Authors: Anne McCaffrey
“Do you swear, aver, and affirm that you are here of your own free will, without let or hindrance, conditioning or bribery, by any person or persons connected with the Heptite Guild?”
“I certainly do so swear, aver, and affirm.”
He glanced at the ident slot, which suddenly glowed green. Placing both hands on the table as if wearied by this duty, Gray pushed himself to his feet. “The formalities are now concluded,” he said with a tight smile. “May you sing well and profitably.”
The man remained standing as she rose and left. She had the impression, a sideways glance, that he unfastened his tunic collar, his expression sliding into regret as he watched her leave.
Borella was in the main hall, her eyes focused on each cubicle door as it opened and a recruit appeared. Killashandra noticed that just the faintest hint of satisfaction appeared on the woman’s face as her entire “class” reassembled.
“A shuttle waits,” she said, once more leading the way.
“When do we get this spore business done?” Carigana asked, striding ahead of two others to reach Borella.
“On Ballybran. We did, at one point, use an artificial exposure, but the effects were no less successful than the natural process. Generally, infection occurs within ten days of reaching the surface,” she added before Carigana could inquire. “The adaptation process can vary—from no more than mildly uncomfortable all the way to dangerously febrile. You will all be monitored, naturally.”
“But haven’t you discovered which physical types are more apt to react severely?” Carigana seemed annoyed.
“No,” Borella replied mildly.
Further questions from Carigana were forestalled by their arrival at the shuttle lock. Nor were they the only passengers—in fact, the applicants were apparently the least important, a fact that obviously caused Carigana to seethe. Borella casually motioned them all to seating in the rear of the vessel and slipped in beside a striking man whose garb of violently colored, loosely sewn patches suggested he might be a Singer returned from holiday.
“Much of a catch?” His drawled question caught Killashandra’s ear as she passed. It was almost as much of an insult as the expression in his eyes as he observed the recruits filing to seats.
“The usual,” Borella replied. “One can never tell at this stage, you know.”
The tone of Borella’s voice made Killashandra stare over her shoulder at the woman. The depth and resonance was gone, replaced by a sharper, shrewish, yet smug note. So the impressing and impressive detachment of the successful Singer, condescending to interpret the hazards of her profession to the eager but uninformed, was a role played very well by Borella. Killashandra shook her head against that assumption. The terrible lacerations on Borella’s leg had been no sham.
“Crystal cuckoo?” “Silicate spider?” Had Maestro Valdi some measure of truth in his accusations?
Well, too late now—having sworn, averred, and affirmed, every opportunity to renege was behind her. Killashandra fixed her seat buckle for the weightless disengagement of the shuttle from moonlock.
CHAPTER 5
T
he journey was not long, and it was smooth, allowing Killashandra time for reflection. Was the shuttlecraft pilot a failed Singer recruit? How poor an adaptation still allowed rank and status within the Guild structure? She suppressed the nagging fear of failure by remembering the graph, indicating the recent upswing of the incidence of success in symbiosis. She distracted her grim thoughts by cataloging the other candidates, determining in advance to stay well away from Carigana, as if the irascible woman would welcome a friendly overture. Rimbol, on the other hand, reminded her pleasantly of one of the tenors at her Music Center, a lad who had always accepted the fact that his physical and vocal gifts would keep him a secondary singer and player. At one point, Killashandra had despised the boy for that acceptance: now she wished she had bothered to explore how he had achieved that mental attitude, one she might be forced to adopt. She wondered if the tenor might not have done better, attempting to become a Crystal Singer. Why had so little been said at the Music Center about this alternative application of perfect and absolute pitch? Maestro Valdi must have known, but his only suggestion had been to tune crystal, not sing it.
She wished for the distraction of views of nearing Ballybran, but the passenger section had no port, and the view-screen set over the forward bulwark remained opaque. She felt the entry into the atmosphere. The familiar shuddering shook all the passengers, and Killashandra felt the drag nausea and disorientation and the impression of exterior sound. She tried to recall the screen printout of the planet. The image that was brightest in her memory was of the conjunction of the three moons, not the continental masses of Ballybran and the disposition of the crystal ranges.
Concentrate, concentrate, she told herself fiercely in an effort to overcome entry side effects. She had memorized complicated music scores, which obediently rolled past her mind, but not the geography of her new home.
At this point, she could feel the retro blasts as the shuttle began to slow. Gravity increased, shoving her flesh against her bones, face, chest, abdomen, thighs:—more a comforting pressure, like a heal suit. The shuttle continued to maneuver and decelerate.
The final portion of any journey always seems the longest, Killashandra thought as she grew impatient for the shuttle vibration to cease, signaling arrival. Suddenly, she realized that her journey had begun a long time before, with her passive trip on the walkway to the Fuertan space facility. Or had it begun the moment she had heard Maestro Valdi confirm the auditors’ judgment of her career potential?
Forward motion ceased, and she felt the pressure pop in her ears as the entry was unsealed. She inhaled deeply, welcoming the fresher air of the planet.
“D’you think that’s wise?” Shillawn asked from across the aisle. He had his hand over his nose.
“Whyever not? I’ve been on spacecraft and stations for too long not to appreciate fresh, planet-made air.”
“He means, about the symbiont and its natural acquisition,” Rimbol said, nudging her ribs with his elbow. He grinned with mischief.
Killashandra shrugged. “Now or later, we’ve got to get it over with. Me? I prefer to breathe deeply.” And she did, as a singer would, from deep in her belly—her back muscles tightening, her diaphragm thickening until her throat, too, showed the distension of breath support.
“Singer?” Rimbol asked, his eyes widening. Killashandra nodded, exhaling slowly.
“No openings for you, either.” He made a sound of disgust. Killashandra did not bother to contradict him. “You’d think,” Rimbol went on, “that with all the computer analysis and forecasting, they’d know up front instead of wasting your time. When I think of what—”
“We can leave now,” Shillawn said, interrupting them with the peculiar tracheal gulp that characterized his speech.
“I wonder how many musicians make their way into this Guild by default,” Killashandra muttered over her shoulder to Rimbol as they made their way out.
“Default? Or deliberately?” he asked, and prodded her to move forward when she faltered.
She had no time to think about “deliberately” then, for she had reached the disembarkation ramp and had her first glimpse of Ballybran’s green-purple hills on one side and the uncompromising cubes of buildings on the other. Then she was inside the reception area where personal effects were being wafted up on a null-grav column.
“After recruits have collected their baggage, they will please follow the—ah—dark gray stripe.” A voice issued from speaker grills. “Room assignments will be given at the reception lounge. You are now designated as Class 895 and will answer to any announcements prefaced by that number. Again, recruits now arriving by shuttle from Shankill Moon Base are designated Class 895. Proceed, Class 895, along the corridor marked with the dark gray stripe for room assignments.”
“Couldn’t care less, could he?” Rimbol said to Killashandra as he slung a battered carisak over one shoulder.
“There’s the guide line.” Killashandra pointed at the wall of the far lefthand corridor. “And Carigana’s ahead by half a light-year.” She watched as the girl’s figure marched purposefully out of sight up the ascending rampway.
“Surprised?” Rimbol asked. “Hope we don’t have to share accommodations.”
Killashandra shot him a startled look. Even as a lowly student on Fuerte, she had had privacy. What sort of a world was his Yarro?
The other shuttle passengers had quickly dispersed, Borella and her companion taking the far right ramp, while the center two received the bulk of the arrivals.
“You’d think with all the color available in the galaxy, they’d find brighter markers,” Shillawn remarked gloomily when he caught up with Rimbol and Killashandra.
“Distinctive, if not colorful,” Killashandra remarked, reaching the ramp. “Though there’s a quality about this gray . . .” and she passed her hand across the painted line. “Textured, too. Hatch pattern.”
“Really?” Rimbol touched the stripe. “Strange.”
Carigana had already disappeared around the first curve of the ramp, but the three were otherwise the vanguard of Class 895. How dull to be designated by a number, Killashandra thought, having considered herself out of classrooms forever a scant few weeks before. And if they were 895, and the Guild had been operating for 400 standard years, how many classes did that make a year? Just over two? And thirty-three in this one?
Now that the first excitement of landing on Ballybran had waned, Killashandra began to notice other details. The light, for instance, was subdued on the rampway but had a clarity she hadn’t encountered before. Rimbol’s sturdy boots and Shillawn’s shoes made no sound on the thick springy material that carpeted the hallway, but her slippers produced a quiet shuffling. She felt the textured band again, curious.
They passed several levels, each color coded in one of the dull chromatics, and Killashandra assumed there must be some reason for the use of such drab shades. Suddenly, the ramp ended in a large room, obviously the reception lounge for recruits—but it also held comfortable seating units, an entertainment complex, and across one end, audiovisual booths.
A dun-garbed man, of middle years with a sort of easily forgettable face rose from one of the seating units and walked toward them. “Class 895? Your adviser am I, Tukolom. With me you will remain until adaptation and training have ceased. To me your problems and complaints you will bring. All members of the Guild are we, but senior in rank to you am I, to be obeyed, thought harsh or unjust am I not.”
His smile, meant to be reassuring, Killashandra knew, barely lighted his eyes and did not rouse any friendliness in her, though she saw Shillawn return the grin.
“Small class though this be, your quarters are here. Kindly to leave what you have brought in any room of your choosing and join in food and drink. To begin the work tomorrow. To orient yourselves in this facility today.”
He gestured to the left-hand corridor leading off the lounge where open doors left patches of light on the textured carpet.
“Is only to put thumb print in door lock to receive privacy.”
Others had arrived as Tukolom spoke, and while Killashandra gestured to her companions to proceed to the private rooms, he began his little speech all over again to the next batch. Rimbol pointed at the first door on the left, closed and red lighted to indicate the occupant did not wish to be disturbed. Carigana!
With a snort, Killashandra marched down the hall, almost to its end, before she indicated to Rimbol and Shillawn which room she intended to take. She saw them move for the rooms on either side of her. She pressed her thumb into the plate, felt the vibration as the print was recorded, and then entered the room, the door panel sliding soundlessly behind her.
“This facility has been programmed to responded to any change in your life signals,” announced a pleasant voice, rather more human than mechanical. “You may program the catering units and audiovisual units and change any furnishing not to your liking.”
“My liking is for privacy,” Killashandra said.
“Programmed,” the voice dispassionately replied. “Should your physical health alter on the monitors, you will be informed.”
“I’ll probably inform you,” Killashandra muttered under her breath, and was pleased to hear no reply. Just as well, she thought. She tossed her carisak to the bed. Some people preferred to have a voice responding to their idle remarks: she preferred the sanctity of quiet.
Her quarters were as good as the guest facility in the Shankill Base, nothing gaudy but certainly substantial: bed, table, chairs, writing surface, tri-d screen, the customary audiovisual terminals, a catering slot convenient to the table, a storage closet. The hygienic unit was larger than expected, and it included a deep bath. She flipped on the small fax dispenser and watched as all varieties of bathing lotions, salts, fragrances, and oils were named as available.
More than pleased, Killashandra dialed for a foaming fragrant bath, at 35º C, and the tub obediently began to fill itself.
You never feel completely clean, Killashandra thought as she undressed, using the spray cabinets on ship and station. You really needed to soak in the hot water of a full immersion bath.
She was drying off in warm air jets when Tukolom announced it was his pleasure to meet Class 895 in the lounge for the evening meal.
Tukolom’s curious syntax appeared to function only in spontaneous remarks. It was totally absent from the flood of information he imparted to them during that meal. He also refused to be deflected from his set passages by questions or to be diverted by Carigana when she anticipated his points.
Since it was obvious to everyone except Carigana that it was useless to interrupt Tukolom and since the food presented a variety of hot and cold dishes, protein, vegetable and fruit, the Class 895 listened and ate.
Tukolom discoursed first on the sequence of events to befall them. He stated the symptoms common to the onset of the symbiotic illness, occurring between ten and thirty days after exposure, beginning with headache, general muscular soreness, irritability, blurred vision, and impaired hearing. Such symptoms were to be reported to him immediately and the person afflicted to return to the room assigned, where the progress of the adaptation could be monitored. Any discomfort would be alleviated without affecting the course of the symbiotic intrusion.
“When rape is inevitable, huh?” whispered the irrepressible Rimbol in Killashandra’s ear.
Meanwhile, Class 895 would have orientation courses on the history and geography of Ballybran, instruction in the piloting of ground-effects craft, meteorology lectures, and survival techniques. The class would also be requested to perform duties within the Guild relevant to the preservation of cut crystal and restoration of facilities after any storm. Normal work hours and days were in effect, which would allow ample time for recreation. Members were encouraged to continue any hobbies or avocations that they had previously enjoyed. Once members had been cleared for use of surface vehicles, they might take whatever trips they wished as long as they filed and had had approved a flight plan with control center. Special clearance and a proficiency test were required for the use of water vessels. As abruptly as he had started his lecture, Tukolom concluded. He looked expectantly around.
“Is this the main Guild installation?” Carigana asked, caught by surprise at the opening.
“The main training area, yes, this is. Situated on the largest continental mass which bears the largest of the productive crystal ranges, Milekey and Brerrerton. The facility is located on the Joslin plateau, sheltered by the Mansord upthrust on the north, the Joslin discontinuity on the south, to the west by the White Sea and the east by the Long Plain. Thus, the installation is generally sheltered from the worst of the mach storms by its felicitous situation.”
Tukolom had perfect recall, Killashandra decided: a walking data retrieval unit. Rimbol must have reached a similar conclusion, for as her eyes slid past his, she saw amusement twinkling. Shillawn, however, continued to look impressed by the man’s encyclopedic manner.
“How many other settlements are there?” Borton asked.
“Learning tomorrow’s lesson today a good idea is not,” Tukolom pronounced solemnly. He then neatly avoided further questions by leaving the lounge.
“Aurigans are impossible,” Carigana announced, frowning blackly at the departing figure. “Always dogmatic, authoritarian. Could they find no one else suitable as a mentor?”
“He’s perfect,” Rimbol replied, cocking his head as he regarded Carigana. “He’s got total recall. What more could you ask of a teacher?”
“I wonder . . .” began Shillawn, stammering slightly, “If he had it before he . . . got here.”
“Didn’t you hear that Borella woman?” demanded Carigana. “Most handicaps are sensory . . .”
“At least his syntax improves when he recalls.”
“Every other human species in the galaxy, and some not so human,” Carigana continued undeterred, “can manage interlingual except the Aurigan group. It’s a delusion on their part.
Anyone
can learn interlingual properly.” She was swinging one leg violently; all the while the corners of her mouth twitched with irritation, and her eyes blinked continually.