Crystal Universe - [Crystal Singer 03] - Crystal Line Read online

  Killashandra folded her arms across her chest, ignoring the querying expression on Lars’s face. “And you want us to explore the possibilities?” she finally asked.

  “Yes.”

  Lars caught her gaze, blinking his left eye in their private code of interest. Killa made Lanzecki wait for their answer.

  “How much?”

  Lanzecki gave her a shark’s grin. “We have quoted them a … substantial fee for the services of a Heptite Guild team.”

  “Ooooh, then the Powers that Be are really interested,” she said. When Lanzecki nodded, she went on, “And you have a price in mind—for us, as well as the Guild?”

  “I am able to offer you fifty thousand credits. You’d be off-planet during Passover—and you should have more than enough time to complete the investigation before the frenzy overtakes you.”

  Killashandra dismissed that aspect as she rapidly considered the monetary enticement and decided that the Guild must have asked for twice or three times that amount.

  “We wouldn’t take less than ninety thousand for that sort of hazardous work.” She flicked a quick glance at Lars. Even the fifty thou would take them anywhere in explored space for as long as they could stand being away from Ballybran.

  Lanzecki inclined his head briefly, but the slight upturn of his lips told Killa that he had expected her to haggle. “Sixty. The Guild will have expenses …”

  “You should have asked for those above and beyond the danger money,” Killashandra said with a snort of contempt. “Eighty-five.”

  “We might have to keep you in isolation on your return from Opal …”

  “Why else have I been paying dues all these years? And don’t you trust Trag’s evaluation?”

  “As I always trusted him. He was, however, only in the chamber with the stone for a relatively short period.”

  “How long?” Lars asked.

  “Three weeks.”

  “And you want us to believe that it didn’t affect the symbiont?”

  “Presnol says not. A simple bronchial infection killed him. Those on the exploration ship—examined by remote probe—died of a rampant lymphatic leukemia which no medication available to any nonaltered humans could combat. There were no indications of lymphatic failure or alteration in Trag.”

  “Three weeks might not have been long enough for the problem to develop.”

  Lanzecki shook his head. “Not according to the data in the log of the medic on board the exploration ship. Initial symptoms of fatigue, headache, et cetera, appeared in the second week after contact.”

  Killashandra kept staring at Lanzecki. After the Trundomoux black-crystal installation—a traumatic memory she hadn’t been able to eradicate—and some other little special assignments, the memories of which had been reduced over the years to feelings of annoyance rather than specific complaints, Killashandra had an innate distrust of any Lanzecki assignments.

  “Eighty buys our time and effort,” she told him with terse finality.

  “Plus …” Lars held up his hand, entering the bidding for the first time. “A half percent of Guild profits arising from viable merchandising of this as a product.”

  “What!” Lanzecki’s blast of surprise startled Lars off his perch.

  Killashandra threw her head back in a burst of laughter as he pulled himself back up onto the worktop. “Boy, you’re learning!”

  “Well, I don’t see why not,” Lars told her, but he was watching Lanzecki’s face. “If we’re risking our asses for the Guild, we should see some of the profits!”

  “It may be nothing more than a pretty stone!” Lanzecki bit out the words.

  “Then there’d be no royalty to be paid.”

  “It could be sentient,” Killashandra put in.

  “Whose side are you on?” Lars demanded.

  But Lanzecki grinned.

  “Done!” And before either crystal singer could protest, he caught Killashandra’s hand and slapped it down on the palm pad, effectively registering her agreement. Then he extended the unit to Lars Dahl, who grinned broadly and made a show of wriggling his fingers before placing them down on the pad.

  “We could have held out for more,” Killashandra said with some disgust.

  Lars parted his lips in a broad grin. Bargaining was usually her province, and she was very good at it. He was rather pleased with his initiative in adding the percentage: not too much for Lanzecki to reject out of hand, but if the rock proved useful, they could easily never have to cut crystal unless they needed to renew the symbiont. Still, eighty thousand credits and a royalty was enough to salve pride and greed.

  “So, if unaltered humans can’t land on this planet, how do we?” Killashandra asked.

  “Brain ship’s been allocated.”

  “Our old friends Samel and Chadria?” Lars asked.

  The names titillated Killashandra’s memory but produced no further recall.

  Lanzecki gave Lars a patient stare. “Not them.”

  Killashandra winced, for his attitude plainly indicated that that pair were no longer alive. She wondered, but only briefly, how long ago their demise had occurred. Brain ships had life expectancies of several hundred years. Could she have been cutting crystal for that long?

  “They had an awkward accident,” Lanzecki amended, and Killashandra relaxed. “I’ll inform the Agency that you’ve taken the contract.”

  “So there’ve been no tests or assays or anything completed on this stone? Even by Trag?” Lars asked. “Discounting its effect on humans.”

  “Trag felt it was sentient.”

  “Trag did?” Killashandra was astounded. “Then it is.”

  “And you treat that as a possibility only, Killashandra Ree,” Lanzecki said, sternly waggling a blunt finger at her.

  “You bet!” She began to feel better about the assignment. If blunt ol’ thick-skinned conservative Trag had felt something, she rather supposed that she and Lars would have much better luck. “A silicon sentience has been postulated.”

  “Will it say it’s sorry it killed the team?” Lars asked sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Does crystal?” Killashandra responded with a snort.

  “At least crystal sings” was Lars’s soft rejoinder.

  To Lars, Lanzecki passed a flimzie and a thin tape cassette. “That’s all we have on the silicon, and the relevant log entries.”

  “So when do we go?”

  “Your transport, the BB-1066—” He held up his hand when Killashandra started to interrupt him. “The Brendan/Boira. Boira’s on sick leave, so Brendan’s willing to undertake the journey.”

  “Truly a B-and-B ship,” Lars said dryly.

  “And I suppose you expect us to depart immediately?” Killashandra asked irascibly.

  Lanzecki nodded briefly. “Brendan’s been patiently waiting your return.”

  “We just got in,” Killashandra protested.

  “From a holiday,” Lanzecki pointed out.

  “Holiday?” Noting Lars Dahl stiffen on his corner of the worktop, she grinned impudently. “Well, from one point of view, but I’d like time to get the salt off my skin and a bit of crystal out of my blood.”

  “A tub—a double one”—Lanzecki’s grin was malicious—“and sufficient radiant fluid are aboard the 1066. With eighty thou to your credit, you can surely see your way clear to a precipitous departure. Everyone you might know—bar Presnol—is out in the Ranges.”

  Killashandra sniffed her displeasure at what seemed suspiciously close to being part of a maneuver to shanghai them.

  “If you’d bothered to keep in contact, you’d’ve had more time,” Lanzecki pointed out.

  “C’mon, Killa,” Lars said, dismounting from his perch and draping an affectionate arm about her shoulders.

  “I suppose our sled isn’t ready?” she said, eyeing Lanzecki sourly.

  “It is.” Lanzecki never took kindly to any suggestion of Guild inefficiency. “And you’ll earn more from this—”


  “As well as easy credit for the Guild,” Killa put in.

  “Not to mention that we’re the best ones for this little errand,” Lars added.

  “That, too,” Lanzecki unexpectedly conceded. “Only this time”—his pointed finger stabbed in Lars’s direction—“I want on-the-site accounts recorded in Brendan’s memory circuits from the moment you land on Opal.”

  “This time,” Killashandra said, smiling in saccharine obedience, “you’ll have ’em. We’ll just dump our gear and grab a few personal things from our quarters.”

  “Brendan’s stocked your usual brands, and being a B-and-B ship, he’s amply supplied with more than the usual trip paraphernalia. Leave for Shanganagh from here. Now. There’s a shuttle waiting.”

  Killashandra unslung her duffel and launched it at Lanzecki, who neatly caught it. Lars merely slipped the webbed carry strap from his shoulder.

  “Everything needs cleaning,” he said.

  Lanzecki nodded. “Get out of here!” The phrase combined imperative order as well as gruff farewell.

  So they left Lanzecki’s office. Being more diplomatic than his partner, Lars nodded briefly to Bollam, who stared back with no response.

  “Once in a while Trag’d smile,” Lars muttered in Killa’s ear as the door slid shut behind them.

  “I don’t like the idea of that dork going out into the Ranges with Lanzecki,” she muttered, scowling.

  Lars made a comforting noise in his throat. The Guild Master was in the unenviable position of having to keep as much memory current as possible to manage the intricacies of his position. But he also had to renew contact with crystal periodically or lose the vitality of his symbiont, despite being a virtual prisoner on Ballybran.

  As they entered the lift and pushed the shuttle-level plate, Killashandra’s frown deepened. Lanzecki wasn’t stupid. So Bollam must have more substance or intelligence or skill than his appearance suggested. But she couldn’t help fretting. Lanzecki was one of those unfortunate singers who became so rapt by the song of the crystal they cut that they could be totally lost to the thrall. A partner was essential to such singers; they dared not sing crystal alone, or they risked never returning from the Ranges. Antona had once told Killashandra that it was an infrequent enough manifestation, more often accompanying the Milekey Transition, the mildest form of adjustment to the Ballybran symbiont.

  Lanzecki had always put off cutting crystal as long as he possibly could, even with Trag to accompany him and bring him safely back from the Ranges. Sometimes, as at one time he had done with Killashandra, he could establish an intimate relationship with someone whose body was singing with crystal pulse; that contact supplied surrogate reinforcements, staving off the need for true crystal. Killashandra did remember her interview with Trag, who had all but physically manhandled her off the planet to force Lanzecki out to the Ranges for a thorough revitalization of his symbiont. Would this Bollam have that sort of loyalty to his Guild Master?

  The lift door slid back into the brightly banded corridor that led to the shuttle bays. The blinking orange ready light steered them to the waiting ship.

  The pilot waved urgently to them to hurry, but as they passed him on their way into the vessel, he glowered and pinched his nostrils.

  “You reek! Where have you two been?”

  “Oh, around and about,” Lars said with a grin.

  “If I wasn’t under orders to—”

  “Well, we are all under orders to,” said Killashandra, sliding into the backseat of the otherwise vacant transport, “so the sooner you get us to Shanganagh, the faster you lose the stink of us.”

  “Can’t be too soon for me,” the pilot said sourly, slamming the door to his cabin after a brief pause to be sure they had buckled up.

  Lars grinned at Killashandra. “Shall we stuff our old socks somewhere?”

  They would have, too, but the pilot had taken their suggestion and their takeoff was the most perpendicular Killashandra had ever experienced. They were jammed so forcefully back into their cushioned seats that she swore she felt the flexible plastic turn rigid. It was the shortest trip she remembered making.

  As soon as the shuttle had locked on to the Shanganagh Moon facility, the lock opened with such unusual dispatch that there was no misinterpreting the urgent invitation to depart.

  “The B-and-B is one level above, Bay Eighty-seven,” the pilot’s voice said over the com.

  “You are above all a courteous gentleperson, skilled in the performance of your appointed duties,” Lars said facetiously.

  “I’m what?” was the startled comment that followed them down the lock ramp.

  “They must have lowered entrance standards,” Killashandra remarked. “I’m first in the bath.”

  “Lanzecki said it’s a double,” Lars reminded her.

  At the end of the lock tunnel they took turns placing their palms in the ID plate, and the aperture irised open into the corridor.

  They encountered no one, which was slightly unusual as Shanganagh was a major stopover point, as well as the Guild’s main display and testing center. It also had supply and servicing facilities for vessels of any size.

  “You don’t suppose that antsy pilot warned everyone off until we’ve passed and the corridor’s been fumigated?” Lars asked.

  Killashandra snorted, frowning, and lengthened her stride. “I shall, however, be very grateful for the tub.”

  “Last one in …” Lars began, but then they saw the plate above Bay 87 blinking orange.

  “He warned the B-and-B we were here!”

  “Last one in …”

  “After we make our duty to Brendan,” Killa said quellingly. Of all the myriad manifestations of humans, altered or otherwise, she most respected shell people—to a point of reverence. There was something awesome about knowing that a human being, residing within the main titanium column, ran all the ship’s functions and was the ship in a way an ordinary pilot could never be. The combination of a shell person with a mobile partner, known as a “brawn,” made B&B ships the elite of spacegoing vessels. Traveling with Brendan was truly an honor.

  “Of course!” Lars murmured.

  As soon as they entered the lock, the panel behind them slid shut.

  “Permission to come a—”

  “Oh, I never stand on ceremony when I’m solo, kids,” said a pleasantly resonant baritone voice. “Don’t you ever answer your comunit? I’ve been sitting here on the moon long enough to pick up cobwebs.”

  “Sorry, Brendan,” Lars said, giving as respectful a bow to the titanium column that encased Brendan’s shelled body as Killashandra did.

  “Ah! A tenor!” Brendan said with delight.

  “And he can sing!” Killashandra said. Crystal singers might require perfect pitch, but that did not always accompany a good singing voice or any real musicality.

  “So who’s going to be last in the tub?” Brendan asked.

  “Which way?” the two singers demanded.

  “And when can we get under way?” Lars asked, stripping his salt-stiffened garments off. He nearly tripped out of the shorts, trying to keep up with Killa, who had less to shed.

  “We are!” Laughter rippled in Brendan’s voice. “I don’t waste time.” Then he laughed again as Killa elbowed Lars to prevent him from getting to the ladder to the tub rim. Lars merely vaulted up and neatly immersed himself in the thick viscous fluid just as Killa slid into the tub. They gave simultaneous sighs of relief as the liquid covered them. Moments later they found the armholds and secured themselves against the pressure of takeoff.

  “You’re sure you’re under power?” Killa asked after a long interval of bracing herself against a shock that never came.

  “Most certainly.” Abruptly a screen in the corner of the small cabin lit up with a spectacular view of Shanganagh and Ballybran receding at an astonishing speed. “And about to initiate the Singularity Drive. I think you will find that being immersed in radiant fluid will reduce the discomfort the effect
often gives you soft shells.”

  “Never thought of that before,” Lars said.

  “Here we go,” Brendan said, and everything altered before the eyes of the two singers.

  Killashandra squeezed her eyes shut against the Singularity Effect. She did not like seeing the decomposition and re-formation of space as the Singularity Drive “surfed” them—Lars liked the nautical analogy—down the long funnel of “interspace” from one relative spatial point to another. And yes, the radiant fluid did reduce that nauseating feeling of falling in on oneself, spinning and yet deprived of any sense of one’s own position relative to that spin.

  Then they were through.

  “Does the fluid help?” Brendan asked solicitously.

  “You know,” Lars said in surprise, “I do believe it does. Killa?”

  “Hmmmm! How many more of these jumps do we have to make to get to Opal?”

  “Only two more.”

  Killashandra groaned.

  “Something to eat, perhaps?” Brendan suggested. “I took on all your favorite foods.”

  Killa rallied hopefully. “Yarran beer?”

  Brendan chuckled. “Would I forget that?”

  “Not if you’re as smart a brain as you’re supposed to be,” Lars said. Disengaging his arms, he pushed himself to the ladder. “You want anything else, Killa?” he asked as he clambered down.

  What else she wanted required two trips by Lars, but in the end they were both well supplied. Brendan had even acquired flotation trays for them to use while immersed.

  “I think this trip’ll be sheer luxury,” Killa murmured quietly to Lars.

  Brendan heard her anyway. “I’ll do my part,” he said.

  “Ah, Brendan …” she began, and was rewarded by a knowing chuckle.

  “Just tell me when I’m off-limits and I’ll chop the audio system,” the ship said.

  “Will you really?” Killa asked, trying to keep skepticism out of her tone.

  “Actually,” Brendan went on conversationally, “if I didn’t, Boira would haul off the panel and disconnect me. Now there’s a gal that liked her privacy …”