Killashandra (20 page)

Storm, she decided, letting symbiotic instinct make the identification. And a heavy one. In these islands a hurricane more likely than not. A worrisome phenomenon for a reasonably flat land mass. No, there were heights on what Lars had termed the Head. She smiled, for yesterday, in between other felicitous activities, he had given her quite a history and geography lesson pertinent to the island economy.

“This island gets its name from the shape of the land mass,” he explained and drew a shape on the wet sands with a shell. They had just emerged from a morning swim. “It was seen first from the exploratory probe and named long before any settlers landed here. There’s even a sort of a halo of islets off the Head. We’re at the Wingtip. The settlement lies in the wing curve … see … and the western heights are the wings, complete with the ridge principle. This side of the island is much lower than the body side. We’ve two separate viable harbors, north and south, the angel’s outstretched hands completing the smaller, deeper one. My father’s offices are there, as the backbone sometimes interferes with reception from the mainland. You can’t see it from here because of Backbone Ridge, but there’s rather an impressive old volcano topping the Head.” He grinned mischievously, giving Killashandra an impression of the devilish child he must have been. “Some of us less reverent souls say the Angel blew her head when she knew who got possession of the planet. Not so, of course. It happened eons before we got here.”

Angel was not the largest of the islands but Lars told her that she’d soon see that it was the best. The southern sea was littered Lars said, with all kinds of land masses: some completely sterile, others bearing active volcanoes, and anything large enough to support polly plantations and other useful tropical vegetation did so.

“We were a race apart from the mainlanders, and we’ve remained so, Carrigana.
They
listen to what the Elders dish up for them, dulling their minds with all the pap that’s performed. Islanders still have to have their wits about them. We may be easygoing and carefree, but we’re not lazy or stupid.”

She had discovered an unexpected pleasure in listening to Lars ramble on, recognizing that his motive was as much self-indoctrination as explanation for her benefit. His voice was so beautifully modulated, uninhibited in its expressiveness that she could have listened to him for years. He made events out of small incidents, no matter that all were aimed at extolling the islands, subtly depracating mainland ways. He was not, however, an impractical dreamer. Nor was his rebellion against mainland authority the ill-considered antagonism of the disillusioned.

“You sound as if you don’t want to leave Optheria even if you are trying to pave the way off for these friends of yours,” Killashandra was prompted to remark late that second evening as they finished a meal of steamed molluscs.

“I’m as well off here as I would be anywhere else in the galaxy.”

“But your music—”

“It was composed to be played on the Optherian organ and I doubt that any other government allows them to be used, even if the Elders and Masters would permit the design to be copied.” He shrugged off that consideration.

“If you could compose that, you have a great gift—”

Lars had laughed outright, ruffling her hair—he seemed fascinated by the texture of her hair.

“Beloved Sungirl, that took no great gift, I assure you. Nor do I have the temperament to sit down and create music—”

“Come on, Lars—”

“No, seriously, I’m much happier at the tiller of a ship—”

“And that voice of yours?”

He shrugged. “Fine for an island evening sing-song, my girl, but who bothers to sing on the Mainland?”

“But, if you get the others off the planet, why don’t you go, too? There are plenty of other planets that would make you a Stellar in a pico—”

“How would you know?”

“Well, there have to be!” Killashandra almost screamed in her frustration with the restrictions imposed by her role. “Or why are you trying to crack the restriction?”

“The height of altruism motivates me. Besides, Sunny, Theach and Brassner have valid contributions to make within the context of the galaxy. And once a person has met Nahia, it’s obvious why she must be let free. Think of the good she could do.”

Killashandra murmured something reassuring since it was called for. She felt an uncharacteristic pulse of jealousy at the reverence and awe in Lars’s voice whenever he mentioned this Nahia. Lars had perfectly healthy contempt for Elder and Master alike, indeed all federal officials with the exception of his father. And while he spoke of the man with affection and respect, Nahia occupied a higher position. Quite a few times Killashandra noted a nearly imperceptible halt in the flow of Lars’s words as if he exercised a subtle discretion, so subtle that all she caught was its echo. Just as he had stopped short of admitting the abduction of the crystal singer. And, now that she understood his motivitation, she marveled at his quick-witted opportunism. Did the others in his subversive group know what he had done? Had they approved of it? And what would the next step be? She could just imagine the furor caused in the Heptite
Guild! Or maybe she was supposed to rescue herself? Which she had.

Lars was weather-sensitive, too, for she had only just completed her analysis when he woke, equally alert. With a loving tug at her hair and a smile, he stood up, sniffing at the breeze now strong enough to ruffle his hair, turning slowly. He stopped when he faced in the direction she had.

“Hurricane making, Carrigana. Come, we’ll have a lot to do.”

Not so much that they didn’t start the morning with a quick passage at arms, not the least bit perfunctory despite the brevity. Then they had a quick swim, with Lars keeping a close watch on the dawn changes in the sky.

“Making up in the south so it’ll be a bad blow.” He stood for a moment as the active waves of the incoming tide flounced against his thighs. He looked southwest, frowning and, dissatisfied by his thoughts, started inshore, taking her hand as if seeking comfort.

She thought nothing of his brief disappearance as she cleared up the camp site. Lars pushed his way past the bush screen, an odd smile on his face as he came up to her, two garlands of an exceptionally lovely blue and white flower in his hands. “This will serve,” he said cryptically, gently draping one around her neck. The perfume was subtly erotic and she stood on tiptoe to kiss him for his thoughtfulness. “Now you must put mine on.”

Smiling at his sweetness, she complied and he kissed her, exhaling a gust as if he had acquitted himself nobly.

“C’mon now,” and he gave her the basket, slung the blanket with their clothing over his shoulder, and grabbing her hand, led her back through the underbrush.

Though the sun was not yet up over the horizon, there was considerable activity on the beach when they arrived.
Torches were lit outside all the waterfront buildings, and torchlit groups of scurrying people pushed handcarts. Bobbing lights on the harbor, too, indicated crews on their way to anchored ships. The schooner was gone but Killashandra had not really expected to find the big ship still at Angel Island.

“Where can they take the boats?”

“Around to the Back. We’ll just check to see how much time there is before the wind rises. There’ll be a lot to do before we can take the
Pearl Fisher
to the safe mooring.”

Killashandra glanced up and down the picturesque waterfront, for the first time seeing just how vulnerable it was. The first line of buildings was only four hundred meters from the high-tide mark. Wouldn’t they be just swept away in hurricane driven tides?

“They often are,” Lars startled her by saying as they strode purposefully toward the settlement. “But mostly polly floats. After the last big blow, Morchal salvaged the complete roof. It was floating in the bay, he just dried it out and reset it.”

“I should help Keralaw,” Killashandra suggested tentatively, not really wanting to leave his side but ignorant of what island protocol expected of her in the emergency. Lars’s hand tightened on her elbow.

“If I know Keralaw she has matters well in hand. I’m not risking you from my side for an instant, Carrigana. I thought I’d made that plain.”

Killashandra almost bridled at the possessive tone of his voice but part of her rather liked the chauvinism. She had too hearty a respect for storm not to wish to be in the safest place during one. Common sense told her that was likely to be in Lars Dahl’s company.

Men and women were filing in and out of the tavern. Lars and Killashandra entered and found a veritable command post. The bar was now dispensing equipment
and gear which Killashandra could not readily identify. Along the back wall, the huge vdr screen was active, showing a satellite picture of the growing storm swirling in from the south. Estimated times of arrival of the first heavy winds, high tide, the eye, and the counter winds were all listed in the upper left hand corner. Other cryptic information, displayed in a band across the top of the screen, did not mean much to her but evidently conveyed intelligence to the people in the bar. Including Lars.

“Lars, Olav’s on line for you,” called the tallest of the men behind the bar, and he jerked his head toward a side door. The fellow paused in his dispensations, and Killashandra was aware of his scrutiny as she followed Lars to the room indicated.

However rustic the tavern looked from the outside, this room was crammed with sophisticated equipment, a good deal of it meteorological, though not as complex as instrumentation in the Weather Room of the Heptite Guild. And all of it printing out or displaying rapidly changing information.

“Lars?” A young man turned from the scanner in front of him and, screwing his face in an anxious expression, almost pounced on the new arrival. “What are you going to do—”

Lars held up his hand, cutting off the rest of that sentence, and the young man noticed the garland. He threw an almost panic stricken look at Killashandra.

“Tanny, this is Carrigana. And there’s nothing I can do with this storm blowing up.” Lars was scrutinizing the duplicate vdr satellite picture as he spoke. “The worst of it will pass due east. Don’t worry about the things you can’t change!” He gave Tanny a clout on the shoulder but the worried expression did not entirely alter.

Killashandra kept the silly social smile on her face as
Tanny accorded her the briefest of nods. She had a very good idea what, or rather whom, they were discussing so obliquely. Her. Still trapped, they thought, on that chip of an island.

“Tanny’s my partner, Carrigana, and one of the best sailors on Angel,” Lars added, though his attention was still claimed by the swirling cloud mass.

“What if the direction changes, Lars?” Tanny refused to be reassured. “You know what the southern blows are like …” He made an exaggerated gesture with both arms, nearly socking a passing islander, who ducked in time.

“Tanny, there is nothing we can do. There’s a great big polly on the island that’s survived hurricanes and high tides since man took the archipelago. We’ll go have a look as soon as the blow’s gone. All right?”

Lars didn’t wait for Tanny’s agreement, guiding Killashandra back into the main room. He paused at the counter, waiting his turn, and receiving a small handset. “A light one will do me fine, Bart,” he added and Bart set a small antigrav unit on the counter. “Most of what I own is either on the
Pearl
or on its way back to me from the City. Grab a couple of those ration packs, will you, Carrigana,” he added as they walked out on the broad verandah where additional emergency supplies were being passed out. “Might not need them but it’s less for them to pack to the Ridge.”

As Lars turned her west, away from the settlement, she caught sight of Tanny, watching them, his expression still troubled. The wind was picking up and the water in the harbor agitated. Lars looked to his right, assessing the situation.

“Been in a bad one yet?” he asked her, an amused and tolerant grin on his face.

“Oh, yes,” Killashandra answered fervently. “Not an experience I wish to repeat.” How could Lars know
how puny an Optherian hurricane would be in comparison to Passover Storms on Ballybran. Once again she wanted to discard her borrowed identity. There was so much she would like to share with Lars.

“It’s waiting out the blow that’s hard,” Lars said, then grinned down at her. “We won’t be bored this time, though. My father said that Theach came with Hauness and Erutown. I wonder how they managed the travel permits?” That caused him to chuckle. “We’ll know how the revised master plan is working.”

Killashandra was very hard put to refrain from making any remarks but, of a certainty, waiting out this blow would be extremely interesting. She might not be getting on with the primary task of her visit to Optheria, but she was certainly gaining a lot of experience with dissidents.

His place was on a knoll, above the harbor, in a grove of mature polly trees. It reflected an orderly person who preferred plain and restful colors. He produced several carisaks which had been neatly stored in a cupboard, and together they emptied the chest of his clothes, including several beautifully finished formal garments. He cleared his terminal of any stored information and when Killashandra asked if they shouldn’t dismantle the screen, he shrugged.

“Federal issue. I must be one of the few islanders who use the thing.” He grinned impiously. “And then not to watch their broadcasts! They can never appreciate that islanders don’t need vicarious experiences.” He gestured toward the sea. “Not with real live adventures!”

The pillows, hammocks, what kitchen utensils there were, the rugs, curtains, everything compacted into a manageable bundle to which Lars attached the antigrav straps. The entire process hadn’t taken them fifteen minutes.

“We’ll just attach this to a train, grab something to eat and then get the
Pearl
to safety.” He gave his effects a gentle shove in the proper direction.

When they returned to the waterfront, Killashandra saw what he meant by train. Numerous personal-effects bundles, all wrapped and weightless, were being attached to a large floater on which families with small children perched. As soon as it had reached capacity, the driver guided it away, along a winding route toward the distant Ridge.