Crystal Universe - [Crystal Singer 03] - Crystal Line (10 page)

Killa snorted in disgust. Even “just a squall” on Ballybran could be mortally dangerous to any singers caught in it. The high winds that gusted over the canyons stroked mind-blowing resonances out of the crystalline Ranges.

“Who’s the new Sorter?”

“Woman name of Clodine,” Lanzecki replied. “Don’t ride her, Killashandra. Her main fault is being new at the game.”

Lars cocked an eyebrow at her and winked conspiratorially. She caught the warning that she would do more good to be patient. She shook her hair back over her shoulder in denial of the reminder and, on her mettle, strode out of the room.

Clodine greeted Killashandra with a nervous blend of gratitude and caution. Sorters, whose particular adjustment to the Ballybran symbiont affected their vision to the point where they did not need any mechanical aid to see intrusions and flaws in crystal, did not suffer the memory deterioration that singers did. Each of the other four Sorters on duty gave Killashandra a pleasant nod or wave as she made her way to Clodine’s station—a station that had been Enthor’s since before Killa had become a member of the Heptite Guild. She would miss him, too: they’d had some spectacular arguments over his evaluation of the tons of crystal she had presented for his inspection. But she had known him to be exceedingly competent, and fair. The opinion had survived throughout all her trips in the Ranges. Two faces she always remembered, no matter how crystal-mazed she was: Enthor’s and Lanzecki’s.

Clodine would have to be very good indeed to replace
Enthor in Killashandra’s estimation. Ironic to find herself in the position of teaching the woman all the skills she herself had learned from the old Sorter. But Killa
did
know crystal.

The tall, slender girl—Killa judged her to be young in real chronology—kept blinking, her eyes going from one state to the other. Involuntarily she shuddered when the magnification of her enhanced sight made what should have been ordinary images unnerving to behold. She was an attractive girl, too, which might be why Lanzecki had enlisted Killa’s aid. There had been a time when Killa would have been intensely jealous of anyone who took Lanzecki’s interest, but those days were a long time back in the decades that had not included Lars Dahl. Clodine had lovely blond hair, a lot of it, neatly confined in a thick net. She had the fair complexion of the genuine blonde, and midbrown eyes with light flecks. Yes, very attractive. Some of Killa’s unexpected anxiety for Lanzecki’s aging dissipated. He still had an eye for a pretty girl and a lissome shape.

“I’m Killashandra Ree,” she said, holding out her hand to Clodine. That was a habit most humanoid worlds had adopted, and she had been doing it so much on Sherpa that it had become natural. Singers fresh out of the Ranges never touched anyone if they could help it. Crystal shock sometimes had an adverse affect on others. But Clodine was too new to Ballybran to notice anything out of the ordinary. “Lanzecki sent me down as backup to this grimy lot on their way in. He doesn’t want to scare you off the job at too early a date.”

The crystal singer noticed that the worn scales and equipment that had served Enthor for so many decades had been replaced. Even the metal worktop, once scraped and scored by hundreds of thousands of cut-crystal forms, was pristine.

Clodine gave a tentative smile, and her eyes flicked into the alter state and then back again. “Oh, Gods, I’ll never get the hang of it.”

“Make your eyes very round when you want to stay in normal visual mode,” Killashandra said in a low voice, aware that the other Sorters were watching them.

Clodine tried to smile
and
widen her eyes, then groaned because her eyes altered despite her efforts.

“It’s surprising how soon you will become accustomed to the alteration,” Killashandra said in her most sincere “buck up there” tone. “Ah, here they come!”

“They do?” Clodine looked up at the wraparound screens that showed the as-yet empty Hangar where the singers’ sled would land. The latest batch of Guild apprentices waited there to help unload the precious crystal. The Met screens showed that the squall, having wreaked brief havoc in the Ranges, was passing harmlessly out to sea, half a continent away. The Hangar crew was lounging about. When storm systems raged close to the Guild’s massive cube, their duties became far more urgent and perilous—even to closing the great Hangar doors to incoming singers rather than risk damage to those already safe within. More times than she cared to remember—probably many more times than she
could
remember—Killa had been the last singer to get in over the interlocking jaws of the great portal.

“See?” Killa said, directing Clodine’s attention to the long-range screen where the first of the incoming sleds was just now visible as a speeding blip.

“Oh!” Clodine blinked nervously and, shaking her head in distress, looked about to weep.

“Relax,” Killa drawled, and pushed herself up to sit on the brand-new worktop. “They’re a good half hour out—unless they’ve had a good scare!” She grinned in
amusement and saw Clodine relax a bit. “Where you from?”

“I don’t imagine you’ve ever heard of my home system …” the Sorter began apologetically.

“Try me,” Killa replied with a laugh.

“A planet named Scarteen—”

“In the Huntsman system,” Killashandra said, oddly pleased by the girl’s delight in her knowing. “Nice place. Good currents in the Great Oceans.”

“You’ve
sailed
on Scarteen?”

“I’ve sailed—” Killa paused, censored the ennui in her tone, and smiled kindly at the child. “—on most worlds that are hospitable to our species.”

“You sail? I mean, sheet-sail, not motor cruise?”

“Wind-sail, of course.” She flicked one shoulder, consigning motor cruising to a suitable nadir. “And you’ll find there’s good sailing here, too. In fact, if we’ve time before we go out in the Ranges, my partner and I would be happy to take you out on our ship, show you some of the tricks of sailing Ballybran’s currents and coasts.”

“Oh, would you?”

Once again, Lars’s avocation won her unexpected friendship. Killa sighed and filled in the time until the sleds arrived with sea tales that were honorably unembellished. They didn’t need to be! Sorters might not need to leave Ballybran as often as singers, but they took holidays—especially during Passover storms. It didn’t hurt to reassure the girl that there was more to life as a Heptite Guild member than remembering to widen her eyes to avoid blinking to crystal-gaze.

Clodine was, as Lanzecki suspected, suffering only from inexperience in dealing with Range-crazed singers. Killashandra’s presence quelled the other singer’s urge to argue with Clodine’s estimate of his crystals—which
were a rather good midgreen, currently in scarce supply, so even without arguing he got a better price than Killa knew he had anticipated. He would have had no cause to berate a Sorter, new or experienced, but arguing price with the Sorter got to be an ingrained habit with singers. Some Sorters enjoyed persiflage, and/or getting the better of the singer.

Timing was so often the deciding factor in the value of a cut. If the market was glutted, the price was understandably low. Some colors were always worth the premium price, like black crystals, which were so valuable as communication links. The pale pinks were always low market, but a fine seven-shaft cut of even pink could be valuable in an industrial complex.

When the singer had left, grumbling desultorily, Killashandra touched Clodine’s shoulder and grinned at her woeful expression.

“He’s all wind and piss. Most of us are. You know your grading, the latest market price is what’s on your terminal. Don’t let ’em hassle you. Part of it’s coming in sudden from the Ranges without as much as you thought you would cut this time out:
I’m
always sure I should have been able to cut longer and more. Most of it’s pure singer cussedness. Ignore it, considering the source! Enthor train you up?” she added, for something of the way Clodine had handled the crystal reminded her of the old man.

“Yes.” Clodine’s eyes widened in astonishment. “How did you know that?”

Killa sniffed. “Enthor loved crystal. He passed that on to you. Remember that the next time a singer gives you a hard time. You”—Killashandra prodded Clodine lightly in the chest—“love crystal. I can see that in how you handle it. Singers”—she turned her thumb into her own sternum—“invariably
hate
crystal.”

“You do?”

“For all that it does for us and to us, yes.” And, feeling that that sounded like a great exit line, Killashandra left the Sorter Shed.

Lars had not returned to their apartment. She gave herself a long soak in the water tub; then, wearing a loose robe, she began to unpack the carisaks that had been delivered while she was overseeing Clodine. When she got hungry and Lars still hadn’t returned, she tapped out a “where is” code on the terminal.

“Here,” Lars’s voice responded as his features formed on the screen.

“Where?”

“Lanzecki’s,” he replied, as if she should have known. “C’mon up.”

Puzzling over that, Killa changed and returned to the Guild Master’s domain.

The pair were sitting at the table where Killa had often dined alone with Lanzecki. There was a third place set, and as Lanzecki gestured her to be seated, Lars rose and met her halfway, giving her a quick embrace and kiss.

Wondering what this was all about, Killa smoothly took her place.

“We waited,” Lars said, and he nodded at the array of sumptuous-looking dishes.

“How did Clodine do?” Lanzecki asked, forestalling any query from her.

“She’s fine. I told her not to let singers get up her nose. Enthor trained her. She loves crystal. I told her singers hate it. Opened her eyes!” Killa grinned.

“In more ways than one, I trust?” Lanzecki said, quirking his eyebrow. He was being Lanzecki-the-man, as he had been in their old loverly days—a pose he had
never before assumed in Lars’s presence. For some reason it disturbed her.

“Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it?” she replied, knowing better than to show her surprise. “Widening the eyes to prevent the alteration? She was only nervous.”

“Anything good in?” Lanzecki asked.

Killa regarded him coolly. The Guild Master ought to have been the first to know the answer to that question.

“Lars and I have been discussing the Junk to the exclusion of all else.” Lanzecki raised his wineglass in a toast to her, then included Lars. “Interesting … Junk. I’m almost sorry I have to turn the matter over to the proper authority.”

“Junk’s sentient,” Killa said flatly, helping herself to food.

“Too bad sentience isn’t a marketable commodity,” Lanzecki said. “Have some milsi stalks!” he added, passing her the plate and changing the subject.

“What under the suns were you and Lanzecki up to for half a day?” she asked Lars as she swung her legs up onto the sleeping surface of their bedroom.

He yawned mightily, stepping up off the floor and walking to the pillowed end, where he folded down and began to wriggle into a comfortable position.

“The Junk mostly, and speculation as to whether or not it could use the crystal as a comlink. I doubt it. And this and that.” Lars punched a pillow into the right contours and stuck it under his head, watching her as she rolled up against him. He lifted one arm, a tacit invitation to nestle against him. She did. “He misses Trag.”

“Did you find out what crystal-crazed notion made him pick that dork in Trag’s place?”

She settled her cheek against Lars’s smooth chest. At
some point he, too, had bathed, for his skin exuded a subtly spicy odor. Lanzecki preferred spicy scents. What could these two be dreaming up together? she wondered. Lars had never used to tolerate Lanzecki at all, he’d been so possessive of her.

His fingers lazily trailed across her back, and she forgot about all other concerns and began to stroke him where it would do the most good. Somehow, despite being reasonably sure that Brendan’s shipboard manners were impeccable, they had never quite been able to abandon themselves on the 1066. They proceeded to indulge each other shamelessly.

Uninhibited loving was the best!

The comunit buzzed until they woke, or rather until Lars waved his hand at the panel and accepted the call.

“Lars? Can you spare me the morning?” Lanzecki asked.

Killashandra groaned at the sound of his voice, but she didn’t quite take in the message. She flattened her body against the bedding and determinedly resumed her interrupted slumbers. So when she did wake, she wasn’t quite certain what had happened to Lars. There was no residual heat left where his body had been.

She roused, washed, and ordered food. As usual, the latter triggered an interruption.

“Killa? I’m up in Lanzecki’s office.”

“Humph! What’s he got you doing now?”

She could hear the amusement in Lars’s voice. “Actually, he’s got me interested in spite of myself, and you know I’m not an admin type.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Don’t be so sour, Sunny. It’s a bright day, and we don’t have to go cut crystal—yet!”

“Well, I can’t say as I mind that …” Killa said, as
much because that was the expected answer. Then she began to wonder. “Lars, what are you—” But the call had been disconnected at his end.

More curious than disgruntled, Killa finished her meal, dressed, and went up to Lanzecki’s office. There, the mere sight of Bollam, hunched over his terminal, annoyed her. His frantic look and his sudden intense interest in the contents of his screen added to her aggravation.

She couldn’t resist twitting him. “Lost something, Bollam?”

“Ah, yes, that is, no! No, I’m merely not sure under what category Trag filed the pencil data files.”

“Try the first four letters of whatever file you’re hunting, the year if you know it, and hit Search.” She meant to be facetious and was irritated that her advice seemed to solve his problem. She caught a glimpse of his relieved smile as she continued on her way into the office.

“Haven’t you two moved?” she demanded as she saw them in positions similar to yesterday’s.

“I never knew just how much power the Guild wields,” Lars said, beckoning to her in an airy fashion.