious, as she spoke, of one set of ears listening more keenly than others. She dared not look at Lars. “One facet of my training was retuning soured crystals.” She made a rueful grimace. “Not my favorite occupation.”

“Are there any prerequisites for the profession?” the older engineer asked, as he looked up from the printout.

“Perfect and absolute pitch is the one essential.”

“Why?” Lars asked, surprised by that unexpected condition.

“We’re called crystal singers because we must tune our subsonic cutters to the dominant pitch of the crystal we cut from the ranges. A dangerous and exhausting task.” She held out her hands so that all could see the fine white scars that crisscrossed the skin.

“I was told,” Lars said in an amused drawl, “that crystal singers have amazing recuperative powers.”

“That is quite true. Crystal resonance apparently slows the degenerative processes and accelerates the regenerative. Crystal singers retain their youthful appearance well into the third century.”

“How old are you, Guildmember?” a brash young voice asked.

Frowning, the Captain turned about to seek the source of such insolence but Killashandra laughed. “I am a relatively new member of the Heptite Guild, and in my third decade.”

“Are you able to travel anywhere you wish?” Did she detect a note of yearning?

“All crystal singers travel,” she said with commendable restraint and then realized that her statement was hardly politic on Optheria. She had shown few examples of the tact for which Trag had chosen her. “But we always return to Ballybran,” and she tried to make it sound as if going home was more desirable than traveling
far away. No sense in arousing hopes on Optheria, especially in the presence of the cruiser’s senior officers. “Once a crystal singer, always a crystal singer!”

In the same instant the printer extruded an impatient sheet, Killashandra felt a stab of crystal shock travel painfully from her heelbone to her ears.

“Kill the drive,” she shouted as the Captain was issuing the command.

Breathless from the unexpected peaking, Killashandra sagged against Lars. “Congratulations,” she said, hoping the sarcasm would hide the pain in her bones, “you have just lost one of your crystals. What are they? Blues?”

“Greens,” the Captain replied with some pride, “but the same crystals since the cruiser was commissioned.”

“And Optheria will spring credit for organ crystals with considerably more alacrity than for plebian greens, huh?” Festinel nodded solemn affirmation. “Engineer, I request permission to inspect the crystal drive with you. My apprenticeship in tuning crystals may be of some use here.”

“Honored, Guildmember.” He strode to the comunit. “Damage report!”

“Sir,” came the disembodied voice from the bowels of the cruiser, “casing blown, foam applied, no injuries.”

“As you were!”

An acrid stench, a combination of odors arising from the intense heat on the crystal casing and on the foam, was still being exhausted by fans when Killashandra, Engineering Officer Fernock, and Lars reached the drive deck. The captain had hurried to inform Elder Torkes of the delay. Killashandra winced as she caught residual echoes from the other crystals of the drive. Or perhaps more than one element had blown. That could happen.

Fernock quickly directed his men to sweep up the now hardened foam and remove the cover. The durametal had been fractured by the explosion and came off in pieces.

“See if stores have a replacement.” Fernock’s expression suggested this was unlikely. “I’d not want to drive unshielded crystal.”

“There’d be no problem so long as the remaining brackets are secure,” Killashandra said, reasonably sure that she was correct. After all, there was no shield at all around black crystal. And they generated far more power than greens.

Suction was used to clean foam from the intact blocks but both Killashandra and Fernock warned the seaman to stay away from the fragmented shaft.

“Bracketing came adrift,” Killashandra announced, remembering her manners enough to look to Fernock for confirmation.

“You’re right. See, here?” Fernock pointed to the lopsided bracket at the green’s base. “Now how could that happen?”

“You said the seas were turbulent. And that you were overdue an overhaul. Doubtless the discrepancy would have been seen and corrected. No fault of yours, Officer Fernock.”

“I appreciate that.”

“All right, then …” Killashandra squatted by the drive, reached for the shattered green crystal.

“What are you about, Guildmember?” Fernock grabbed her wrist and Lars moved forward.

“Well, until this crystal is moved, we won’t.” And she again reached for the crystal.

“But you’ve no gloves and crystal—”

“Cuts clean and heals quickly. For me. Allow me, Fernock.”

The man continued to protest, but he made no further
attempt to stop her. The first splinter did not cut her. Fortunately the broken bracket also made it easier for her to lift out the pieces. She pointed to a metal oil-slop pail and when it was fetched, she laid the crystal in it. She removed the remaining portions with only one slice, when the final fragment resisted her initial pull. She held up her bleeding hand.

“Behold, before your marveling eyes, the incredible recuperative powers of the crystal singer. One of my professions’ few advantages.”

“What is another?” Lars asked.

“The credit!” She reached for the suction device. “This won’t be good for anything, and
no one
is to touch it on its way to the disposal unit.” She depressed the toggle and made sure that the few loose slivers were cleared. “I’ll check all the brackets to be sure none are loose. More problems are caused by faulty bracketing than anything else.”