Crystal Line

Chapter 12

Killashandra Ree was vastly surprised to waken once more to the living world.

"She's back," a low voice murmured, and a cool hand rested lightly on her forehead. "Hey, you made it!" The cheery tone rich with relief was Boira's.

"I'm not so sure of that," Killa replied, spacing her words carefully. Her head felt several sizes too large, and while it didn't ache, it might just as well have. A brightness pressed unmercifully against her eyelids, and she squeezed them tighter. "Got any analgesics?"

"What? A crystal singer needing medication?"

"There's always a first time. I certainly wouldn't blame my symbiont for decamping after that. Whatever it was."

"There s considerable debate on that score back at the base," Brendan said, his whisper rippling with mirth. Or maybe her hearing was impaired.

"Are you whispering for my benefit?" she asked.

"Yes," Boira said in a more normal tone. "You kept complaining about noise, and bright lights. Not that I blame you for that. Big Hungry Junk nearly turned nova when you fed it the black. D'you remember anything?"

"I remember dying."

"You didn't," Boira said. "First thing I did was check your suit readings and, mind you, you were rigid . . ."

"I died," Killashandra insisted.

"Not according to your suit readings, friend, and when I got you back here—"

"Against heavy opposition," Brendan added. "You'd have been real proud of Boira. She mowed 'em down."

"Sothi and Asra helped," Boira went on graciously. "What on earth can I give you that might help?" Killa heard a rattling that rumbled like an avalanche inside her head.

"Try one of the homeopathics, Boira," Brendan suggested. "I think that wouldn't interfere with the symbiont."

"Why isn't it working when I need it?" Killa moaned. "How much light do you have on out there?" The brilliance was instantly dimmed. "Thanks, Bren."

"Ah, this says it's a specific for trauma, injury and systemic malfunction. See, Bren? What d'you think?"

"Try it," Killashandra said urgently.

The spray was cool against her skin, and she could actually feel the preparation diffusing—diffusing and easing the intolerable and unidentifiable malaise that gripped her.

"Oh, Muhlah! It's working . . ." Killa sighed with infinite relief, feeling taut muscles and stressed nerves begi

"I'm thirsty," she said then, suddenly aware of her parched throat and mouth tissues. She didn't quite have the courage to open her eyes.

Very gently, Boira laid an arm under her and raised her head enough to make it easy to drink from the beaker pressed against her lips.

"It's full of electrolytes and the other stuff a convalescent needs," Boira said.

She couldn't taste a definite flavor, but the moisture was very welcome. It, too, was traceable all the way down her gullet and into her stomach. She could feel her body absorbing the wetness. Was her bloody symbiont fast asleep, zapped out of existence, or working overtime? She had been injured often enough to know that the symbiont's work was generally too subtle to be noticeable. What had Big Hungry done to her?

"Our diagnostic unit says you're in perfect physical condition," Boira said, "in case you're worried."

"I wish I could agree." Killa forced her lids open to a slit and, finding that this was not painful, opened them further. She was in her cabin on the 1066, and the digital dateline over the door informed her that she had lost two full days. "So, tell me what happened?" she bravely asked Boira, who was sitting beside her bunk, an open medical chest on a stand next to her.

"First you went rigid . . ."

"I remember that very clearly." And Killa did, with a clarity that astounded her. In the moment she had anticipated her death, every bone had seemed to harden, every artery, vein, and capillary solidified. Color had coruscated through her eyes into every cell of her body, rippling in an inexorable tide, lapping back and plunging forward again, as if she were being swirled in some liquid element . . . and all the while her life had been fast-forwarding through her mind.

"I got to you before Rudney did, and your two cronies helped me get you off the ladder. Even the suit material felt petrified but, as I said, your life signs registered normal."

"Normal was not what happened to me."

"Agreed, but that's what the monitors told me. And I was relieved. Meanwhile, all hell had broken loose. I mean, the Junk was indescribable. Brendan'll show you his recordings . . ."

"Later"' Killa suggested weakly. The thought of seeing all that color again was more than she could handle.

"Of course, whenever you wish," Brendan said gently. "Talk about scientific detachment and impartial observation . . ." He chortled maliciously. "Rudney and his crew were hysterical. Everyone tried to get through the exit at the same time. 'S a wonder suits weren't ripped in the press."

"I don't blame them for being scared," Killa said charitably.

"They weren't scared," Brendan replied in scathing tone. "They just wanted to get back to the base to see what the instruments were logging. Rudney kept trying to shut 'em up so he could hear the broadcasts."

"Sothi and Asra were marvelous, by the way," Boira went on. "They helped me get you out of the cave, and then you sort of folded, like an empty sheet. Thought we'd nearly lost you, but Bren was monitoring and kept telling us to hurry you to him. Sothi worried that perhaps we were wrong to remove you from Big Junk . . ."

"Big Junk had just done all it could to me and for me," Killa murmured, though she still had no idea of the extent of the alteration. She merely knew there had been one.

"D'you know what it's done?" Boira asked tentatively. "Nothing new registers?"

"Sensory overload doesn't always produce measurable output," Brendan said.

"Is that your diagnosis, Bren?" Killa asked.

"Empiric only, Killa, since it's obvious by your comments and the need for supplemental medication that what you're experiencing is not corroborated by the med monitors."

"Well, maybe it's nothing more than a good night's sleep won't set right in next to no time, huh?" Killa kept her tone facetious because she could not discuss, even with such staunch friends as Boira and Brendan, what seemed to have happened to her during that sensory overload. "I do feel as if I'd been turned inside out, back to front, and then wrung dry . . ."

The emotional and physical discharge of her first black-crystal installation had now paled to the insignificance of an insect sting. Lars was going to be furious with her, but there was no way she would ever again cut black crystal. Of that, if nothing else at this particular moment in time, she was certain. On the plus side, she would be able to tell him every single location where she had cut black. Indeed she now remembered every site she had ever cut, and the type, size, number and tuning note of every cutting she had ever made over the past one hundred and ninety-seven years. She remembered everything, and completely, to the last petty detail, and the weight of such total recall was worse than having it restored to her.

"Hungry?" asked Boira gently.

Killashandra considered this. "Yes, I think I am."

"Then you must be on the road to complete recovery," Boira said, smiling as she rose. "Any special requests?"

"Chicken soup?"

"The very thing," Brendan replied so heartily that Killa winced. "I've an old family recipe that's supposed to cure anything from ingrown toenails to the worst degree of space fug."

Killa closed her eyes. Chicken soup, no matter how efficacious, was not going to cure what really ailed her. Who needed to remember everything? Everything except how Big Hungry Junk had done what it had done to her.