"What sort of trouble?"
"I'm not sure, really. Ah, well, it's mainly that I hate installing blacks anywhere for any reason," she said, trying not to infuse her voice with the anxiety that she could feel building into full-blown stress. Muhlah! This black wasn't being used—not in the normal sense—as a comcrystal. Maybe she was borrowing trouble.
"Feedback?" Brendan asked.
"Like you never felt before," she said.
"What can we do?"
"Stay tuned—and talk me out of the backlash."
"What form does that take?"
"It sings back through me."
"Gives you quite a jolt, huh?"
"That's putting it mildly."
"How do we help?" Boira asked.
"Could you suit up, Boira, and come down to Fifteen for the finale?"
"Sure. Be with you in two strokes of a hand pump. Only what do I do if you do freak out?"
"Get me back to Bren as fast as possible! I think I'll pull out on my own as long as there's distance between me and the black. And, by the way, Boira, your theory about patterns is not so far-fetched. The Junk radiates them in ever-changing displays."
"Hmm. Int—" Boira's voice was cut off.
"Boira?"
"She's in her suit and has not turned on the com," Brendan said in the patient tone of someone who was accustomed to such bungles.
With her confidence shored up by Boira's promise to be present, Killa completed the other installations. On her way to Big Hungry, Killa took a swallow of the suit's emergency ration—and immediately wished she hadn't. Somehow she had been expecting something considerably more palatable.
"Yecht!" she muttered.
"What's the matter?" Brendan asked.
"The suit's food!"
"Oh? So you do appreciate the lengths to which I went for you the last time?"
"If that's what I thought I was getting, yes." And the memory of more delectable flavors was indeed vivid in her mind.
She had no time for a pleasant review, for she had reached the cave entrance. Boira stood out from the others lining the big cavern: her suit was not only a vivid citron yellow but of a different design. She lifted her gloved hand in a salute to Killashandra. That alerted the other suited figures. Killa guessed that every member of Rudney's team who could be spared from the laboratory was now present. There was a jumble of comments that told her that there had been a draw to see who got to attend. Killa also heard excited reports from the few technicians still manning the instrumentation. Activity in the Junks had speeded up, pushing the monitors to designer limits to process the incoming data.
"Watch out, you guys and gals," Killashandra said as Sothi and Asra positioned the ladder under the core. "You ain't seen nothing' yet."
"What precisely do you mean by that remark, Crystal Singer?" Rudney demanded, his apprehension reflected in his voice as well as the sudden stiffening of his suited figure.
Killa had been talking to bolster her own confidence and wished Rudney didn't require so many explanations of casual comments. She sighed as she clamped the forceps firmly about the black. If she could avoid touching it at all, its effect on her would be reduced. She had gotten the hang of jamming crystal into cores now, and she didn't plan to bungle this final, and most crucial, insertion.
"Watch and observe, Dr. Saplinson-Trill." She extended her arm, noting that Sothi and Asra stood ready to catch the old splinter. Oh, Muhlah! She swore silently as a new thought struck her. This wasn't the last she had to install. There were all the old slivers to be put into the new Junks.
"Observe what?"
"Wait and see," she said. Taking a deep breath, she touched the black to the Junk, quiveringly ready to drop forceps and all at any sign that the black was going to react.
The black shaft was ingested so swiftly her reflexes had no time respond. Forceps, crystal, and her gloved hand were pulled into the sudden maelstrom of frenzied, turbulent patterns that cascaded down the Junk—and flowed through Killashandra with such devastating force that she felt her death was imminent! Her whole life flashed across her mind, pushing her down into black oblivion.
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 beginning to relax. The noise level began to drop, and the light beating against her eyelids diminished to a comfortable level.
"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 antici
pated 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.
Being aboard the BB-lO66 had other advantages besides excellent nursing care and incredible food. Rudney could not get to her, though he demanded interviews on an hourly basis, insisting that she finish installing the crystal according to the contract he had made with the Guild Master. He threatened to sue her and the Guild for breach of contract.
"Tell him I installed the crystals as per the contract. Nothing in it said I had to do the old splinters, too. And I won't."
When Rudney exhorted the 1066 to turn the crystal singer over to him, Brendan informed him that he had no such authority over his passengers.
They remained on Opal's surface only long enough to be sure Killa had sufficiently recovered from the physical depletion to withstand the disorientation of a Singularity Jump. Then Brendan lifted his tail from the planet.
After the second of the three Jumps, curiosity got the better of Killashandra. She wanted to know what had happened to Big Hungry after it had gobbled the black crystal. Maybe that would distract her mind from a constant survey of memories she really didn't want to have on replay.
"Rudney's group haven't come to any conclusions," Brendan said, having discreetly continued to monitor all their transmissions and internal conversation. "They're still examining their data. Thermoelectric emissions have gone off the scale of their instrumentation. Significant growth of all the FM units—"
"Jewels, please, Bren, or Junk," Boira interposed.
"They seem to be oozing into every available cave, crack, crevice, cranny. The planet's rotation has shifted erratically, and sunspot activity has also increased. All the crystals glow, and the static they emit is constant."
"Junk is using the crystals for communication then?" Killa asked.
"It would appear so," Brendan said, "though to what end, Rudney's group doesn't know. Their semanticist is analyzing the frequency and consistency of patterns, and the rhythm at which they flow, which varies."
"Klera was correct?" Killa asked, quite delighted at the thought.
"They won't commit themselves," Brendan said in a mildly snide tone of voice.
"Naturally. They don't deny the sentience of Junk, do they?"
"They can't when it is obviously altering its environment," Boira said, grinning broadly. "Oh, by the way, Rudney sent off a request for another singer to install the splinters."
"For all the good it'll do him," Killa said caustically.
"Fifteen minutes to the last Jump," Brendan said, and Killa scurried to the radiant-fluid tank.
Lars was waiting for her at Shankill, his worried expression clearing when he saw her striding down the corridor toward him. He embraced her hungrily, burying his face in her hair, his fingers biting into her shoulder blades and then her waist. She leaned into him, grasping him as tightly as he did her. He was warm, strong, and just as lean as he had been when they first met so many years ago on Optheria. The essential Lars Dahl hadn't changed . . . she cut off the other memories that threatened to swamp her. She was getting the hang of censoring recall when she had all she needed. Otherwise all that memory could be overwhelming.
"Honest, Sunny, I had no idea what I was asking of you!" he murmured.
"You didn't ask anything," she said, surprised. "I volunteered. Remember?"
He held her off, his expression wretched. "Sunny, I maneuvered you into volunteering."
She reviewed the occasion quickly, laughed, and pulled him back to her. "So you did, but I didn't resist much, did I?"
"How could you, crystal-mazed as you were?" He was so miserably repentant that she chuckled.
"At least you have the grace to apologize," she said. "Lanzecki never did."
She felt the change in him, and this time when he held her away, he apprehensively searched her face.
"What happened, Sunny?" His anxiety was palpable; even the grip of his hands on her arms altered as if she had become noticeably fragile.
"It would appear—" She gave a breathless laugh. "—that Big Hungry Junk reconnected all my memory circuits when it zapped me. The brain's electric, you know, and it got recharged, right back
to my first conscious memory."
"Muhlah!" Lars stared at her, appalled.
"And I thought placing that Trundomoux King crystal was bad. The merest piffle in comparison. It's all right, love," she reassured him as she saw his eyes blink frantically. "Now let's get back to Ballybran which, incidentally, I have never been more glad to see. By the way, did you get Rudney off your back?"
"I did, finally! I had to threaten to sue him for placing my best singer in jeopardy. And you got all your memories back?" She knew that he had briefly assumed his Guild Master's role. "Maybe I should send another singer in . . ."
"Lars Dahl!" She stopped dead in her tracks, pulling him off balance. "Don't you dare, Lars Dahl, don't you dare consider for one moment sending any member of the Guild to Opal for any reason!"
"Was it that bad, Sunny?" Lars was instantly solicitous.
"Was, is, and shall be, I suspect, my love, but I can handle it." She anticipated his next question. "And yes, as a bonus, I can give you the coordinates of every single claim I ever cut. I can't wait to get that off my mind." She began to hurry him along to the airlock where his shuttle awaited them.
" All your coordinates?"
"That's right."
She would explain the other side of that coin to him later, and as gently as possible. Maybe out sailing in Angel II. Then she had to cope with a flood of memories, all associated with the word "angel": sailing to Island Angel's back, the storm, sheltering in the command post, meeting Nahia and Hauness, meeting his father, Olav, marrying Lars formally by island rites . . . Ruthlessly she cut off the stream; resolutely she closed down those reminiscences.
Lars handed her into the cabin of the shuttle and would have fastened her harness; but, laughing, she slapped at his hands, saying she could do it herself.
"Oddest thing, Lars," she said in a low tone so that Flicken, the pilot, wouldn't hear. She was going to freak a lot of folk out by suddenly remembering their names, she thought, amused. She forced her errant mind back to what she had to tell Lars. "Big Junk recognized me. I remembered that little bit during the last Singularity Jump. I don't mean it said 'hello', but I think I was aware of its recognition when I got to its cavern the first time. That's why I panicked and did Three first."
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