Crystal Singer (33 page)

“Killashandra Ree? Now how should I know whether she’s on board or not. I don’t know her.”

The calculated indifference to what must have been a courteous query infuriated Killashandra. No wonder Crystal Singers had such bad reputations.

She made her way to the shuttle door, coming to an abrupt halt as her augmented vision was assaulted by the garishly uniformed pair standing to one side of the dock port. On the chests of each man, emblazoned in vivid, iridescent, and unharmonious colors, was a stylized symbol, a planet, two moons ringed by three whirling asteroid belts. The movement, Killashandra decided as she closed her eyes for a moment, must be due to the men’s normal breathing and some special quality of the material.

“I’m Killashandra Ree,” she said politely, but she could almost understand Borella’s curt arrogance. To the more sensitive eyes of an altered human, the Trundimoux uniform was visually unbearable.

“Star Captain Francu of the Trundimoux Navy, at your service, Guild Member Ree.” A stiff gesture introduced his companion. “Senior Lieutenant Engineer Tallaf.”

By narrowing her eyes, Killashandra could filter out the appalling color and appreciate that these were very attractive men, lean as most spacers were, and equally obvious, uncomfortable. Nervous?

The shuttle pilot, his casual coverall a complete contrast to the Trundimoux officers’, emerged from the lock.

“You’re from the Trundy ship? Cargo’s unloaded on the lower deck.”

Killashandra noted Captain Francu’s wince at the nickname and thought that the lieutenant was amused.

“Senior Lieutenant Supercargo Pendel is attending to that matter, Captain . . .”

“Senior Captain Amon, Francu. Pendel has been thoroughly briefed on the crystal?”

Francu stiffened.

“Where’s your ship docked?” Amon continued, looking at his wrist-unit.

“Our cruiser”—and Francu emphasized the type of vessel in such a pompous tone that Killashandra had a presentiment that her voyage companions might be very dull—“is in hyperbolic.”

“Oh, your system did get the 78 then.” Amon replied with such genial condescension that Killashandra nearly laughed aloud. The two officers exchanged startled glances. “Well, you’d hardly have got here so fast in any of your old 59s. Quite a compliment to you, Killa, for them to send their newest.”

To her knowledge, Killashandra had never met Amon, but she didn’t miss the slight wink that accompanied the abbreviated form of her name.

“I don’t think the compliment is to me, Amon”—and she smiled understandingly at the officers—“but rather to the black crystals.”

“You Trundies are lucky to get the quintet,” Amon went on; he, too, had caught Francu’s disapproval of the nickname.

“After all, there is an FSP priority for the Trundimoux system,” Killashandra interjected diplomatically. Amon might be getting some pleasure out of antagonizing Francu, but she was the one who had to travel with the man.

“True,” Amon replied, and smiled affably. “Now, Killa, there are a few details . . .” and he began to shepherd her toward the Guild exit.

“Captain Amon, we were assured that there would be no delays as soon as the Guild—” Francu’s wrist-unit blurted a noise. “Yes? They are? Secured? We’ll be in the cutter—”

“Not until Killashandra has cleared Shankill authority, Captain. If you’ll just wait at—which port is your cutter at?”

“Level 4, port 18.” Francu yielded the information with a look compounded of anger and apprehension. “We
are
hyperbolic.”

“This won’t take long.”

Amon hustled her through the Guild door, and she smiled back reassuringly at the startled officers.

“What’s all this nonsense about?” she demanded, breaking Amon’s grip as the panel slid behind them. “If they’re on hyperbolic, we’ve only so much time to catch up with their cruiser.”

“Over here!” He grabbed her hand again and pulled her into a side room. The odors of food that assailed her aroused an instant appetite. She groaned.

“Eat!” Amon exhorted her. “You’ve got to cram as much as you can into your belly.” He shoved some pepper fingers into her mouth. “You won’t get a chance to eat while that cruiser is on interplanetary drive. Those 78s don’t carry luxuries like catering devices, and the mess will be closed while they build speed. You’d starve. I got the ship to fix up a necessaries kit for you. I know the Trundies have females on board, but it isn’t right for a Singer to wear their uniforms. Your eyes’d bleed. There’re lenses in this kit to filter the color intensities to the bearable level.” Amon rattled through the inventory as he checked the items in the small bag. “Not much variety in clothing but good quality. I’ll put in some of this food, too. We really have to hop if they’re on hyperbolic. Bells and bollux, they must be separating some expensive rocks in their asteroid belts if they could buy a 78.” He whistled. “I saw the length of the drone string they brought. However, if they traded with the Guild, I know who came out best. Here, try these nut meats. Heard you liked Yarran beer. Have a gulp to wash the meats down. Good. Now, another word of advice. Play Crystal Singer to the hilt with those belt knockers. That captain’s a bad print, and I’ve seen enough to know. Eat! I can’t hold you up much longer.” He was covering the remaining uneaten dishes and stowing them in the kit. His wrist-unit bleeped. “Yes? Yes, I know. Mere formalities? Fardles, she was starving to death, shafthead. It is rising Passover and you know cruisers. We’ll be off in a pico.” Amon slung her kit bag over her shoulder, thrust a bowl of small crispy fried squares in one hand, took up another dish and her beer in the other. “You can eat as we go, but Francu’s cutting up stiff with Authority about the delay. Bells and bollux! Did anyone remember to warn you about the sleepies?” Amon was guiding her down the corridor to the peripheral lifts.

“Antona mentioned them. I’ve instructions and a stimulant.”

“I put a strip of pink tablets in your stuff. Bollux! And you’ve only just been in the ranges. It just isn’t fair on you, you know.”

“Trag trained me on installations.”

“
Trag?
Oh, Lanzecki’s shadow,” and Amon appeared impressed. “It’s not so much what you have to do as where and with what. The Trundies being a prime example of Problem. Here we go. Take a deep breath, girl, and you’re on stage as Heptite Guild Member from now on. Good luck!”

Amon whipped the dish from her hand as she faced the door panel, motioned for her to wipe her mouth, and then the door slid apart.

Killashandra blinked as the raucous colors on the stiffly attentive escort of six men half blinded her. The haste with which she was then propelled into the cutter was indicative of the tension she sensed in the atmosphere. She barely had time to mumble thanks to Amon before the cutter airlock closed. Killashandra nearly fell over the crystal container, cross-tied in the center of the narrow aisle. She noticed the familiar Heptite dodecahedron and the rather astonishing large Trundimoux symbol. Even the stamp radiated offensive color. The captain indicated the seat she should take, and the lieutenant tested her seat webbing.

Rather to her surprise, the captain took the control seat, Tallaf sitting second in the traditional left-hand place. The release formalities were completed with Shankill Authority, and the lock coupling to the cutter was released.

Francu was a competent driver, but Killashandra had the distinct notion that cruiser captains rarely lifted lowly cutters from moon bases. Or was this a Trundie tradition? She must NOT fall into the habit of their nickname.

The cutter was equipped with external video cameras, so Killashandra rather enjoyed the spectacular views of Ballybran, little Shilmore, and the dazzling array of small and large merchant craft attached to the locks of the base or in synchronous orbit. Probably everyone was getting in for what crystal was available before Passover. She wondered if Andurs’s ship was in a berth. As the cutter wended its way through the orbiting traffic, she didn’t see
Rag Delta Blue Swan.

The cruiser became visible early in the short trip. It was planet lit on its long axis, which made it seem larger. She had half expected it to be decorated in wild patterns, but the hull was the usual space orange. The drones tethered to it were much patched and dented. As the cutter was matching speed for contact, she could not judge the cruiser’s forward motion, but it had that inevitable, inexorable,
military
look—“I am going in this direction, and nothing is stopping me.” Which, Killashandra mused, was fair enough since the vessel was traveling on a hyperbolic trajectory utilizing the gravitational pull of whatever suns or planets that deflected it.

The captain made a clean insertion into the cruiser’s dock, and a moment later the airlock bumped gently against the hull. The crewmen jumped to their feet. The captain, with Tallaf a half step behind, stopped abruptly at Killashandra’s seat. Hastily, she unbuckled her webbing, realizing that she was holding up the landing drill.

With a hiss, the hatch swung open, and an incredibly high pitched whine pierced her skull. The noise stopped as quickly as it had started. Outside, two rows of stiffly attentive men formed an aisle from the cutter to a larger hatch. There, more officers, including two whose outlines were female, awaited her.

A snap and scuff behind her, and from the corner of her eye, Killashandra saw crewmen lifting the crystal container. She felt another twinge of apprehension about this assignment. Even if getting off-planet during Passover was vital to her, was this fuss and formality the right environment?

She took a deep breath and moved forward, head high, and stepped on to the cruiser’s deck with the dignity of a reigning queen of ancient times.

The two female subordinate officers, Tic and Tac, for she never could get them to repeat their proper names above a mumble, escorted her to quarters, which made her student’s cubicle at the Music Center seem spacious. However, she told herself firmly as she was shown the ingenious disposition of the tiny cabin’s conveniences, that Ballybran had given her delusions of grandeur. The cramped accommodation would deflate her sense of self-importance to a manageable level. Tic and Tac demonstrated how the bunk could be converted to a table, where the jug of water—one per cabin—was stored, the panel behind which the tri-d was located and the ship’s library code; they reminded her five times about water rationing. A toilet facility was cleverly tucked away but easily located by the chemical odor.

The hum of crystal through the deck plates gave Killashandra a chance to suggest that they must have flight duties. She wanted to place the lenses in her aching eyes to tone down the revolting color around her. Also, in the close confines of the room, the odors of her unfinished meal were apparent to her, if not to them, and she wasn’t about to share. The few mouthfuls she’d been able to bolt on Shankill had only sharpened her appetite.

Tic and Tac did respond to another ear-piercing sound, promising to return to satisfy her smallest wish, once full drive had been established.

Closing the cabin door with one hand and kicking down the bunk were simultaneously possible in her new accommodations. As Killashandra stoked her symbiont’s craving, she read the instructions on the lenses, pausing long enough in her eating to slip them over her irises. The demonic shades of the cabin settled into a bland wash. Ballybran had looked so dull to her at first! She finished the food Amon had packed, then tried to calculate how long it would be before her next meal.

She felt the drive taking hold, but the crystals were well tuned and caused her no twinges. She could do nothing more at this stage of the cruiser’s journey, so she made herself as comfortable as possible on the narrow bunk and fell asleep.

Another ear-shattering whine brought her bolt upright on the bunk and very wide awake. Would there be any way for her to block that dreadful noise in her quarters?

“Journey speed achieved. Cruising drill is effective as of—now! All officers to the mess. Will Guild Member Killashandra Ree do us the honor of joining the assembly?”

She would also have to do something about receiving such ship-wide announcements.

“Guild Member Ree? Are you in hearing?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the Guild Member replied, hastily depressing the toggle so quaintly placed at eye level by her bunk. “Honored to join the officers’ mess.”

She emptied the carisak on the bed, sorted through the tunics and caftans, found the “sleepy” pills Amon had mentioned, and secured them in the arm pocket of her coverall. Then she changed into the more elaborately decorated caftan and was wondering where the officers’ mess would be located on a 78 when a brief rap on her door was followed by its being opened by Tic or Tac.

“Privacy, sub, privacy. Never open my door until I have acknowledged.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am, sorry, ma’am, I mean—” The girl had recoiled at Killashandra’s severity.

“Isn’t there a Privacy light on this cabin?” Killashandra could not contemplate easy access to her quarters with any equanimity either as a Fuertan or a Guild Member.

“No light, ma’am. This is an official vessel.” The subordinate officer regarded her with anxious trepidation.

“Yes, of the Trundimoux system. But I am of the Heptite Guild and expect the courtesy of Privacy wherever I am.”

“I’ll pass the word, ma’am. None of us will forget.”

Killashandra did not doubt that, but she must contrive the same respect from the officers. Francu would be no threat, but Tallaf . . . As Killashandra followed Tic to the officers’ mess, she decided that she would retrieve a deck plan from the library as soon as she had the opportunity. The cruiser was obviously being refitted to Trundimoux requirements en route, for work parties were busy at various corridors and levels, all pausing to inspect her as she passed.

The officers’ mess might have been a pleasant room but was poorly furnished, its walls hung with diagrams and hard-copy, suggesting that it served a dual purpose. Francu formally introduced her to the numerous officers, some of whom immediately excused themselves to take up their watch duties. Those who remained were served a tiny cup of an inferior wine that the captain enjoined them to take to the mess table.