Killashandra (36 page)

“We will finish this tomorrow,” Trag told Elder Ampris, “with a further day to tune the new manual into the system, and to check the other three manuals for positive feedback. One minor detail on which Killashandra was unable to reassure me: Was the organ in use when the manual was destroyed?”

“I believe it was,” Ampris replied, his lids dipping to conceal his brown eyes. “I will of course confirm this. After the deplorable desecration, I myself conducted an inspection of the other manuals to be sure they were undamaged.”

“Elder Ampris, Killashandra Ree and I would consider ourselves derelict in our Guild obligation to Optheria if we failed to assure ourselves, and you, that your Festival organ is in full and complete working order.”

“Of course,” Ampris managed through clenched teeth. Then, in an abrupt alteration, he smiled tightly. “Most thorough of you.”

“Can we turn on the main organ console from here?” Killashandra asked, wondering what had caused Ampris’s sudden change. “I admit that I am quite eager to hear it in all its glory.”

Ampris regarded her for a long moment before his thin lips widened in the original smile.

“For you to appreciate fully the versatility of the Festival Organ, you need some measure of comparison. Therefore I am delighted that you are able to attend this evening’s concert which will be performed on the two-manual Conservatory instrument.”

“Yes, of course.” Killashandra let pleased affability ooze through her voice. “Now that this installation is nearly completed, and with Trag here, I realize how much tension I’ve been under. It is always so much easier to share responsibilities, isn’t it, Elder Ampris?” she added gaily.

He murmured something and withdrew. Trag looked at her expectantly.

“When the inevitable can no longer be avoided, it is always wise to accept it gracefully.” She grimaced. “Though I have to admit I
despise
student concerts.”

Lars grinned. “Oh, you won’t be getting the students tonight, Killa. And in view of what you told me of the origin of Ampris’s party piece, I eagerly await your critical appraisal. Are you at all musical, Guildmember?” he asked Trag.

“Frequently.” Trag carefully replaced the tools in their case, gestured for Lars to close the crystal container.
Killashandra covered the manual, and taking a hair from her head, wet it and laid it carefully across one corner of the lid. Trag gave a snort that she translated as approval.

“Hair of the dog that bit?” Lars asked.

“Where do you get these sayings?” Killashandra demanded, rolling her eyes in exaggerated dismay. Then she pointed to his pocket.

“I’d like to have a close look at that device,” Trag said. Lars withdrew the little jammer.

“Trag, I’m trying to get them to believe that it’s me distorting their monitors.”

Trag surprised Killashandra by placing his hand flat against her shoulder blade. “Not any more. But I would qualify. Sensible of you.”

“How many of the myths about crystal singers are derived from sensible precautions?” she asked Trag. “Or survival techniques?” Trag shrugged indifferently.

Lars deactivated the device as Killashandra opened the door panel and the three left the loft. Killashandra watched Trag to see if the acoustics of the Festival auditorium affected him. Trag did not so much as alter his firm stride or respond to the echoes his vigorous pace produced. The guards had to scurry to keep up with them.

Once inside the guest suite which Trag was to share with them, Lars switched on the jammer before he passed it over to Trag.

“They’ve been replacing the monitors in the organ loft every day but a trill of crystal and they shatter,” Killashandra told Trag as she made her way to the beverage counter. “A cold glass of the Bascum, Trag?”

“Please.” Trag returned the jammer to Lars. “What sort of detector do they have at the shuttleport?”

“Isotope scanner,” Lars said with a grimace. “The popular theory is that the detector is set off by a rare
isotope of iron peculiar to Optherian soil. Once the residue of the isotope builds up in the bone marrow, it tends to be self-perpetuating. There’ve been unsuccessful attempts to neutralize the isotope and jam the scanners but nothing works.” Then he scowled. “All the guards are rehabs and never miss. Trying to get past them is an effective form of suicide. There is also a stun field that operates in the event that another concerted attempt is ever made to gain entry to the port.”

“I was met by four Optherians …” Trag began.

“Who had been passed in. Oh, authorized personnel come and go but they are very careful to display their authorization to the guards.”

Killashandra had punched up sandwiches which she now passed to the men.

“We don’t have much time before dinner and the concert, and I need a bath,” she announced, her mouth half full of sandwich.

“So do I.” Lars followed Killashandra, taking the jammer with him after an apologetic nod to Trag. “Trag is no threat to us, huh?” Lars murmured sarcastically, once they were in the unmonitored bathroom.

Killashandra shrugged and grimaced. “I didn’t think he’d cut up that stiff, but then, neither of us knew what lies the Elders were spinning. And the Guild does have a reputation to maintain, especially if they had to call in the FSP to get a cruiser for a fast trip here. But,” she added, rather pleased, “it means they cared.”

“I felt I was talking to a brick wall, Killa, until it came down.” Lars ran his fingers through his thick hair. “What would you have done if it hadn’t, Killa?”

“Well, it did and Trag has been converted. Now all we have to do is get word to your father. Just how many people would we have to get to safety? I mean, if Trag has that warrant for party or parties …”

Lars framed her face with his hands, grinning down
at her. “No matter how broad that warrant, Killa, it wouldn’t extend to all those who really need our protection. Nahia, Hauness, Theach, Brassner, and Olver are just the most important. Why—”

“Couldn’t some just disappear into the islands?”

Lars shook his hed.

“Then we’ll have to hold tight somehow until Trag reports the subliminal conditioning to the Federated Council. The Fleet Marines would land, in force, and the Elders would be sampling rehab. You’re safe as long as I’m here—and stop shaking your head. Look, Trag can return, now that the organ is repaired and I’m un-abducted—”

“Is the cruiser still here?”

“Oh, I rather doubt it.”

“Then unless he can recall it, he’s surfaced on Optheria until the next liner and that’s not due for at least two weeks.”

“Two more weeks!” Killashandra realized that she had taken for granted the same constant space traffic that frequented Shanganaugh Moon Base.

“What? Have my charming presence and inspired coupling worn thin now that you have a fellow crystal singer to pair you?”

“Trag? You think—Trag and I? Don’t be funny! Listen to me, young man, there’s a lot you don’t know about crystal singers!”

“I’d like the time to find out.” His reply was wistful even if the kiss he gave her was not. And her response to his embrace temporarily suspended less urgent matters, even the bath.

Fortunately, by the time Trag knocked peremptorily on the bathroom door, they were both dressed.

“Coming,” Killashandra responded in a trill, bestowing one last kiss on Lars before she hauled open the door. Sweeping dramatically into the main room with
Lars a step behind her, she was delighted to see Trag, a halfempty glass of beer in his hand, in the company of Thyrol, Mirbethan, and Pirinio. Facetiously wondering if Polabod had been loaned to another quartette, she greeted them graciously, exclaiming her eagerness to attend the evening’s concert and, at long last, hear an Optherian organ.

Dinner was served in the same chamber that had charmed Killashandra. The charm was enhanced this time by the fact that Elder Pentrom was missing from the guest roster. Trag was monopolized at one end of the table by Elders Ampris and Torkes, who engaged him in very serious discussions, while Mirbethan did her best to introduce unexceptional topics into conversation at the other. Thyrol, Pirinio, and two very meek older women instructors completed the buffer between the Elders and the distinguished and newly arrived Guildmember Trag.

“Elder Torkes,” Trag said in a well-pitched voice that carried to every part of the dining room after he had sipped the beverage in his glass, “my metabolism requires the ingestion of a certain quantity of alcohol daily. What have you to offer?”

After that, Killashandra didn’t bother straining her ears to hear what information, or misinformation, might be exchanged. Fortunately the portions served them were considerably more generous, if unexciting to the palate, than her first dinner there, so that hunger was assuaged.

There was no reason to dally at the festive board so, immediately after the sweet course was finished, Mirbethan led the way to the Conservatory Concert Hall. Those already assembled rose to their feet at the entrance of the distinguished visitors.

“Like lambs to the slaughter,” Lars whispered in her ear.

“Wrong again!” she whispered back, then composed her features in a gracious expression. Until she had a good look at the seating.

The organ console, of course, dominated the blue and white stage. Golden curtains were richly draped to complete the frame which was bathed in a gentle glow of diffused light. They walked up a slight ramp to the orchestra floor where Mirbethan smilingly turned and gestured toward their chairs.

Bloody inquisition
, Killashandra thought to herself. Upholstered in a mid-blue velvety fabric, the chairs were bucket shaped, semirecumbents equipped with broad arm rests, sculptured to fit wrist and hand for proper sensory input. Killashandra did not expect to find an easy repose for over each seat was a half hood, no doubt containing additional sensory outlets. As Lars might remark, the occupants of the seats were sitting ducks.

Nevertheless, and because it was consonant with the role she had adopted, Killashandra expressed delight over the “ambiance of the hall,” the charming decor, and the unusual seating. She counted fifteen rows extending up and into the shadows behind her, all of them filled. She counted the front-row seats on her side of the entrance as fifteen so that some four hundred and fifty people, the complement of the Conservatory, were about to be entertained.

She took her seat but because of the tilt and the arm rest, the only part of her that could touch Lars was her foot. She angled so that she could touch his. She felt a return pressure which gave her far more reassurance than she should need or had expected to gain from such a minimal contact.

The house lights dimmed and Killashandra was filled with a perturbation she had never experienced before at what was usually the most enjoyable, anticipatory moment of a performance.

A woman swirled out onto the stage, her robes flowing out behind her. She bowed quickly to the assembly and took her place at the organ console, her back, with its pleated draperies, illuminated by the spotlight. Killashandra saw her lift her hands to the first manual and then all the lights went out as the first chord was played.

Killashandra all but kicked Lars as she recognized the music. In most Conservatories, a man named Bach would have been credited with its composition. On Optheria it was unlikely that any sheep safely grazed. Then the sensory elements began their insidious plucking. It was well done, the scent of new grass, spring winds, tender green, soothing color, bucolic fragrances and then—Lars’s foot tapped hers urgently but she had already caught the image of the “shepherd,” a glamorized Ampris, a kindly, loving, affectionate, infinitely tender shepherd, gazing for that one moment upon members of his “flock.”

Had Trag failed? Disappointment and a keen flare of apprehension suffused Killashandra. She forced herself to recall that first glimpse of this smaller theater. There had to be a second subliminal generator behind this organ console. Indeed, there was probably one attached to every one of these insidious instruments. How would they disconnect them all? A second image, of a grieving Ampris, saddened by a misdemeanor of his flock—saddened but infinitely tolerant and forgiving—capped her disgust with the entire exercise.

Killashandra caught all of the images that were broadcast, as sharp and as clear as if a hologram had been suspended for inspection of a tri-d screen. The subliminals seemed etched on her retina. Something to do with her symbiont’s rejection of this superimposition?

When the lights came up, Killashandra elected to seem to be affected by the performance as she should have been.

“Guildmember?” Mirbethan asked in a soft eager voice.

“Why, it was charming. So soothing, such a lovely scene. I declare that I could smell new grass, and spring blossoms.” Lars tried to step on her toe. She struggled up out of the clutch of her seat and peered around him. “Why, Lars Dahl, it is everything you told me it would be!” He tapped twice, getting her message.

A second performer strode out on the stage, his manner so militant that Killashandra laid a private bet with herself: one of the Germans or an Altairian, if Prosno-Sevic’s bombastic compositions had been composed before the Optherians had settled this planet.

The music was an uninspired melange of many of the martial themes, each new one buffeting the captive audience so that she found herself twitching away from the onslaught of the music, and wondering if she would survive the subliminals. She did, but her eyeballs ached with visions of Torkes and an improbably robust Pentrom urging the faithful onto the path to victory and planetarianism, defending the credo of Optheria to the death.

An audible sigh—of relief?—preceded the applause this selection engendered. So the audience was being soothed to trust, encouraged to resist subversive philosophies: now what, Killashandra wondered?

An alarmingly thin and earnest young man, swallowing his Adam’s apple convulsively as he crossed the stage, was the next performer. He looked more like a wading bird than a premier organist. And when he took his seat and lifted his hands, they splayed to incredible lengths, making the soft opening notes ludicrous to Killashandra’s mind, especially when she recognized the seductive phrases of a French pianist. The name escaped her momentarily but the erotic music was quite familiar. She held her breath against the first image and
choked on the howl of laughter as the subliminal image of Ampris-the-seducer was superimposed, in reds and oranges, on the viewers’ abused senses. Fortunately, the notion of Ampris making love to her, or anyone, was so bizarre that the eroticism—even magnified by scent and sensory titillation—failed to achieve its full effect. Lars’s continual tapping—was he succumbing to the illusion, keeping the beat, or trying to distract her from the powerful sensuality—against her toe kept reminding her how perilous their position was at the moment.