Crystal Universe - [Crystal Singer 03] - Crystal Line (15 page)

She snatched an ampoule from the medic’s pack, smashed it against the table, and, to the horrified astonishment of those in the room, deliberately gouged her forearm with a shard of the broken glass. The lacerations were satisfactorily long and bled profusely.

“A monster that heals in minutes,” Killa said, holding out her arm so that all could see how quickly the symbiont worked to stem blood flow and repair tissue. “Sign!” she said to the parents in her most imperious tone. “You’ve got thirty seconds before I leave … without her and her last chance to live.”

It didn’t take Dian Fiske-Ulass that long to reach for the document and scrawl her signature. She held the stylus out to her husband. “What
other
chance has Donalla got?” she cried.

“None,” the medic said firmly, and closed her lips over whatever else she would have added.

With a shrug of angry resignation, the governor took
the stylus and scribbled his name, illegible, but embellished with rather fancy amendments. “There! You’ve taken my only daughter from me.”

“And you’re
governor
of Fuerte?” Killa asked with contempt and then turned to the medic. “Let’s get her aboard the shuttle. The Guild Master sent his personal craft.” She shot a jaundiced look at Fiske-Ulass.

The others trailed after the float, Dian beginning to sob, the governor trying to recover his public image by appearing sternly resolved.

As soon as the pilot saw them in the corridor, he moved forward to take the front end of the float from Killa, who gently took the other position from the medic.

“Give me your code and I’ll let you know the outcome,” she told her.

The medic jerked her head back at the retinue. “They’re all staying on the station until …”

Killashandra snorted. “Our head medic will communicate all details to you. What’s your name?”

The medic gave her a very odd smile. “Hendra Ree.”

“Ree? You’re a relative?” When the medic nodded, her eyes dancing a bit, Killa went on, “So you knew I was here?”

“You’re something of a family legend, and I mentioned you, and Ballybran’s symbiont, to Donalla when her condition disimproved,” the medic told her as they maneuvered the float into the shuttle.

“Legend?” Killashandra asked, surprised, for she hadn’t expected
her
family to remember her at all, considering she had left home in the company of an infamous crystal singer. She strapped in the handles of the float.

“Even in today’s sophisticated tech societies, legends have their place.”

“No, sir, not even in shuttle,” they could hear the pilot saying. “Not unless you want to stay. Shards, the air in here was processed on Ballybran. You’re getting enough just saying your farewells.”

Instantly the governor backed out, restraining his wife from setting foot over the threshold.

The medic gave a little snort, tugged to be sure the straps were secure, and then, in a swift movement, bent to kiss Donalla’s cheek. “Good luck, kid!” she whispered.

Hendra turned slightly as she left the shuttle and gave Killa a good-luck sign and a broad grin. Was that what you did when you met a family legend? Killa wondered.

“Let’s move it,” Killashandra said, belting into her seat as the pilot slipped into the control chair.

As soon as he was released from the satellite dock, he contacted Heptite HQ, telling them to be ready to receive the terminally ill applicant.

The medical team was squeezing through the portal before it was fully dilated. As they angled the float out, Killashandra noticed the tear streaks down the sick girl’s pallid face.

“You’re okay, Donalla?” she asked.

The eyelids closed twice, each time squeezing out tear drops, oddly emphatic in a bizarre fashion.

“I’ll keep in touch, kid!” Killa added as the medical team whisked the girl away to the waiting lift.

Donalla wouldn’t be in the Infirmary, but in one of the candidate rooms until she became infected by the symbiont. Killa hoped that it wouldn’t take long for a body already so weakened and stressed by illness. There was an aura of courage about Donalla that Killa respected, and she hoped that the girl’s stupid, bias-ridden parents hadn’t dallied away her last hope of life.

She nodded her thanks to the pilot and then strode to the nearest comunit, asking for Lars Dahl.

“You got her?”

“Let’s hope in a timely fashion. She’s pretty far gone.”

Lars gave a grunt. “All the easier for the symbiont to get to work—according to Medical.”

“By the way, being Fuertan was no help!” Killa grinned at his look of query. “Except for the medic.”

“That’s right, keep me guessing.”

“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!”

T
hinking 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.”

Obediently Killa followed his lead, although Donalla protested that she enjoyed company—especially now that she could talk again.

“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.”