Crystal Singer Read online

  CRYSTAL

  SINGER

  ANNE McCAFFREY

  A Del Rey® Book

  BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Reprise

  Other Books by Anne McCaffrey

  A Friendship Begins

  To learn more about other great Ballantine Books . . .

  Copyright

  To Kate and Alec and their children

  Author’s Note

  Crystal Singer is based on four stories originally published in Roger Elwood’s Continuum series. Crystal Singer is considerably expanded from these stories, thanks to the technical assistance of Ron Massey, Langshot Stables, Surrey. His long explanations and careful notes permitted me to venture daringly where no man had gone before.

  CHAPTER 1

  Killashandra listened as the words dropped with leaden fatality into her frozen belly. She stared at the maestro’s famous profile as his lips opened and shut around the words that meant the death of all her hopes and ambitions and rendered ten years of hard work and study a waste.

  The maestro finally turned to face her. The genuine regret in his expressive eyes made him look older. The heavy singer’s muscles in his jaw relaxed sorrowfully into jowls.

  One day, Killashandra might remember those details. Just then, she was too crushed by overwhelming defeat to be aware of more than her terrible personal failure.

  “But . . . but . . . how could you?”

  “How could I what?” the maestro asked in surprise.

  “How could you lead me on?”

  “Lead you on? But, my dear girl, I didn’t.”

  “You did! You said—you said all I needed was hard work. Haven’t I worked hard enough?”

  “Of course you have worked hard.” Valdi was affronted. “My students must apply themselves. It takes years of hard work to develop the voice, to learn even a segment of the outworld repertoire that must be performed.”

  “I’ve repertoire! I’ve worked hard and now—now you tell me I’ve no voice?”

  Maestro Valdi sighed heavily, a mannerism that had always irritated Killashandra and was now insupportable. She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised a restraining hand. The habit of four years made her pause.

  “You haven’t the voice to be a top-rank singer, my dear Killashandra, but that does not preclude any of the many other responsible and fulfilling . . .”

  “I won’t be second rank. I want—I wanted ”—and she had the satisfaction of seeing him wince at the bitterness in her voice—“to be a top-rank concert singer. You said I had—”

  He held up his hand again. “You have the gift of perfect pitch, your musicality is faultless, your memory superb, your dramatic potential can’t be criticized. But there is that burr in your voice which becomes intolerable in the higher register. While I thought it could be trained out, modified—” he shrugged his helplessness. He eyed her sternly. “Today’s audition with completely impartial judges proved conclusively that the flaw is inherent in the voice. This moment is cruel for you and not particularly pleasant for me.” He gave her another stern look, reacting to the rebellion in her stance. “I make few errors in judgment as to voice. I honestly thought I could help you. I cannot, and it would be doubly cruel of me to encourage you further as a soloist. No. You had best strengthen another facet of your potential.”

  “And what, in your judgment, would that be?”

  He had the grace to blink at her caustic words, then looked her squarely in the eye. “You don’t have the patience to teach, but you could do very well in one of the theater arts where your sympathy with the problems of a singer would stand you in good stead. No? You are a trained synthesizer? Hmmmm. Too bad, your musical education would be a real asset there.” He paused. “Well, then, I’d recommend you leave the theater arts entirely. With your sense of pitch, you could be a crystal tuner or an aircraft and shuffle dispatcher or—”

  “Thank you, maestro,” she said, more from force of habit than any real gratitude. She gave him the half bow his rank required and withdrew.

  Slamming the panel shut behind her, Killashandra stalked down the corridor, blinded by the tears she’d been too proud to shed in the maestro’s presence. Though she half wanted and half feared meeting a fellow student who would question her tears and commiserate with her disaster, she was inordinately relieved to reach her study cubicle without having encountered anyone. There she gave herself up to her misery, bawling into hysteria, past choking, until she was too spent to do more than gasp for breath.

  If her body protested the emotional excess, her mind reveled in it. For she had been abused, misused, misguided, misdirected—and who knows how many of her peers had been secretly laughing at her dreams of glorious triumphs on the concert and opera stage? Killashandra had a generous portion of the conceit and ego required for her chosen profession, with no leavening of humility; she’d felt success and stardom were only a matter of time. Now she cringed at the vivid memory of her self-assertiveness and arrogance. She had approached the morning’s audition with such confidence, the requisite commendations to continue as a solo aspirant a foregone conclusion. She remembered the faces of the examiners, so pleasantly composed; one man nodding absent-mindedly to the pulse of the test arias and lieder. She’d been scrupulous in tempi; they’d marked her high on that. How could they have looked so—so impressed? So encouraging?

  How could they record such verdicts against her?

  “The voice is unsuited to the dynamics of opera. Unpleasant burr too audible.” “A good instrument for singing with orchestra and chorus where grating overtone will not be noticeable.” “Strong choral leader quality: student should be positively dissuaded from solo work.”

  Unfair! Unfair! How could she be allowed to come so far, be permitted to delude herself, only to be dashed down in the penultimate trial? And to be offered, as a sop, choral leadership! How degradingly ignominious!

  From her excruciating memories wriggled up the faces of her brothers and sisters, taunting her for what they called “shrieking at the top of her lungs.” Teasing her for the hours she spent on finger exercises and attempting to “understand” the harmonics of odd off-world music. Her parents had surrendered to Killashandra’s choice of profession because it was, at the outset, financed by Fuerte’s planetary educational system; second, it might accrue to their own standing in the community; and third, she had the encouragement of her early vocal and instrumental teachers. Them! Was it the ineptitude of one of those clods to which she owed the flaw in her voice? Killashandra rolled in an agony of self-pity.

  What was it Valdi had had the temerity to suggest? An allied art? A synthesizer? Bah! Spending her life in mental institutions catering to flawed minds because she had a flawed voice? Or mending flawed crystals to keep interplanetary travel or someone’s power plant flowing smoothly?

  Then she realized her despondency was merely self-pity and sat upright, staring at herself in the mirror on the far wall, the mirror that had reflected all those long hours of study and self-perfection. Self-deception!

  In an instant, Killashandra shook herself free of such wallowing self-indulgence. She looked around the study, a slice of a room dominated by the Vidifax, with its full address keyboard that interfaced with the Music Record Center, providing access to a galaxy’s musical output. She
glanced over the repros of training performances—she’d always had a lead role—and she knew that she would do best to forget the whole damned thing! If she couldn’t be at the top, to hell with theater arts! She’d be top in whatever she did or die in the attempt.

  She stood. There was nothing for her now in a room that three hours before had been the focal point of every waking minute and all her energies. Whatever personal items remained in the drawers or on the shelves, the merit awards on the wall, the signed holograms of singers she’d hoped to emulate or excel, no longer concerned her or belonged to her.

  She reached for her cloak, ripped off the student badge, and flung the garment across one shoulder. As she wheeled around, she saw a note tacked on the door.

  Party at Roare’s to celebrate!

  She snorted. They’d all know. Let them chortle over her downfall. She’d not play the bravely smiling, courageous-under-adversity role tonight. Or ever.

  Exit Killashandra, quietly, stage center, she thought as she ran down the long shallow flight of steps to the mall in front of the Culture Center. Again, she experienced both satisfaction and regret that no one witnessed her departure.

  Actually, she couldn’t have asked for a more dramatic exit. Tonight, they’d wonder what had happened. Maybe someone would know. She knew that Valdi would never disclose their interview; he disliked failures; especially his own, so they’d never hear about it from him. As for the verdict of the examiners, at least the exact wording handed her would be computer sealed. But someone would know that Killashandra Ree had failed her vocal finals and the grounds for failure.

  Meanwhile she would have effectively disappeared. They could speculate all they wanted—nothing would stop them from that—and they’d remember her when she rose to prominence in another field. Then they’d marvel that nothing so minor as failure could suppress her excellence.

  Such reflections consoled Killashandra all the way to her lodgings. Subsidized students rated dwellings—no more the depressing bohemian semifilth and overcrowding of ancient times—but her room was hardly palatial. When she failed to reregister at the Music Center, her landlady would be notified and the room locked to her. Subsistence living was abhorrent to Killashandra; it smacked of an inability to achieve. But she’d take the initiative on that, too, and leave the room now. And all the memories it held. Besides, it would spoil the mystery of her disappearance if she were to be discovered in her digs. So, with a brief nod to the landlady, who always checked comings and goings, Killashandra climbed the stairs to her floor, keyed open her room, and looked around. There was really nothing to take but clothing.

  Despite that assessment, Killashandra packed the lute that she had handcrafted to satisfy that requirement of her profession. She might not care to play the thing, but she couldn’t bear to abandon it. She packed it among the clothes in her carisak, which she looped over her back. She closed the door panel, skipped down the stairs, nodded to the landlady exactly as she always did, and left quietly.

  Having fulfilled the dramatic requirement of her new role, she hadn’t any idea what to do with herself. She slipped from walk-on to the fastbelt of the pedestrian way, heading into the center of the city. She ought to register with a work bureau; she ought to apply for subsistence. She ought to do many things, but suddenly Killashandra discovered that “ought to” no longer ruled her. No more tedious commitments to schedule—rehearsals, lessons, studies. She was free, utterly and completely free! With a lifetime ahead of her that ought to be filled. Ought to? With what?

  The walkway was whipping her rapidly into the busier sections of the city. Pedestrian directions flashed at cross-points: mercantile triangle purple crossed with social services’ circle orange; green check manufactory and dormitory blue hatching, medical green-red stripes and then airport arrow red and spaceport star-spangled blue. Killashandra, paralyzed by indecision, toyed with the variety of things she ought to do, and was carried past the cross-points that would take her where she ought to go.

  Ought to, again, she thought, and stayed on the speedway. Half of Killashandra was amused that she, once so certain of her goal, could now be so irresolute. At that moment it did not occur to her that she was suffering an intense, traumatic shock or that she was reacting to that shock—first, in a somewhat immature fashion by her abrupt withdrawal from the center; second, in a more mature manner, as she divorced herself from the indulgence of self-pity and began a positive search for an alternate life.

  She could not know that at that very moment Esmond Valdi was concerned, realizing that the girl would be reacting in some fashion to the demise of her ambition. Had she known, she might have thought more kindly of him, though he hadn’t pursued her beyond her study nor done more than call the Personnel Section to report his concern. He’d come to the reassuring conclusion that she had sought refuge with a fellow student, probably having a good cry. Knowing her dedication to music, he’d incorrectly assumed that she’d continue in the study of music, accepting a choral leadership in due time. That’s where he wanted her, and it simply did not occur to Valdi that Killashandra would discard ten years of her life in a second.

  CHAPTER 2

  Killashandra was halfway to the spaceport before she consciously decided that that was where she ought to go—“ought” this time not in an obligatory but in an investigative sense. Fuerte held nothing but distressing memories for her. She’d leave the planet and erase the painful associations. Good thing she had taken the lute. She had sufficient credentials to be taken on as a casual entertainer on some liner at the best or as a ship attendant at the worst. She might as well travel about a bit to see what else she ought to do with her life.

  As the speedway slowed to curve into the spaceport terminal, Killashandra was aware of externals—people and things—for the first time since she’d left Maestro Valdi’s studio. She had never been to the spaceport before and had never been on any of the welcoming committees for off-planet stellars. Just then, a shuttle launched from its bay, powerful engines making the port building tremble. There was, however, a very disconcerting whine of which she was almost subliminally aware, sensing it from the mastoid bone right down to her heel. She shook her head. The whine intensified—it had to be coming from the shuttle—until she was forced to clamp her hands over her ears. The sonics abated, and she forgot the incident as she wandered around the immense, domed reception hall of the port facility. Vidifax were ranked across the inner segment, each labeled with the name of a particular freight or passenger service, each with its own screen plate. Faraway places with strange sounding names—a fragment from an ancient song obtruded and was instantly suppressed. No more music.

  She paused at a portal to watch a shuttle off-loading cargo, the loading attendants using pneumatic pallets to shift odd-sized packages that did not fit the automatic cargo-handling ramp. A supercargo was scurrying about, portentously examining strip codes, juggling weight units, and arguing with the stevedores. Killashandra snorted. She’d soon have more than such trivia to occupy her energies. Suddenly, she caught the scent of appetizing odors.

  She realized she was hungry! Hungry? When her whole life had been shattered? How banal! But the odors made her mouth water. Well, her credit ought to be good for a meal, but she’d better check her balance rather than be embarrassed at the restaurant. At a public outlet, she inserted her digital wristunit and applied her right thumb to the print plate. She was agreeably surprised to note that a credit had been added that very day—a student credit, she read. Her last. That the total represented a bonus did not please her. A bonus to solemnize the fact that she could never be a soloist?

  She walked quickly to the nearest restaurant, observing only that it was not the economy service. The old, dutiful Killashandra would have backed out hastily. The new Killashandra entered imperiously. So early in the day, the dining rooms were not crowded, so she chose a booth on the upper level for its unobstructed view of the flow of shuttles and small spacecraft. She had never realized how much tra
ffic passed through the spaceport of her not very important planet, though she vaguely knew that Fuerte was a transfer point. The vidifax menu was long and varied, and she was tempted several times to indulge in the exotic foods temptingly described therein. But she settled for a casserole, purportedly composed of off-world fish, unusual but not too highly spiced for a student’s untutored palate. An off-world wine included in the selection pleased her so much that she ordered a second carafe just as dusk closed in.

  She thought, at first, that it was the unfamiliar wine that made her nerves jangle so. But the discomfort increased so rapidly that she sensed it couldn’t be just the effect of alcohol. Rubbing her neck and frowning, she looked around for the source of irritation. Finally, the appearance of a descending shuttle’s retroblasts made her realize that her discomfort must be the result of a sonic disturbance, though how it could penetrate the shielded restaurant she didn’t know. She covered her ears, pressing as hard as she could to ease that piercing pain. Suddenly, it ceased.

  “I tell you, that shuttle’s drive is about to explode. Now connect me to the control supervisor,” a baritone voice cried in the ensuing silence.

  Startled, Killashandra looked around.

  “How do I know? I know!” At the screen of the restaurant’s service console, a tall man was demanding: “Put me through to the control tower. Is everyone up there deaf? So you want a shuttle explosion the next time that one is used? Didn’t you hear it?”

  “I heard it,” Killashandra said, rushing over to plant herself in the view of the console.

  “You heard it?” The spaceport official seemed genuinely surprised.

  “I certainly did. All but cracked my skull. My ears still hurt. What was it?” she asked the tall man, who had an air of command about him, frustrated though he was by officious stupidity. He carried his overlean body with an arrogance that suited the fine fabric of his clothes—obviously of off-world design and cloth.