Killashandra Read online

  CONFLICTING INTERESTS

  “Lanzecki, I wouldn’t put it past you to try to sucker me into another job like that Trundomoux black-crystal installation.”

  “I’m not, Killashandra. I’m just warning you of the disadvantages to an assignment that involves a long absence from the planet Ballybran.” His expression changed subtly. “I’d rather not be professionally at odds with you. It interferes with my private life.”

  His dark eyes caught hers. His lips curving in the one-sided smile she found so affecting, he reached for her hand.

  Her smile answered his. Together they rose from the table …

  By Anne McCaffrey

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  DECISION AT DOONA

  THE MYSTERY OF IRETA

  GET OFF THE UNICORN

  THE LADY

  PEGASUS IN FLIGHT

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  KILLASHANDRA

  CRYSTAL LINE

  By Anne McCaffrey and Elizabeth

  Ann Scarborough

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  A Del Rey®

  Book Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1985 by Anne McCaffrey

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 85-6193

  eISBN: 978-0-345-45748-6

  v3.1_r1

  This book is gratefully dedicated to

  Ron and Chris Massey

  of the Tidmarsh Stud, and their Arabian friends,

  Ben, BC, Racqui, Linda and Winnie

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Winters on Ballybran were generally mild, so the fury of the first spring storms as they howled across the land was ever unexpected. This first one of the new season swept ferociously across the Milekey Ranges, bearing before its westward course the fleeing sleds of crystal singers like so much jetsam. Those laggard singers who had tarried too long at their claims were barely able to hold their bucking sleds on course as they bolted for the safety of the Heptite Guild Complex.

  Inside the gigantic Hangar, its baffles raised against the mach winds, ordered confusion reigned. Crystal singers lurched from their sleds, half deafened by wind-scream, exhausted by their turbulent flights. The Hangar crew, apparently possessed of eyes in the backs of their heads, miraculously avoided injury as they concentrated on the primary task of moving incoming sleds off the Hangar floor and into storage racks, clearing the way for the erratic landings of the stream of incoming vehicles. The crash claxon pierced even storm howl as two sleds collided, one to dip over the baffle and land nose down on the plascrete while the other veered out of control like a flat rock skipping across water, coming to a crumpling halt against the far wall. A tractor zipped in to fasten grapples on the upside-down sled, removing it only seconds before another sled skimmed over the baffle.

  That sled almost repeated the nose dive, pulling up at the last second and skidding across the Hangar floor to stop just inches away from the line of handlers carrying the precious cartons of crystal in to Sorting. Only a near miss, the incident was disregarded even by those who had barely escaped injury.

  Killashandra Ree emerged from the sled, taking as a good omen the fact that her sled had skidded to a halt so close to the Sorting Sheds. She caught the arm of the next handler to pass her and firmly diverted him to her cargo door, which she flung open. She didn’t have much crystal, so every speck she had cut was precious to her. If she didn’t earn enough credit to get off-planet this time … Killashandra ground her teeth as she hurried her carton into the Sorting Shed.

  As the man she had pressed into her service quite properly put her carton down at the Hangar end of a line of ranked containers, Killashandra’s patience evaporated. “No, over here!” she shouted. “Not there! It’ll take all day to be sorted. Here.”

  She waited until he had deposited her carton in the indicated row before adding her own. Then she strode back to her sled for a second load, commandeering two more unencumbered handlers on the way. Only after eight cartons were unloaded did she permit herself to pause briefly, coping with the multiple fatigues that assailed her. She had worked nonstop for two days, desparate to cut enough crystal to get off Ballybran. Crystal pulsed in her blood and bones, denying her rest in sleep, surcease by day, no matter how she tried to tire her body. Her only respite was immersion in the radiant fluid bath. But no one cut crystal from a bathcube! She had to get off-planet to ease the disturbing thrum.

  For over a year and a half, ever since the Passover storms had shattered Keborgen’s old claim, she had searched unremittingly for a workable site. Killashandra was realist enough to admit to herself that the probability of finding a new claim as important and valuable as Keborgen’s black crystal was very low. Still, she had every right to expect to find some useful, and reasonably lucrative, crystal in Ballybran’s Ranges. And, with each fruitless trip into the Ranges, the credit balance she had amassed from her original cutting of Keborgen’s site and from the Trundomoux black crystal installation had eroded beneath the continuous charges the Heptite Guild exacted for even the most minor services rendered a crystal singer.

  By fall, when everyone else she knew—Rimbol, Jezerey and Mistra—had managed to get off-planet, she had labored on, unable to make a worthwhile claim in any color. During the mild winter, she had doggedly hunted in the Ranges, returning to the Complex only long enough to replenish food packs and steep her crystal-weary body in the radiant fluid.

  “You really
ought to take a week or two up at Shanganagh Base,” Lanzecki had said, intercepting her on one of her brief visits.

  “What good would that really do?” she had replied, almost snarling at him in her frustration. “I’d still feel crystal and I’d have to look at Ballybran.”

  Lanzecki had given her a searching look. “You’re in no mood to believe me,” and he paused to be sure that he had her attention, “but you will find black crystal again, Killashandra. Meanwhile, the Guild has pressing needs in any shade you can find. Even the rose you so despise.” A gleam shone in his black eyes and his voice turned lugubrious as he said, “I am certain that you will be distressed to learn that the Passover storms destroyed Moksoon’s site, too.”

  Killashandra had stared at him a moment before her sense of the ridiculous got the better of her and she laughed. “I am inconsolable!”

  “I thought you might be.” His lips twitched with suppressed amusement. Then he reached down and pulled the plug on the radiant fluid. “You’ll find more crystal, Killa.”

  It had been that calm and confident statement which had buoyed her flagging morale all during the next trip. Nor had it been entirely misplaced. The third week out, after disregarding two sites of rose and blue, she discovered white crystal but very nearly missed the vein entirely. If she had not been bolstering her spirits with a rousing aria, causing the pinnacle under her hand to resonate, she might have missed the shy white crystal. Consistent with her long run of bad luck, the white proved elusive, the vein first deteriorating in quality and then disappearing entirely from the face at one point, resurfacing half a mile away in fractured shards. It had taken her weeks to clear the fault, digging away half the ridge before she got to usable crystal. Only the fact that white crystal had such a variety of potentially lucrative uses kept her going.

  Forewarned of the spring storm by her symbiotic adaptation to Ballybran’s spore, Killashandra had cut at a frenzied pace until she was too hoarse to key the sonic cutter to the crystal. Only then had she stopped to rest. She had continued to cut until the first of the winds began to stroke the dangerous crystal sound from the Ranges. Recklessly, she had taken the most direct route back to the Complex, counting on the fact that she’d be the last singer in from the Ranges to protect her claim.

  She had almost cut her retreat too fine: the hangar doors slammed shut against the shrieking storm as soon as her sled had cleared the baffles. She could expect a reprimand from the Flight Officer for her recklessness. And probably one from the Guild Master for ignoring the storm warnings.

  She forced several deep breaths in and out of her lungs, dredging sufficient energy to complete the final step necessary to leave Ballybran. On the last breath, she grabbed the top carton and walked it into the Sorting Room, depositing it on Enthor’s table just as the old Sorter turned toward the shed.

  “Killashandra! You startled me.” Enthor’s eyes flicked from normal to the augmented vision that was his adaptation to Ballybran. He reached eagerly for the carton. “Did you find the black vein again?” His face fell into lines of disappointment as his fingers found no trace of the sensations typical of the priceless, elusive black crystal.

  “No such luck.” Killashandra’s voice broke on weary disgust. “But I devoutly hope it’s a respectable cut.” She half sat on the the table, needing its support to keep on her feet, as she watched Enthor unpack the crystal blocks from their plastic cocoons.

  “Indeed!” Enthor’s voice lilted with approval as he removed the first white crystal shaft and set it with appropriate reverence on his work table. “Indeed!” He subjected the crystal to the scrutiny of his augmented eyes. “Flawless. White can so often be muddy. If I am not mistaken—”

  “That’ll be the day,” Killashandra muttered under her breath, her voice cracking.

  “—Never about crystal.” Enthor shot her a glance from under his brows, blinking to adjust his eyes to normal vision. Killashandra idly wondered what Enthor’s eyes saw of human flesh and bone in the augmented mode. “I do believe, my dear Killa, that you’ve anticipated the market.”

  “I have?” Killashandra pulled herself erect. “With white crystal?”

  Enthor lifted out more of the slender sparkling crystal shafts. “Yes, especially if you have matched groupings. These are a good start. What else did you cut?” As one, they retraced their steps to the storage, each collecting another carton.

  “Forty-four—”

  “Ranked in size?”

  “Yes.” Enthor’s excitement triggered hope in Killashandra.

  “Forty-four, from the half centimeter—”

  “By the centimeter?”

  “Half centimeter.”

  Enthor beamed on her with almost as much enthusiasm as if she had brought him more black crystal.

  “Your instinct is remarkable, Killa, for you could not have known about the order from the Optherians.”

  “An organ group?”

  Enthor gestured for Killashandra to help him display the white shafts on the workbench.

  “Yes, indeed. An entire manual was fractured.” Enthor awarded her another of his beams. “Where are the rest? Quickly. Get them. If there’s so much as one with a cloud—”

  Killashandra obeyed, stumbling against the swinging door. By the time the crystal was sparkling on the table, she was shuddering and had to cling to the bench to keep upright. It took a century for Enthor to evaluate her cut.

  “Not a single cloudy crystal, Killashandra.” Enthor patted her arm and, taking up his little hammer, cocked his ear to the pure sweet notes each delicate rap coaxed from the crystal.

  “How much, Enthor? How much?” Killashandra was hanging onto the table, and consciousness, with difficulty.

  “Not as much, I fear, as black.” Enthor tapped figures into his terminal. He pulled at his lower lip as he waited for the altered display. “Still, 10,054 credits is not to be sneezed at.” He raised his eyebrows, anticipating a pleased response.

  “Only ten thousand …” Her knees were collapsing, the muscles in her calves spasming painfully. She tightened her grip on the table’s edge.

  “Surely that’s enough to take you off-planet.”

  “But not far enough or long enough away.” Blackness was creeping across her sight. Killashandra released one hand from the table to rub her eyes.

  “Would Optheria be far enough?” a dry, amused voice asked from behind her.

  “Lanzecki …” she began, turning toward the Guild Master, but her turn became a spin, down into the darkness which would no longer be evaded.

  “She’s coming round, Lanzecki.”

  Killashandra heard the words. She could not understand their sense. The sentence, and the voice, echoed in her mind as if spoken in a tunnel. At the softest repetition, comprehension returned.

  The voice was Antona’s, the Chief Medical Officer of the Heptite Guild.

  Sensation returned then, but sensation was limited to feeling something under her chin and a restraint about her shoulders. The rest of her body was deprived of feeling. Killashandra twitched convulsively and felt the viscous resistance of radiant fluid. She was immersed—that explained the need for chin support and the shouder restraint.

  Opening her eyes, she was not surprised to find herself in the tank room of the Infirmary. Beyond her were several more such tanks, two occupied, judging by the heads visible above the rims.

  “So, you’ve rejoinded us, Killashandra!”

  “How long have you been soaking me, Antona?”

  Antona glanced at a display on the tank. “Thirty-two hours and nineteen rinses.” Antona shook a warning finger at Killashandra. “Don’t push yourself like this, Killa. You’re stretching your symbiont’s resources. Abuses like this now can cause degeneration problems later on. And it’s later on you really need protection. Remember that!” A mirthless smile crossed Antona’s classic features. “If you can. Well, at least put it in your memory banks when you get back to your room,” she added, with a sigh for the va
garies of singer recall.

  “When can I get up?” Killashandra began to writhe in the tank, testing her limbs and the general response of her body.

  Antona shrugged, tapping out a code on the terminal of the tank. “Oh, anytime now. Pulse and pressure readout’s strong. Head clear?”

  “Yes.”

  Antona pressed a stud and the chin support and shoulder harness released Killashandra. She caught the side of the tank, and Antona handed her a long robe.

  “Do I need to tell you to eat?”

  Killashandra grinned wryly. “No. My stomach knows I’m awake and it’s rumbling.”

  “You’ve lost nearly two kilos, you know. Can you remember when you last ate?” Antona’s voice and eyes were sharp with annoyance. “No use asking, is it?”

  “Not the least bit,” Killashandra replied blithely as she climbed out of the tank, the radiant fluid sheeting off her body, leaving her skin smooth and soft. She pulled the robe on. Antona held up a hand to balance her down the five steps.

  “How much crystal resonance do you experience now?” Antona poised her fingers above the tank’s small terminal.

  Killashandra listened attentively to the noise between her ears. “Only a faint trace!” Her breath escaped her lips in a sigh of relief.

  “Lanzecki said that you cut enough to go off-world.”

  Killashandra frowned. “He said something else, too. But I forget what.” Something important, though, Killashandra knew.

  “He’ll probably tell you again in good time. Get up to your quarters and get some food into you.” Antona gave Killashandra’s shoulder an admonitory squeeze before she turned away to check on the other patients.

  As Killashandra made her way up from the Infirmary level, deep in the bowels of the Guild Complex, she puzzled over the memory lapse. She had been reassured that most singers had several decades of unimpaired recall before memory deteriorated, but no fast rule determined the onset. She had been lucky enough to have a Milekey Transition ending in full adaptation to Ballybran’s spore, an adaptation that was necessary for those inhabiting the planet Ballybran. That kind of Transition held many benefits, not the least of which was avoiding the rigors of Transition Fever, and was purported to include a longer span of unimpaired memory. In this one instance, she could, perhaps, legitimately blame fatigue.