Crystal Singer

“You said something about Privacy?” Killashandra couldn't refrain from asking Rimbol as they turned desultorily away from the silent group.

“She does prove the exception,” he replied, unruffled.

“What did she mean about a mind that functions properly?” Jezerey asked, joining them. She was no longer as confident as she had been when confronting Carigana.

“I told you not to worry about it, Jez,” Borton said, coming behind her. “Carigana's got space rot, anyhow. And I told you that the first time I saw her.”

“She's right about one thing,” Shillawn added, almost unable to pronounce the 'th'. “Nothing really does matter until the symbiont spore works.”

“I wish she hadn't said 'sick',” and Jezerey emphasized her distaste with a shudder. “That's one thing they haven't shown us . . . the medical facilities . . .”

“You saw Borella's scar,” Shillawn said.

“True, but she's got full adaptation, hasn't she?”

“Anyone got headache, bellyache, chills, fever?” Rimbol asked with brightly false curiosity.

“Not time yet.” Jezerey pouted.

“Soon. Soon.” Rimbol's tone became sepulchral. Then he waved his hand in a silencing gesture and jerked his thumb to indicate Tukolom's return. He gave a heavy sigh and then gri

That was the unanimous mood as the recruits turned to their instructor. The ordeal of symbiotic adaptation was no longer an explanation delivered in a remote and antiseptic hall on a moon base: it was imminent and palpable. The spore was in the air they breathed, the food they ate, possibly in the contact of everyone they'd worked with over the past ten days.

Ten days, was it? Killashandra thought. Who would be first? She looked about her, shrugged, and forced her mind to follow Tukolom's words.

Who would be first? The question was in everyone's eyes the following morning when the recruits, with the exception of the obdurate Carigana, assembled for the morning meal. They sought each other's company for reassurance as well as curiosity. It was a bright clear day, the colors of the hills mellower, deeper, and no one raised any objection when Tukolom a

When they arrived in the hangar for transport, they witnessed the return of a heavy-duty wrecker, a twisted knot of sled dangling from its hoist. The only portion of the air sled that resembled the original shape was the storage area, though the under and right hatch were buckled.

“Do they plan all this?” Rimbol quietly asked Killashandra in a troubled voice.

«The recovered sled? Perhaps. But the storm – C'mon now, Rimbol. Besides, what function would such a display serve? We're stuck here, and we'll be Singers. . . or whatever.» Killashandra spoke severely, as much to reassure herself as Rimbol.

He grunted as if he had divined her anxiety; then jauntily he swung up the ramp to their transport vehicle without another glance at the wreck.

They sat together, but neither spoke on the trip, although Killashandra began several times to point out beautiful clusters of flowering shrubs with vivid, often clashing, shades of red and pink. The gray had completely disappeared from the ground cover, and its rich deep green was now tinged with brown. Rimbol was remote, in thought, and she felt that fancies about flora would be an invasion of his privacy.

The moist humidity and lush aromas of the huge hothouses reminded Killashandra of Fuerte's tropical area, and Carrik. The agronomist demonstrated the baffles that deflected the mach winds from the plasroofs as well as the hydroponics system that could be continued without human assistance. He also lectured on the variety and diversity of fruits, vegetables, grasses, lichens, fungi and exotics available to the Guild caterers. When he went on to explain that research was a part of the Agronomy Department, improving on nature wherever possible in sweetness texture, or size, he led them outside the controlled-climate units.

“We must also improve on nature's whimsy,” he added just as the recruits noticed the work crews and the damage to the next building.

Killashandra exchanged glances with Rimbol, who was gri

“At least, it's only finishing,” Rimbol muttered as he pressed a trigger on a screw gun. “What do they do when they haven't got three decades of recruits to fill up work gangs?”

“Probably draft suppliers and sorters and anyone else unoccupied. At least, here everyone takes a turn,” she added, noticing that both Tukolom and the chief agronomist were heaving plastic as willingly as Borton and Jezerey.

"There, now, you can let go, Killa." He stood back to survey the panel they had just secured. "That ought to hold . . . until another boulder gets casually bounced off the corner.

Shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun to her left, Killashandra peered northerly, toward the crystal ranges.

“Don't even think about it,” Rimbol said, taking her hand down and turning her. He gathered up his tools. “I wonder what's in store for us tomorrow?”

He had no banter on the return trip, nor had anyone else. Killashandra wished she'd thought to ask the agronomist about the ground-cover plants and shrubs. And amused herself by wondering if he bothered with such common varieties.

Tension put an effective damper on recruit spirits that evening, a damper unrelieved even by some moderate drinking. Rimbol, who had been the class wit, was not disposed to resume that mantle.

“Are you all right?” Killashandra asked him as he stared into his half-empty beer.

“Me?” He raised his eyebrows in affected surprise at her question. “Sure. I'm tired. No more than the accumulation of more hard work in the past . . few days than I've had to do in years. Student living softens the muscles.”

He patted her arm, gri

Sleep did not come easily that night for Killashandra. She doubted she was alone in her insomnia, though that was no consolation. Her mind continually reviewed the symptoms Borella had described for the onset of the adaptation. Fever? Would she recognize one, for she'd never had a severe systemic illness. Nausea? Well, she had had bad food now and again or drunk too much. Diarrhea? She'd experienced that from over eating the first sweet yellow melons as a girl. The thought of being completely helpless, weak in the thrall of an alien invasion – yes, that was an appropriate description of the process – was abhorrent to Killashandra. Cold swept across her body, the chill of fear and tension.

It had all seemed so easy to contemplate on Shankill: symbiosis with an alien spore would enrich her i

Had she not desired to be highly placed? To be first sorter of the exclusive Heptite Guild qualified. How long would it take to become first sorter? With lives as long as those the inhabitants of Ballybran could lead?