Crystal Singer

Moksoon's claim was a dangerously enclosed area from which to ascend into a wild storm. She fought to keep the vertical, fought again to increase the horizontal to clear the ridge top, then let the wind take the sled, hauling as hard as she could on the yoke toward the west.

The mach-tuned dissonance's were worse in the air, and she made a grab for Moksoon's buffer helmet. It was stiff, dusty, and too small, but it blocked the worst of the wind shriek. She'd not got it on a moment too soon, for the sled behaved like a crazed beast, plunging and diving wildly then sliding sideways. Killashandra learned appreciation of the simulation drills sooner than she would have liked.

It was as well she'd strapped Moksoon down, for he regained consciousness before they'd quite cleared the Milekeys and started raving about pain. She felt quite enough jabbing at her nerve ends through the ear pads.

Moksoon regained unconsciousness after throwing his head against the duralloy wall, so the last hour into the Guild Complex gave her sufficient quiet to ease her own aggravated nerves.

She had reason to be proud as she brought Moksoon's canting sled up over the wind baffles at the complex and landed it conveniently close to the racks. She signaled for medics, and as she pointed them toward Moksoon, one of the hangar perso

Cargo perso

“Enthor!” she roared at the handlers. “Take these immediately to Enthor!”

Despite their obliging grins and nods, she wasn't sure they understood her urgency. She followed them, but half way there, someone matched pace with her, tugging angrily at her arm.

“Report to Lanzecki” the hangar officer yelled, pushing her away from Storage. The look in his eyes was not reassuring. “You might at least have saved the new sled!”

She jerked her arm free and, leaving the man astonished at her imprudence, ran after her cartons. She saw the first handler just plop his burden down on the stack. She grabbed it and roared at the others to follow her into Sorting.

“Killashandra? Is it you?” a familiar voice asked. Without checking her determined forward march, she saw Rimbol following her, one of her cartons held carefully against his body.

Two absurdities impinged on her thoughts as she rushed into Sorting: Rimbol was unaware of the fortune of black crystal he carried, and he had trouble identifying her.

“Yes, it's me. What's the matter?”

«You haven't looked in a mirror lately, have you?» was Rimbol's reply. He seemed amused as well as surprised. «Don't scowl. You're terrifying, you – you crystal, you!»

“Be careful of that carton,” she said, more commanding than she should be of a friend, and Rimbol's welcoming smile faded. “Sorry, Rimbol. I had one helluva time getting in. That bollux Moksoon wouldn't believe a storm was coming and him having trouble standing straight against the gusts.”

“You brought another Singer out of the ranges?” Rimbol's eyes widened with incredulity, but whatever he had been about to add was cut off as Killashandra spied Enthor and called his name.

“Yes?” Enthor's query was surprised. He blinked at her uncertainly.

“I'm Killashandra Ree,” she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. She couldn't have changed that much since she'd last seen Enthor. “I've black crystal!”

“Black?”

“Yes, yes. Black! Here!”

“And how were so you fortunate as to find that which eludes so many?” an implacable voice demanded.

Killashandra was setting her carton down on Enthor's table, but the cold, ominous tone paralyzed her. Her throat went dry and her mind numb because no consideration was excuse enough for her to have ignored the Guild Master's summons, to make him seek her out.

“Well, it doesn't surprise me that you have,” Enthor said, taking the box from her.

Lanzecki's eyes never left hers as he advanced. She let the sorting table support her shaking body and clutched its edge with nerveless fingers. Regulations and restrictions that could be levied against a disobedient member by the Guild Master sprang to her mind far more vividly than the elusive ones about rescue and salvage. His lips were set in a thin, hard line. The slight flare of his nostrils and the quick lift of his chest under the subtle gleam of his shirt confirmed that he had appeared through effort, not magic.

“You could improve on your acute angles,” Enthor was saying as he unpacked her triad. “However, the credit is good.” Enthor blinked before he peered approvingly at Killashandra. He noticed her immobility, looked around, not unsurprised to see the Guild Master, and back to Killashandra, aware now of the reason for her tension.

“Which is as well for Killashandra Ree,” Lanzecki said with deep sarcasm, “since she has not returned in her new sled.”

“Moksoon is all right?” Killashandra asked, anything to be able to speak in the face of Lanzecki's fury.

“His head will heal, and he will doubtless cut more rose quartz!”

That Lanzecki's tone was not derisory did not signify. Killashandra understood what was implied. Nor could she break from his piercing stare.

“I couldn't very well leave him,” she said, the solace of indignation replacing fear. After all, Lanzecki had arranged for Moksoon to shepherd her.

“Why not? He would have shown no compunction in leaving you had the circumstances been reversed.”

“But . . . but he was cutting. All the storm warnings were on in his sled. He wouldn't listen. He tried to slice me with his cutter. I had to knock him out before he . . .”

“You could be subject to claim-jumping, Section 49, Paragraph 14,” Lanzecki went on irreconcilably.

“What about the section dealing with rescue and salvage?”

Lanzecki's eyelids dropped slightly, but it was Enthor who answered her in a startled voice.

“There are none, my dear. Salvage is always done by the Guild, not a Singer. I would have thought you'd been taught to know what exactly is in rules and regs. Ah, now these . . . these are very good indeed. Two a trifle on the thin side.”

Enthor had unpacked the quintet. For the first time, Lanzecki's attention was diverted. He shifted his body slightly so that he could see the weighplate. He lifted one eyebrow in surprise, but his lips did not soften with appeasement.

“You may come out of this affair better than you deserve to, Killashandra Ree,” Lanzecki said. His eyes still glinted with anger. “Unless, of course, you left behind your cutter.”

“I could carry that, and these,” she retorted, stung more by his amusement than his anger.

“Let us hope then that Moksoon can be persuaded not to charge you with claim-jumping since you preserved his wreck of a ship, his skin, and his crystal. Gratitude is dependent on memory, Killashandra Ree, a function of the mind that deteriorates on Ballybran. Learn that lesson now!”

Lanzecki swept away from Enthor's table and walked down the long room to the farthest exit, thus emphasizing that he had come on discipline,