Crystal Universe - [Crystal Singer 03] - Crystal Line (36 page)

“Where?”

He shook his head more vigorously, but there were tears falling down his cheeks and he couldn’t control the trembling of his mouth.

“Keep me informed,” she said, amazed that she could sound so calm, that she wasn’t raging at how abruptly her life had been shattered once again. She palmed the lights up and sat there a long, long time, her mind going in tight circles. B&B ships were very sophisticated vessels.
Courier ships were the best of the B&Bs. Both brains and brawn could be expected to function under the most adverse conditions and survive against incredible odds. Singularity Jump disasters were few, but they could happen. Brendan had mentioned, in passing, that, while he was equipped to handle thousands of minute calculations during a Jump, he had several back-up, worst-scenario corrective capabilities. Furthermore, and she began to revive from the shocking news, every B&B ship, every naval vessel, every liner, every tanker, freighter, private yacht anywhere in the sector where the courier ship had been lost would be looking for it. If a Singularity disaster had to happen to a ship, then a courier B&B was the most likely one to survive.

She forced her mind to hang on to that thought and found something to wear. She went to the Guild Master’s office and palmed up all the lights. She sat down in the conformchair, brought up the comsystem, and accessed Shanganagh Port Authority.

“Deputy Guild Master Ree, here,” she said in an even tone. “Keep me informed on any developments of the—”

“Yes, of course, Deputy Ree. We’ve initiated emergency proceedings and requested all naval, mercantile, and private spaceships to forward all messages.”

“By crystal coms, I trust,” she said, mildly surprised that she could be droll at a time like this. A time like this was when a bit of drollery kept you sane, she amended.

“Yes, yes, of course, Deputy. The blacks we have here will pick up whispers in the farthest sectors of inhabited space.”

“I think we’ll have to find crystal that operates in Singularity space.”

“Nothing works in decomposition space, Deputy.”

She wondered if Jewel Junk would.

“We’ll keep you informed, Deputy.”

Deputy! Had she the right to use that title? Well, why not? Lars had appointed her, hadn’t he? She was a better deputy than Presnol would be. She was a singer, a sometime diplomat, spy … she grinned sadly to herself. Then she pulled the multiholo base to her and called up the earliest ’gram it had stored. What appeared was the holo of herself, sun-bleached hair, the garlands Olav had given her the morning they left Angel about her neck, accenting the color of the lovely gown of Teradia’s making. When had Lars taken that? But he had—for here it was.

She sat there, looking at the holo, remembering all that had happened before and after it had been taken. She jumped when someone rapped at the door.

“I’ve only just been informed, Killa,” Donalla said. “Is there
anything
I can do?”

“Yes, there is,” Killashandra said, adopting a brisk tone. She had idled away enough time in private meditations. “Would you dial me some breakfast? I haven’t had time with so much to put in motion.”

“Put in motion?” Donalla stared at her.

“Yes, I must implement the plans Lars made.” She gestured at the neat piles of pencil files. “It’ll take my mind off the waiting.”

“Oh! Then you think there’s hope that—”

“There’s always hope, Donalla, but I think Lars would prefer it if I didn’t sit about moping like a fool, don’t you?”

She had her breakfast and then arranged appointments with the Hangar-bound singers she had talked to the previous evening. Since everyone was dazed by the news that had swept through the Cube, she obtained more agreement than argument and sent seventeen of the eighteen off with three sets of coordinates each and
a mission to cut where possible—for some claims were likely to be unworkable—and return as soon as they had collected at least a carton of back-ordered colors. She didn’t want to see a single shaft of pink or any of the pale blues and greens. Darks, and blacks, whenever possible.

She managed to bury herself so deeply in revitalizing the Orientation program that she was astonished to hear multiple sleds leaving the Hangar: she had worked through the night! She allowed herself four hours’ sleep and then was back at the desk, going back over Guild affairs of the past decade.

By the fifth day, she had digested every current file and reviewed older ones on merchandising and research and development so that she was fully up-to-date on Guild business. She had talked four more singers into foraging by coordinates and seen eight of the original seventeen back in with viable crystal cuts, all dark. She encouraged the happy singers to stay overnight, have a good meal, relax with their peers, and talk about how easy it was to work known coordinates.

Each day she allowed herself a glimpse of a new hologram from Lars’s incredible collection. With each new ’gram, she accessed the memories of that excursion, as fresh in her mind now as when she and Lars had lived those lovely moments. She could never be grateful enough to Big Hungry Junk for restoring the memories that allowed her to continue living. When she was dead, too, there would be no one to remember Lars Dahl as vividly as she could now. And that would be a real pity.

The restoration of memory brought with it a desire not to lose it again. She would eventually have to go out into the Ranges and cut crystal, but she did not want to jeopardize the reinstatement of so much valuable information. She had a long chat one day with the
meteorologists and then asked Presnol and Donalla to have dinner with her.

“It’s like this,” she began when they were on their cheese and beer. “The Met guys tell me that Ballybran storms are apt to produce more electricity in the air than storms on other planets. Is it possible that an overload of such electrical discharges could affect singers’ minds? I mean, most of us
wait
until the last possible moment before leaving the Ranges. Is that why we tend to forget between trips? The electricity has somehow affected our circuits?”

“It
is
a possibility, isn’t it?” Donalla said, looking to Presnol.

He mulled it over. “I think we could profitably check memory retention on, say, those singers who are working coordinates regularly, and those who prospect right up until a storm drives them out of the Ranges. See if we can get any relevant data. We could also check just how much electricity is discharged into the atmosphere—sort of a continuous measurement. I’m sure we could find instrumentation to register that sort of emission. Hmm, rather interesting. But what good would it do?”

“If we can prove any correlation between the intensity of a particular storm and memory loss, all the more reason for us to teach the next candidates to come in at the first warning,” Killa said. “Or, if we can manage it, keep them all on coordinate mining.”

“That would be quite a departure from tradition,” Presnol said, clearing his throat. He had been on Ballybran a lot longer than Donalla.

“That’s exactly the attitude that needs changing, Presnol,” Killa said. “The Guild needs to alter a lot of its thinking and its ‘traditions’ ”—and she imbued that word with disgust—“if it wants to improve. And keep singers active and productive.”

“Let’s see what we can discover, Pres,” Donalla said, smiling winningly at her lover. She gave Killa a wink that suggested the matter could be left safely in the medics’ hands now.

The fourth week brought the first of the recruits from Lars’s ill-fated journey. Forty-four young, eager persons trained in a variety of skills, and fifteen others with the perfect pitch required for crystal singers. That was more than had applied to the Guild in several years. There were two more groups scheduled to arrive over the next weeks, but once the first group had been processed, Killashandra ordered them right down to Ballybran. She would take the first Orientation sessions herself. She would show them the way to go, to be successful singers. They, and others like them, would revitalize the Guild—in Lars’s memory.

The Council, composed of the heads of departments of the Heptite Guild on Ballybran, were becoming more insistent that she formally accept the position of Guild Master, but she resisted. Acceptance meant, in her lexicon, that she had accepted Lars’s death, and she couldn’t. She still didn’t
want
to be Guild Master, no matter how many people told her she had taken command as if she had trained all her life to assume the rank. What she
could
do was implement Lars’s plans and have the Guild operating efficiently again.

When Donalla insisted she take a break from the console before her eyes turned square, she would go down to the
Angel II
in its big shed. She felt close to Lars there and could dwell on the memories of their many sea voyages together. Oh, how she longed to sail with him just one more time! She grieved over her acrimonious griping about his love for the sea, her perverse opposition to his choice of water planets for their holidays.
She had been unkind, and ungrateful, to insist on her turn at choosing a vacation place, when she knew how much the sea and sailing meant to him.

She had just returned from another maudlin review of her shortcomings, foibles, and limitations and listlessly entered the office that now felt more hers than Lars’s. She was wondering which chore she could use to occupy her mind until fatigue pushed her into sleep when the comunit beeped.

“Now what?” she demanded, irritated to have duties press in on her so quickly.

“Patching through” was the excited comment, and then there was an intolerable rasping, squeaking, high-pitched blast.

“Sunny?”

“Lars!”
His name came out of her mouth in a scream. There was no one else in the Galaxy who called her “Sunny” and no voice with quite the same timbre as his. “You’re alive?”

“Kicking, too.”

“Turn on the vision, Lars. I’ve got to
see
you!” Tears streamed down her face, and she had to grip the edge of the desk to keep on her feet. But the voice, the words: it had to be Lars.

His chuckle reassured her again. “Not on your life, Sunny, or mine. Overimmersion in radiant fluid produces curious effects on skin and muscle, but it saved the lives of me and the ship’s brawn. They say that we’ll look human again soon, but I’ve my doubts. Brendan and Boira found us. That pair refused to give up. Praise be to Muhlah! We’re all safe, though the courier ship’ll need a new shell—no, that’s wrong way round—the shell person will need a new ship; hers got Singularly twisted.”

She didn’t care
what
he looked like: he sounded like
himself and that was what counted. “But you’re alive!”

“I repeat, I am alive! I even survived the Singularity Jump we just made.” His voice quavered briefly. “Had to, according to Boira. And I suppose I’ll have to again, but not soon! Not soon!” He sighed gustily.

“Where
are
you?”

He chuckled again, teasing her. “Estimated time of arrival at Shankill Base is four hours!”

“Four
hours!
” She was shrieking again. How could she wait that long to set eyes on him! To hold him to her, to feel his arms about her. “Oh, Lars love …”

“What did you call me, Sunny?” His voice was tender with surprise.

She swallowed. “I called you ‘Lars love,’ ” she said almost defiantly.

“D’you know,” he said, and his laugh was tentative, “you’ve never called me ‘love’ before.”

“I’ll remember to call you that every other breath—Lars love. I’ve had a lot of time to remember things, while you’ve been—away.” Her voice broke slightly, and she hastily cleared her throat. “I remember all the love you’ve given me,” she went on, determined to say what had become so imperative he know. “I’ve remembered so much, Lars love, especially that I have always been in love with you, in spite of the way I treated you!”

“It’s almost worth nearly dying to hear you say that, Killashandra Ree.” He sounded stronger now, almost exultant!

“I’ll remember that, love. I’ll remember that, too.”

The moment she disengaged the channel, Killashandra Ree left the office to meet Lars Dahl at Shankill Moon Base. Exit, triumphant, stage center.

Between her frequent appearances in the United States and England as a lecturer and guest-of-honor at science-fiction conventions, Anne McCaffrey lives at Dragonhold, in the hills of County Wicklow, Ireland, with assorted horses, cats, and a dog. Of herself, Ms. McCaffrey says: “I have green eyes, silver hair, and freckles—the rest changes without notice.”