Crystal Universe - [Crystal Singer 03] - Crystal Line (3 page)

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 …”

“How’s she doing?” Lars asked.

“Oh, she’s regenerating nicely.”

The two bathers exchanged glances.

“Do we solicitously ask what happened, or shall we keep our noses short?”

A long silence ensued. “I won’t say she was foolish, or stupid—just very unlucky,” Brendan said with so little expression that the two would have had to be tone deaf not to appreciate how distressed he was at his partner’s injuries. “I was only just able to get her to proper medical assistance in time. It will take a while, but she will completely recover.”

“She’s been a good partner?” Killa asked gently.

“One of the best I’ve had.” And then his voice altered, not too brightly or lilting falsely. “One tends to nurture the good ones carefully.”

“Even if there is only so much one can do?” Killa made it not quite statement, not quite query.

“Exactly. Now, shall I leave you to enjoy your bath in peace?”

Lars and Killa once again exchanged glances. Lars’s yawn was not feigned.

“I’m going to have to get some tub-sleep,” he said. “Can you monitor this contraption so we don’t inadvertently go under?”

“Of course.” And by Brendan’s tone, the two singers realized they had struck the right attitude with him.

“I could probably sleep a few weeks …” Killa said.

“At which point you’d be a wrinkled prune,” Lars replied caustically.

“I shall not permit that desecration of your most attractive self, Killashandra Ree,” Brendan said in a flirtatious tone.

“Now, wait a mo—” Lars yawned. “—ment, Brendan. This one’s mine, you rotten baritone.”

Brendan chuckled, a sound that had odd resonances due to the artificial diaphragm he needed to speak or laugh.

“Go to sleep, Lars Dahl. You’re no match for me in your present semisomnolent state.”

Killa yawned, too, and jammed her arms deeper in the straps, tipping her head back against the padded rim of the tub. She never knew which of them fell asleep first.

“W
hat a cheese hole!” Lars said in a disgusted tone.

Killashandra said nothing. She didn’t dare express what she felt about the planet Opal. And especially about Lanzecki for taking advantage of their greed, and need to be off-planet. Only the thought that she and Lars were making eighty thousand credits for this kept her from exploding.

Well, that and wanting to keep Brendan’s good opinion. He had turned out to be the most excellent of escorts. Not only did he sing good baritone, but he had the most astonishing repertoire of lewd and salacious, prim and proper cantatas and languishing lieder. He wasn’t as fond of opera as Killa was, but he knew all the comic operettas, musicals, lilts, pattern songs, and croons, and a selection of the best of every decade back to the beginning of taped music. He also had the most amazing and catholic files.